OUR MUTUAL FRIEND by Charles Dickens

anything I know he watches at the Temple Gate all night.'
'This is an extraordinary story,' observed Lightwood, who had
heard it out with serious attention. 'I don't like it.'
'You are a little hipped, dear fellow,' said Eugene; 'you have been
too sedentary. Come and enjoy the pleasures of the chase.'
'Do you mean that you believe he is watching now?'
'I have not the slightest doubt he is.'
'Have you seen him to-night?'
'I forgot to look for him when I was last out,' returned Eugene with
the calmest indifference; 'but I dare say he was there. Come! Be a
British sportsman and enjoy the pleasures of the chase. It will do
you good.'
Lightwood hesitated; but, yielding to his curiosity, rose.
'Bravo!' cried Eugene, rising too. 'Or, if Yoicks would be in better
keeping, consider that I said Yoicks. Look to your feet, Mortimer,
for we shall try your boots. When you are ready, I am--need I say
with a Hey Ho Chivey, and likewise with a Hark Forward, Hark
Forward, Tantivy?'
'Will nothing make you serious?' said Mortimer, laughing through
his gravity.
'I am always serious, but just now I am a little excited by the
glorious fact that a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a
hunting evening. Ready? So. We turn out the lamp and shut the
door, and take the field.'
As the two friends passed out of the Temple into the public street,
Eugene demanded with a show of courteous patronage in which
direction Mortimer would you like the run to be? 'There is a rather
difficult country about Bethnal Green,' said Eugene, 'and we have
not taken in that direction lately. What is your opinion of Bethnal
Green?' Mortimer assented to Bethnal Green, and they turned
eastward. 'Now, when we come to St Paul's churchyard,' pursued
Eugene, 'we'll loiter artfully, and I'll show you the schoolmaster.'
But, they both saw him, before they got there; alone, and stealing
after them in the shadow of the houses, on the opposite side of the
way.
'Get your wind,' said Eugene, 'for I am off directly. Does it occur
to you that the boys of Merry England will begin to deteriorate in
an educational light, if this lasts long? The schoolmaster can't
attend to me and the boys too. Got your wind? I am off!'
At what a rate he went, to breathe the schoolmaster; and how he
then lounged and loitered, to put his patience to another kind of
wear; what preposterous ways he took, with no other object on
earth than to disappoint and punish him; and how he wore him out
by every piece of ingenuity that his eccentric humour could devise;
all this Lightwood noted, with a feeling of astonishment that so
careless a man could be so wary, and that so idle a man could take
so much trouble. At last, far on in the third hour of the pleasures
of the chase, when he had brought the poor dogging wretch round
again into the City, he twisted Mortimer up a few dark entries,
twisted him into a little square court, twisted him sharp round
again, and they almost ran against Bradley Headstone.
'And you see, as I was saying, Mortimer,' remarked Eugene aloud
with the utmost coolness, as though there were no one within
hearing by themselves: 'and you see, as I was saying--undergoing
grinding torments.'
It was not too strong a phrase for the occasion. Looking like the
hunted and not the hunter, baffled, worn, with the exhaustion of
deferred hope and consuming hate and anger in his face, whitelipped,
wild-eyed, draggle-haired, seamed with jealousy and anger,
and torturing himself with the conviction that he showed it all and
they exulted in it, he went by them in the dark, like a haggard head
suspended in the air: so completely did the force of his expression
cancel his figure.
Mortimer Lightwood was not an extraordinarily impressible man,
but this face impressed him. He spoke of it more than once on the
remainder of the way home, and more than once when they got
home.
They had been abed in their respective rooms two or three hours,
when Eugene was partly awakened by hearing a footstep going
about, and was fully awakened by seeing Lightwood standing at
his bedside.
'Nothing wrong, Mortimer?'
'No.'
'What fancy takes you, then, for walking about in the night?'
'I am horribly wakeful.'
'How comes that about, I wonder!'
'Eugene, I cannot lose sight of that fellow's face.'
'Odd!' said Eugene with a light laugh, 'I can.' And turned over,
and fell asleep again.
Chapter 11
IN THE DARK
There was no sleep for Bradley Headstone on that night when
Eugene Wrayburn turned so easily in his bed; there was no sleep
for little Miss Peecher. Bradley consumed the lonely hours, and
consumed himself in haunting the spot where his careless rival lay
a dreaming; little Miss Peecher wore them away in listening for the
return home of the master of her heart, and in sorrowfully
presaging that much was amiss with him. Yet more was amiss
with him than Miss Peecher's simply arranged little work-box of
thoughts, fitted with no gloomy and dark recesses, could hold.
For, the state of the man was murderous.
The state of the man was murderous, and he knew it. More; he
irritated it, with a kind of perverse pleasure akin to that which a
sick man sometimes has in irritating a wound upon his body. Tied
up all day with his disciplined show upon him, subdued to the
performance of his routine of educational tricks, encircled by a
gabbling crowd, he broke loose at night like an ill-tamed wild
animal. Under his daily restraint, it was his compensation, not his
trouble, to give a glance towards his state at night, and to the
freedom of its being indulged. If great criminals told the truth--
which, being great criminals, they do not--they would very rarely
tell of their struggles against the crime. Their struggles are
towards it. They buffet with opposing waves, to gain the bloody
shore, not to recede from it. This man perfectly comprehended that
he hated his rival with his strongest and worst forces, and that if he
tracked him to Lizzie Hexam, his so doing would never serve
himself with her, or serve her. All his pains were taken, to the end
that he might incense himself with the sight of the detested figure
in her company and favour, in her place of concealment. And he
knew as well what act of his would follow if he did, as he knew
that his mother had borne him. Granted, that he may not have held
it necessary to make express mention to himself of the one familiar
truth any more than of the other.
He knew equally well that he fed his wrath and hatred, and that he
accumulated provocation and self-justification, by being made the
nightly sport of the reckless and insolent Eugene. Knowing all
this,--and still always going on with infinite endurance, pains, and
perseverance, could his dark soul doubt whither he went?
Baffled, exasperated, and weary, he lingered opposite the Temple
gate when it closed on Wrayburn and Lightwood, debating with
himself should he go home for that time or should he watch longer.
Possessed in his jealousy by the fixed idea that Wrayburn was in
the secret, if it were not altogether of his contriving, Bradley was
as confident of getting the better of him at last by sullenly sticking
to him, as he would have been--and often had been--of mastering
any piece of study in the way of his vocation, by the like slow
persistent process. A man of rapid passions and sluggish
intelligence, it had served him often and should serve him again.
The suspicion crossed him as he rested in a doorway with his eyes
upon the Temple gate, that perhaps she was even concealed in that
set of Chambers. It would furnish another reason for Wrayburn's
purposeless walks, and it might be. He thought of it and thought
of it, until he resolved to steal up the stairs, if the gatekeeper would
let him through, and listen. So, the haggard head suspended in the
air flitted across the road, like the spectre of one of the many heads
erst hoisted upon neighbouring Temple Bar, and stopped before the
watchman.
The watchman looked at it, and asked: 'Who for?'
'Mr Wrayburn.'
'It's very late.'
'He came back with Mr Lightwood, I know, near upon two hours
ago. But if he has gone to bed, I'll put a paper in his letter-box. I
am expected.'
The watchman said no more, but opened the gate, though rather
doubtfully. Seeing, however, that the visitor went straight and fast
in the right direction, he seemed satisfied.
The haggard head floated up the dark staircase, and softly
descended nearer to the floor outside the outer door of the
chambers. The doors of the rooms within, appeared to be standing
open. There were rays of candlelight from one of them, and there
was the sound of a footstep going about. There were two voices.
The words they uttered were not distinguishable, but they were
both the voices of men. In a few moments the voices were silent,
and there was no sound of footstep, and the inner light went out. If
Lightwood could have seen the face which kept him awake, staring
and listening in the darkness outside the door as he spoke of it, he
might have been less disposed to sleep, through the remainder of
the night.
'Not there,' said Bradley; 'but she might have been.' The head
arose to its former height from the ground, floated down the staircase
again, and passed on to the gate. A man was standing there,
in parley with the watchman.
'Oh!' said the watchman. 'Here he is!'
Perceiving himself to be the antecedent, Bradley looked from the
watchman to the man.
'This man is leaving a letter for Mr Lightwood,' the watchman
explained, showing it in his hand; 'and I was mentioning that a
person had just gone up to Mr Lightwood's chambers. It might be
the same business perhaps?'
'No,' said Bradley, glancing at the man, who was a stranger to him.
'No,' the man assented in a surly way; 'my letter--it's wrote by my
daughter, but it's mine--is about my business, and my business
ain't nobody else's business.'
As Bradley passed out at the gate with an undecided foot, he heard
it shut behind him, and heard the footstep of the man coming after
him.
''Scuse me,' said the man, who appeared to have been drinking and
rather stumbled at him than touched him, to attract his attention:
'but might you be acquainted with the T'other Governor?'
'With whom?' asked Bradley.
'With,' returned the man, pointing backward over his right shoulder
with his right thumb, 'the T'other Governor?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Why look here,' hooking his proposition on his left-hand fingers
with the forefinger of his right. 'There's two Governors, ain't there?
One and one, two--Lawyer Lightwood, my first finger, he's one,
ain't he? Well; might you be acquainted with my middle finger,
the T'other?'
'I know quite as much of him,' said Bradley, with a frown and a
distant look before him, 'as I want to know.'
'Hooroar!' cried the man. 'Hooroar T'other t'other Governor.
Hooroar T'otherest Governor! I am of your way of thinkin'.'
'Don't make such a noise at this dead hour of the night. What are
you talking about?'
'Look here, T'otherest Governor,' replied the man, becoming
hoarsely confidential. 'The T'other Governor he's always joked his
jokes agin me, owing, as I believe, to my being a honest man as
gets my living by the sweat of my brow. Which he ain't, and he
don't.'
'What is that to me?'
'T'otherest Governor,' returned the man in a tone of injured
innocence, 'if you don't care to hear no more, don't hear no more.
You begun it. You said, and likeways showed pretty plain, as you
warn't by no means friendly to him. But I don't seek to force my
company nor yet my opinions on no man. I am a honest man,
that's what I am. Put me in the dock anywhere--I don't care where
--and I says, "My Lord, I am a honest man." Put me in the witnessbox
anywhere--I don't care where--and I says the same to his
lordship, and I kisses the book. I don't kiss my coat-cuff; I kisses
the book.'
It was not so much in deference to these strong testimonials to
character, as in his restless casting about for any way or help
towards the discovery on which he was concentrated, that Bradley
Headstone replied: 'You needn't take offence. I didn't mean to stop
you. You were too--loud in the open street; that was all.'
''Totherest Governor,' replied Mr Riderhood, mollified and
mysterious, 'I know wot it is to be loud, and I know wot it is to be
soft. Nat'rally I do. It would be a wonder if I did not, being by the
Chris'en name of Roger, which took it arter my own father, which
took it from his own father, though which of our fam'ly fust took it
nat'ral I will not in any ways mislead you by undertakin' to say.
And wishing that your elth may be better than your looks, which
your inside must be bad indeed if it's on the footing of your out.'
Startled by the implication that his face revealed too much of his
mind, Bradley made an effort to clear his brow. It might be worth
knowing what this strange man's business was with Lightwood, or
Wrayburn, or both, at such an unseasonable hour. He set himself
to find out, for the man might prove to be a messenger between
those two.
'You call at the Temple late,' he remarked, with a lumbering show
of ease.
'Wish I may die,' cried Mr Riderhood, with a hoarse laugh, 'if I
warn't a goin' to say the self-same words to you, T'otherest
Governor!'
'It chanced so with me,' said Bradley, looking disconcertedly about
him.
'And it chanced so with me,' said Riderhood. 'But I don't mind
telling you how. Why should I mind telling you? I'm a Deputy
Lock-keeper up the river, and I was off duty yes'day, and I shall be
on to-morrow.'
'Yes?'
'Yes, and I come to London to look arter my private affairs. My
private affairs is to get appinted to the Lock as reg'lar keeper at fust
hand, and to have the law of a busted B'low-Bridge steamer which
drownded of me. I ain't a goin' to be drownded and not paid for it!'
Bradley looked at him, as though he were claiming to be a Ghost.
'The steamer,' said Mr Riderhood, obstinately, 'run me down and
drownded of me. Interference on the part of other parties brought
me round; but I never asked 'em to bring me round, nor yet the
steamer never asked 'em to it. I mean to be paid for the life as the
steamer took.'
'Was that your business at Mr Lightwood's chambers in the middle
of the night?' asked Bradley, eyeing him with distrust.
'That and to get a writing to be fust-hand Lock Keeper. A
recommendation in writing being looked for, who else ought to
give it to me? As I says in the letter in my daughter's hand, with
my mark put to it to make it good in law, Who but you, Lawyer
Lightwood, ought to hand over this here stifficate, and who but you
ought to go in for damages on my account agin the Steamer? For
(as I says under my mark) I have had trouble enough along of you
and your friend. If you, Lawyer Lightwood, had backed me good
and true, and if the T'other Governor had took me down correct (I
says under my mark), I should have been worth money at the
present time, instead of having a barge-load of bad names chucked
at me, and being forced to eat my words, which is a unsatisfying
sort of food wotever a man's appetite! And when you mention the
middle of the night, T'otherest Governor,' growled Mr Riderhood,
winding up his monotonous summary of his wrongs, 'throw your
eye on this here bundle under my arm, and bear in mind that I'm a
walking back to my Lock, and that the Temple laid upon my line of
road.'
Bradley Headstone's face had changed during this latter recital, and
he had observed the speaker with a more sustained attention.
'Do you know,' said he, after a pause, during which they walked on
side by side, 'that I believe I could tell you your name, if I tried?'
'Prove your opinion,' was the answer, accompanied with a stop and
a stare. 'Try.'
'Your name is Riderhood.'
'I'm blest if it ain't,' returned that gentleman. 'But I don't know
your'n.'
'That's quite another thing,' said Bradley. 'I never supposed you
did.'
As Bradley walked on meditating, the Rogue walked on at his side
muttering. The purport of the muttering was: 'that Rogue
Riderhood, by George! seemed to be made public property on,
now, and that every man seemed to think himself free to handle his
name as if it was a Street Pump.' The purport of the meditating
was: 'Here is an instrument. Can I use it?'
They had walked along the Strand, and into Pall Mall, and had
turned up-hill towards Hyde Park Corner; Bradley Headstone
waiting on the pace and lead of Riderhood, and leaving him to
indicate the course. So slow were the schoolmaster's thoughts, and
so indistinct his purposes when they were but tributary to the one
absorbing purpose or rather when, like dark trees under a stormy
sky, they only lined the long vista at the end of which he saw those
two figures of Wrayburn and Lizzie on which his eyes were fixed--
that at least a good half-mile was traversed before he spoke again.
Even then, it was only to ask:
'Where is your Lock?'
'Twenty mile and odd--call it five-and-twenty mile and odd, if you
like--up stream,' was the sullen reply.
'How is it called?'
'Plashwater Weir Mill Lock.'
'Suppose I was to offer you five shillings; what then?'
'Why, then, I'd take it,' said Mr Riderhood.
The schoolmaster put his hand in his pocket, and produced two
half-crowns, and placed them in Mr Riderhood's palm: who
stopped at a convenient doorstep to ring them both, before
acknowledging their receipt.
'There's one thing about you, T'otherest Governor,' said Riderhood,
faring on again, 'as looks well and goes fur. You're a ready money
man. Now;' when he had carefully pocketed the coins on that side
of himself which was furthest from his new friend; 'what's this for?'
'For you.'
'Why, o' course I know THAT,' said Riderhood, as arguing
something that was self-evident. 'O' course I know very well as no
man in his right senses would suppose as anythink would make
me give it up agin when I'd once got it. But what do you want for it?'
'I don't know that I want anything for it. Or if I do want anything
for it, I don't know what it is.' Bradley gave this answer in a stolid,
vacant, and self-communing manner, which Mr Riderhood found
very extraordinary.
'You have no goodwill towards this Wrayburn,' said Bradley,
coming to the name in a reluctant and forced way, as if he were
dragged to it.
'No.'
'Neither have I.'
Riderhood nodded, and asked: 'Is it for that?'
'It's as much for that as anything else. It's something to be agreed
with, on a subject that occupies so much of one's thoughts.'
'It don't agree with YOU,' returned Mr Riderhood, bluntly. 'No! It
don't, T'otherest Governor, and it's no use a lookin' as if you
wanted to make out that it did. I tell you it rankles in you. It
rankles in you, rusts in you, and pisons you.'
'Say that it does so,' returned Bradley with quivering lips; 'is there
no cause for it?'
'Cause enough, I'll bet a pound!' cried Mr Riderhood.
'Haven't you yourself declared that the fellow has heaped
provocations, insults, and affronts on you, or something to that
effect? He has done the same by me. He is made of venomous
insults and affronts, from the crown of his head to the sole of his
foot. Are you so hopeful or so stupid, as not to know that he and
the other will treat your application with contempt, and light their
cigars with it?'
'I shouldn't wonder if they did, by George!' said Riderhood, turning
angry.
'If they did! They will. Let me ask you a question. I know
something more than your name about you; I knew something
about Gaffer Hexam. When did you last set eyes upon his
daughter?'
'When did I last set eyes upon his daughter, T'otherest Governor?'
repeated Mr Riderhood, growing intentionally slower of
comprehension as the other quickened in his speech.
'Yes. Not to speak to her. To see her--anywhere?'
The Rogue had got the clue he wanted, though he held it with a
clumsy hand. Looking perplexedly at the passionate face, as if he
were trying to work out a sum in his mind, he slowly answered:
'I ain't set eyes upon her--never once--not since the day of Gaffer's
death.'
'You know her well, by sight?'
'I should think I did! No one better.'
'And you know him as well?'
'Who's him?' asked Riderhood, taking off his hat and rubbing his
forehead, as he directed a dull look at his questioner.
'Curse the name! Is it so agreeable to you that you want to hear it
again?'
'Oh! HIM!' said Riderhood, who had craftily worked the
schoolmaster into this corner, that he might again take note of his
face under its evil possession. 'I'd know HIM among a thousand.'
'Did you--' Bradley tried to ask it quietly; but, do what he might
with his voice, he could not subdue his face;--'did you ever see
them together?'
(The Rogue had got the clue in both hands now.)
'I see 'em together, T'otherest Governor, on the very day when
Gaffer was towed ashore.'
Bradley could have hidden a reserved piece of information from the
sharp eyes of a whole inquisitive class, but he could not veil from
the eyes of the ignorant Riderhood the withheld question next in
his breast. 'You shall put it plain if you want it answered,' thought
the Rogue, doggedly; 'I ain't a-going a wolunteering.'
'Well! was he insolent to her too?' asked Bradley after a struggle.
'Or did he make a show of being kind to her?'
'He made a show of being most uncommon kind to her,' said
Riderhood. 'By George! now I--'
His flying off at a tangent was indisputably natural. Bradley
looked at him for the reason.
'Now I think of it,' said Mr Riderhood, evasively, for he was
substituting those words for 'Now I see you so jealous,' which was
the phrase really in his mind; 'P'r'aps he went and took me down
wrong, a purpose, on account o' being sweet upon her!'
The baseness of confirming him in this suspicion or pretence of
one (for he could not have really entertained it), was a line's
breadth beyond the mark the schoolmaster had reached. The
baseness of communing and intriguing with the fellow who would
have set that stain upon her, and upon her brother too, was
attained. The line's breadth further, lay beyond. He made no reply,
but walked on with a lowering face.
What he might gain by this acquaintance, he could not work out in
his slow and cumbrous thoughts. The man had an injury against
the object of his hatred, and that was something; though it was less
than he supposed, for there dwelt in the man no such deadly rage
and resentment as burned in his own breast. The man knew her,
and might by a fortunate chance see her, or hear of her; that was
something, as enlisting one pair of eyes and ears the more. The
man was a bad man, and willing enough to be in his pay. That
was something, for his own state and purpose were as bad as bad
could be, and he seemed to derive a vague support from the
possession of a congenial instrument, though it might never be
used.
Suddenly he stood still, and asked Riderhood point-blank if he
knew where she was? Clearly, he did not know. He asked
Riderhood if he would be willing, in case any intelligence of her,
or of Wrayburn as seeking her or associating with her, should fall
in his way, to communicate it if it were paid for? He would be
very willing indeed. He was 'agin 'em both,' he said with an oath,
and for why? 'Cause they had both stood betwixt him and his
getting his living by the sweat of his brow.
'It will not be long then,' said Bradley Headstone, after some more
discourse to this effect, 'before we see one another again. Here is
the country road, and here is the day. Both have come upon me by
surprise.'
'But, T'otherest Governor,' urged Mr Riderhood, 'I don't know
where to find you.'
'It is of no consequence. I know where to find you, and I'll come to
your Lock.'
'But, T'otherest Governor,' urged Mr Riderhood again, 'no luck
never come yet of a dry acquaintance. Let's wet it, in a mouth-fill
of rum and milk, T'otherest Governon'
Bradley assenting, went with him into an early public-house,
haunted by unsavoury smells of musty hay and stale straw, where
returning carts, farmers' men, gaunt dogs, fowls of a beery breed,
and certain human nightbirds fluttering home to roost, were
solacing themselves after their several manners; and where not one
of the nightbirds hovering about the sloppy bar failed to discern at
a glance in the passion-wasted nightbird with respectable feathers,
the worst nightbird of all.
An inspiration of affection for a half-drunken carter going his way
led to Mr Riderhood's being elevated on a high heap of baskets on
a waggon, and pursuing his journey recumbent on his back with
his head on his bundle. Bradley then turned to retrace his steps,
and by-and-by struck off through little-traversed ways, and by-andby
reached school and home. Up came the sun to find him washed
and brushed, methodically dressed in decent black coat and
waistcoat, decent formal black tie, and pepper-and-salt pantaloons,
with his decent silver watch in its pocket, and its decent hair-guard
round his neck: a scholastic huntsman clad for the field, with his
fresh pack yelping and barking around him.
Yet more really bewitched than the miserable creatures of the
much-lamented times, who accused themselves of impossibilities
under a contagion of horror and the strongly suggestive influences
of Torture, he had been ridden hard by Evil Spirits in the night that
was newly gone. He had been spurred and whipped and heavily
sweated. If a record of the sport had usurped the places of the
peaceful texts from Scripture on the wall, the most advanced of the
scholars might have taken fright and run away from the master.
Chapter 12
MEANING MISCHIEF
Up came the sun, steaming all over London, and in its glorious
impartiality even condescending to make prismatic sparkles in the
whiskers of Mr Alfred Lammle as he sat at breakfast. In need of
some brightening from without, was Mr Alfred Lammle, for he
had the air of being dull enough within, and looked grievously
discontented.
Mrs Alfred Lammle faced her lord. The happy pair of swindlers,
with the comfortable tie between them that each had swindled the
other, sat moodily observant of the tablecloth. Things looked so
gloomy in the breakfast-room, albeit on the sunny side of Sackville
Street, that any of the family tradespeople glancing through the
blinds might have taken the hint to send in his account and press
for it. But this, indeed, most of the family tradespeople had already
done, without the hint.
'It seems to me,' said Mrs Lammle, 'that you have had no money at
all, ever since we have been married.'
'What seems to you,' said Mr Lammle, 'to have been the case, may
possibly have been the case. It doesn't matter.'
Was it the speciality of Mr and Mrs Lammle, or does it ever obtain
with other loving couples? In these matrimonial dialogues they
never addressed each other, but always some invisible presence
that appeared to take a station about midway between them.
Perhaps the skeleton in the cupboard comes out to be talked to, on
such domestic occasions?
'I have never seen any money in the house,' said Mrs Lammle to
the skeleton, 'except my own annuity. That I swear.'
'You needn't take the trouble of swearing,' said Mr Lammle to the
skeleton; 'once more, it doesn't matter. You never turned your
annuity to so good an account.'
'Good an account! In what way?' asked Mrs Lammle.
'In the way of getting credit, and living well,' said Mr Lammle.
Perhaps the skeleton laughed scornfully on being intrusted with
this question and this answer; certainly Mrs Lammle did, and Mr
Lammle did.
'And what is to happen next?' asked Mrs Lammle of the skeleton.
'Smash is to happen next,' said Mr Lammle to the same authority.
After this, Mrs Lammle looked disdainfully at the skeleton--but
without carrying the look on to Mr Lammle--and drooped her eyes.
After that, Mr Lammle did exactly the same thing, and drooped
HIS eyes. A servant then entering with toast, the skeleton retired
into the closet, and shut itself up.
'Sophronia,' said Mr Lammle, when the servant had withdrawn.
And then, very much louder: 'Sophronia!'
'Well?'
'Attend to me, if you please.' He eyed her sternly until she did
attend, and then went on. 'I want to take counsel with you. Come,
come; no more trifling. You know our league and covenant. We
are to work together for our joint interest, and you are as knowing a
hand as I am. We shouldn't be together, if you were not. What's to
be done? We are hemmed into a corner. What shall we do?'
'Have you no scheme on foot that will bring in anything?'
Mr Lammle plunged into his whiskers for reflection, and came out
hopeless: 'No; as adventurers we are obliged to play rash games for
chances of high winnings, and there has been a run of luck against
us.'
She was resuming, 'Have you nothing--' when he stopped her.
'We, Sophronia. We, we, we.'
'Have we nothing to sell ?'
'Deuce a bit. I have given a Jew a bill of sale on this furniture, and
he could take it to-morrow, to-day, now. He would have taken it
before now, I believe, but for Fledgeby.'
'What has Fledgeby to do with him?'
'Knew him. Cautioned me against him before I got into his claws.
Couldn't persuade him then, in behalf of somebody else.'
'Do you mean that Fledgeby has at all softened him towards you?'
'Us, Sophronia. Us, us, us.'
'Towards us?'
'I mean that the Jew has not yet done what he might have done,
and that Fledgeby takes the credit of having got him to hold his
hand.'
'Do you believe Fledgeby?'
'Sophronia, I never believe anybody. I never have, my dear, since I
believed you. But it looks like it.'
Having given her this back-handed reminder of her mutinous
observations to the skeleton, Mr Lammle rose from table--perhaps,
the better to conceal a smile, and a white dint or two about his
nose--and took a turn on the carpet and came to the hearthrug.
'If we could have packed the brute off with Georgiana;--but
however; that's spilled milk.'
As Lammle, standing gathering up the skirts of his dressing-gown
with his back to the fire, said this, looking down at his wife, she
turned pale and looked down at the ground. With a sense of
disloyalty upon her, and perhaps with a sense of personal danger--
for she was afraid of him--even afraid of his hand and afraid of his
foot, though he had never done her violence--she hastened to put
herself right in his eyes.
'If we could borrow money, Alfred--'
'Beg money, borrow money, or steal money. It would be all one to
us, Sophronia,' her husband struck in.
'--Then, we could weather this?'
'No doubt. To offer another original and undeniable remark,
Sophronia, two and two make four.'
But, seeing that she was turning something in her mind, he
gathered up the skirts of his dressing-gown again, and, tucking
them under one arm, and collecting his ample whiskers in his other
hand, kept his eye upon her, silently.
'It is natural, Alfred,' she said, looking up with some timidity into
his face, 'to think in such an emergency of the richest people we
know, and the simplest.'
'Just so, Sophronia.'
'The Boffins.'
'Just so, Sophronia.'
'Is there nothing to be done with them?'
'What is there to be done with them, Sophronia?'
She cast about in her thoughts again, and he kept his eye upon her
as before.
'Of course I have repeatedly thought of the Boffins, Sophronia,' he
resumed, after a fruitless silence; 'but I have seen my way to
nothing. They are well guarded. That infernal Secretary stands
between them and--people of merit.'
'If he could be got rid of?' said she, brightening a little, after more
casting about.
'Take time, Sophronia,' observed her watchful husband, in a
patronizing manner.
'If working him out of the way could be presented in the light of a
service to Mr Boffin?'
'Take time, Sophronia.'
'We have remarked lately, Alfred, that the old man is turning very
suspicious and distrustful.'
'Miserly too, my dear; which is far the most unpromising for us.
Nevertheless, take time, Sophronia, take time.'
She took time and then said:
'Suppose we should address ourselves to that tendency in him of
which we have made ourselves quite sure. Suppose my
conscience--'
'And we know what a conscience it is, my soul. Yes?'
'Suppose my conscience should not allow me to keep to myself any
longer what that upstart girl told me of the Secretary's having made
a declaration to her. Suppose my conscience should oblige me to
repeat it to Mr Boffin.'
'I rather like that,' said Lammle.
'Suppose I so repeated it to Mr Boffin, as to insinuate that my
sensitive delicacy and honour--'
'Very good words, Sophronia.'
'--As to insinuate that OUR sensitive delicacy and honour,' she
resumed, with a bitter stress upon the phrase, 'would not allow us
to be silent parties to so mercenary and designing a speculation on
the Secretary's part, and so gross a breach of faith towards his
confiding employer. Suppose I had imparted my virtuous
uneasiness to my excellent husband, and he had said, in his
integrity, "Sophronia, you must immediately disclose this to Mr
Boffin."'
'Once more, Sophronia,' observed Lammle, changing the leg on
which he stood, 'I rather like that.'
'You remark that he is well guarded,' she pursued. 'I think so too.
But if this should lead to his discharging his Secretary, there would
be a weak place made.'
'Go on expounding, Sophronia. I begin to like this very much.'
'Having, in our unimpeachable rectitude, done him the service of
opening his eyes to the treachery of the person he trusted, we shall
have established a claim upon him and a confidence with him.
Whether it can be made much of, or little of, we must wait--
because we can't help it--to see. Probably we shall make the most
of it that is to be made.'
'Probably,' said LammIe.
'Do you think it impossible,' she asked, in the same cold plotting
way, 'that you might replace the Secretary?'
'Not impossible, Sophronia. It might be brought about. At any
rate it might be skilfully led up to.'
She nodded her understanding of the hint, as she looked at the fire.
'Mr Lammle,' she said, musingly: not without a slight ironical
touch: 'Mr Lammle would be so delighted to do anything in his
power. Mr Lammle, himself a man of business as well as a
capitalist. Mr Lammle, accustomed to be intrusted with the most
delicate affairs. Mr Lammle, who has managed my own little
fortune so admirably, but who, to be sure, began to make his
reputation with the advantage of being a man of property, above
temptation, and beyond suspicion.'
Mr Lammle smiled, and even patted her on the head. In his
sinister relish of the scheme, as he stood above her, making it the
subject of his cogitations, he seemed to have twice as much nose
on his face as he had ever had in his life.
He stood pondering, and she sat looking at the dusty fire without
moving, for some time. But, the moment he began to speak again
she looked up with a wince and attended to him, as if that doubledealing
of hers had been in her mind, and the fear were revived in
her of his hand or his foot.
'It appears to me, Sophronia, that you have omitted one branch of
the subject. Perhaps not, for women understand women. We
might oust the girl herself?'
Mrs Lammle shook her head. 'She has an immensely strong hold
upon them both, Alfred. Not to be compared with that of a paid
secretary.
'But the dear child,' said Lammle, with a crooked smile, 'ought to
have been open with her benefactor and benefactress. The darling
love ought to have reposed unbounded confidence in her benefactor
and benefactress.'
Sophronia shook her head again.
'Well! Women understand women,' said her husband, rather
disappointed. 'I don't press it. It might be the making of our
fortune to make a clean sweep of them both. With me to manage
the property, and my wife to manage the people--Whew!'
Again shaking her head, she returned: 'They will never quarrel
with the girl. They will never punish the girl. We must accept the
girl, rely upon it.'
'Well!' cried Lammle, shrugging his shoulders, 'so be it: only
always remember that we don't want her.'
'Now, the sole remaining question is,' said Mrs Lammle, 'when
shall I begin?'
'You cannot begin too soon, Sophronia. As I have told you, the
condition of our affairs is desperate, and may be blown upon at any
moment.'
'I must secure Mr Boffin alone, Alfred. If his wife was present, she
would throw oil upon the waters. I know I should fail to move him
to an angry outburst, if his wife was there. And as to the girl
herself--as I am going to betray her confidence, she is equally out
of the question.'
'It wouldn't do to write for an appointment?' said Lammle.
'No, certainly not. They would wonder among themselves why I
wrote, and I want to have him wholly unprepared.'
'Call, and ask to see him alone?' suggested Lammle.
'I would rather not do that either. Leave it to me. Spare me the
little carriage for to-day, and for to-morrow (if I don't succeed today),
and I'll lie in wait for him.'
It was barely settled when a manly form was seen to pass the
windows and heard to knock and ring. 'Here's Fledgeby,' said
Lammle. 'He admires you, and has a high opinion of you. I'll be
out. Coax him to use his influence with the Jew. His name is
Riah, of the House of Pubsey and Co.' Adding these words under
his breath, lest he should be audible in the erect ears of Mr
Fledgeby, through two keyholes and the hall, Lammle, making
signals of discretion to his servant, went softly up stairs.
'Mr Fledgeby,' said Mrs Lammle, giving him a very gracious
reception, 'so glad to see you! My poor dear Alfred, who is greatly
worried just now about his affairs, went out rather early. Dear Mr
Fledgeby, do sit down.'
Dear Mr Fledgeby did sit down, and satisfied himself (or, judging
from the expression of his countenance, DISsatisfied himself) that
nothing new had occurred in the way of whisker-sprout since he
came round the corner from the Albany.
'Dear Mr Fledgeby, it was needless to mention to you that my poor
dear Alfred is much worried about his affairs at present, for he has
told me what a comfort you are to him in his temporary difficulties,
and what a great service you have rendered him.'
'Oh!' said Mr Fledgeby.
'Yes,' said Mrs Lammle.
'I didn't know,' remarked Mr Fledgeby, trying a new part of his
chair, 'but that Lammle might be reserved about his affairs.'
'Not to me,' said Mrs Lammle, with deep feeling.
'Oh, indeed?' said Fledgeby.
'Not to me, dear Mr Fledgeby. I am his wife.'
'Yes. I--I always understood so,' said Mr Fledgeby.
'And as the wife of Alfred, may I, dear Mr Fledgeby, wholly
without his authority or knowledge, as I am sure your discernment
will perceive, entreat you to continue that great service, and once
more use your well-earned influence with Mr Riah for a little more
indulgence? The name I have heard Alfred mention, tossing in his
dreams, IS Riah; is it not?'
'The name of the Creditor is Riah,' said Mr Fledgehy, with a rather
uncompromising accent on his noun-substantive. 'Saint Mary Axe.
Pubsey and Co.'
'Oh yes!' exclaimed Mrs Lammle, clasping her hands with a certain
gushing wildness. 'Pubsey and Co.!'
'The pleading of the feminine--' Mr Fledgeby began, and there
stuck so long for a word to get on with, that Mrs Lammle offered
him sweetly, 'Heart?'
'No,' said Mr Fledgeby, 'Gender--is ever what a man is bound to
listen to, and I wish it rested with myself. But this Riah is a nasty
one, Mrs Lammle; he really is.'
'Not if YOU speak to him, dear Mr Fledgeby.'
'Upon my soul and body he is!' said Fledgeby.
'Try. Try once more, dearest Mr Fledgeby. What is there you
cannot do, if you will!'
'Thank you,' said Fledgeby, 'you're very complimentary to say so.
I don't mind trying him again, at your request. But of course I
can't answer for the consequences. Riah is a tough subject, and
when he says he'll do a thing, he'll do it.'
'Exactly so,' cried Mrs Lammle, 'and when he says to you he'll
wait, he'll wait.'
('She is a devilish clever woman,' thought Fledgeby. 'I didn't see
that opening, but she spies it out and cuts into it as soon as it's
made. ')
'In point of fact, dear Mr Fledgeby,' Mrs Lammle went on in a very
interesting manner, 'not to affect concealment of Alfred's hopes,
to you who are so much his friend, there is a distant break in his
horizon.'
This figure of speech seemed rather mysterious to Fascination
Fledgeby, who said, 'There's a what in his--eh?'
'Alfred, dear Mr Fledgeby, discussed with me this very morning
before he went out, some prospects he has, which might entirely
change the aspect of his present troubles.'
'Really?' said Fledgeby.
'O yes!' Here Mrs Lammle brought her handkerchief into play.
'And you know, dear Mr Fledgeby--you who study the human
heart, and study the world--what an affliction it would be to lose
position and to lose credit, when ability to tide over a very short
time might save all appearances.'
'Oh!' said Fledgeby. 'Then you think, Mrs Lammle, that if Lammle
got time, he wouldn't burst up?--To use an expression,' Mr
Fledgeby apologetically explained, 'which is adopted in the Money
Market.'
'Indeed yes. Truly, truly, yes!'
'That makes all the difference,' said Fledgeby. 'I'll make a point of
seeing Riah at once.'
'Blessings on you, dearest Mr Fledgeby!'
'Not at all,' said Fledgeby. She gave him her hand. 'The hand,'
said Mr Fledgeby, 'of a lovely and superior-minded female is ever
the repayment of a--'
'Noble action!' said Mrs Lammle, extremely anxious to get rid of
him.
'It wasn't what I was going to say,' returned Fledgeby, who never
would, under any circumstances, accept a suggested expression,
'but you're very complimentary. May I imprint a--a one--upon it?
Good morning!'
'I may depend upon your promptitude, dearest Mr Fledgeby?'
Said Fledgeby, looking back at the door and respectfully kissing
his hand, 'You may depend upon it.'
In fact, Mr Fledgeby sped on his errand of mercy through the
streets, at so brisk a rate that his feet might have been winged by
all the good spirits that wait on Generosity. They might have taken
up their station in his breast, too, for he was blithe and merry.
There was quite a fresh trill in his voice, when, arriving at the
counting-house in St Mary Axe, and finding it for the moment
empty, he trolled forth at the foot of the staircase: 'Now, Judah,
what are you up to there?'
The old man appeared, with his accustomed deference.
'Halloa!' said Fledgeby, falling back, with a wink. 'You mean
mischief, Jerusalem!'
The old man raised his eyes inquiringly.
'Yes you do,' said Fledgeby. 'Oh, you sinner! Oh, you dodger!
What! You're going to act upon that bill of sale at Lammle's, are
you? Nothing will turn you, won't it? You won't be put off for
another single minute, won't you?'
Ordered to immediate action by the master's tone and look, the old
man took up his hat from the little counter where it lay.
'You have been told that he might pull through it, if you didn't go
in to win, Wide-Awake; have you?' said Fledgeby. 'And it's not
your game that he should pull through it; ain't it? You having got
security, and there being enough to pay you? Oh, you Jew!'
The old man stood irresolute and uncertain for a moment, as if
there might be further instructions for him in reserve.
'Do I go, sir?' he at length asked in a low voice.
'Asks me if he is going!' exclaimed Fledgeby. 'Asks me, as if he
didn't know his own purpose! Asks me, as if he hadn't got his hat
on ready! Asks me, as if his sharp old eye--why, it cuts like a
knife--wasn't looking at his walking-stick by the door!'
'Do I go, sir?'
'Do you go?' sneered Fledgeby. 'Yes, you do go. Toddle, Judah!'
Chapter 13
GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME, AND HANG HIM
Fascination Fledgeby, left alone in the counting-house, strolled
about with his hat on one side, whistling, and investigating the
drawers, and prying here and there for any small evidences of his
being cheated, but could find none. 'Not his merit that he don't
cheat me,' was Mr Fledgeby's commentary delivered with a wink,
'but my precaution.' He then with a lazy grandeur asserted his
rights as lord of Pubsey and Co. by poking his cane at the stools
and boxes, and spitting in the fireplace, and so loitered royally to
the window and looked out into the narrow street, with his small
eyes just peering over the top of Pubsey and Co.'s blind. As a
blind in more senses than one, it reminded him that he was alone
in the counting-house with the front door open. He was moving
away to shut it, lest he should be injudiciously identified with the
establishment, when he was stopped by some one coming to the
door.
This some one was the dolls' dressmaker, with a little basket on
her arm, and her crutch stick in her hand. Her keen eyes had
espied Mr Fledgeby before Mr Fledgeby had espied her, and he
was paralysed in his purpose of shutting her out, not so much by
her approaching the door, as by her favouring him with a shower of
nods, the instant he saw her. This advantage she improved by
hobbling up the steps with such despatch that before Mr Fledgeby
could take measures for her finding nobody at home, she was face
to face with him in the counting-house.
'Hope I see you well, sir,' said Miss Wren. 'Mr Riah in?'
Fledgeby had dropped into a chair, in the attitude of one waiting
wearily. 'I suppose he will be back soon,' he replied; 'he has cut
out and left me expecting him back, in an odd way. Haven't I seen
you before?'
'Once before--if you had your eyesight,' replied Miss Wren; the
conditional clause in an under-tone.
'When you were carrying on some games up at the top of the
house. I remember. How's your friend?'
'I have more friends than one, sir, I hope,' replied Miss Wren.
'Which friend?'
'Never mind,' said Mr Fledgeby, shutting up one eye, 'any of your
friends, all your friends. Are they pretty tolerable?'
Somewhat confounded, Miss Wren parried the pleasantry, and sat
down in a corner behind the door, with her basket in her lap. Byand-
by, she said, breaking a long and patient silence:
'I beg your pardon, sir, but I am used to find Mr Riah at this time,
and so I generally come at this time. I only want to buy my poor
little two shillings' worth of waste. Perhaps you'll kindly let me
have it, and I'll trot off to my work.'
'I let you have it?' said Fledgeby, turning his head towards her; for
he had been sitting blinking at the light, and feeling his cheek.
'Why, you don't really suppose that I have anything to do with the
place, or the business; do you?'
'Suppose?' exclaimed Miss Wren. 'He said, that day, you were the
master!'
'The old cock in black said? Riah said? Why, he'd say anything.'
'Well; but you said so too,' returned Miss Wren. 'Or at least you
took on like the master, and didn't contradict him.'
'One of his dodges,' said Mr Fledgeby, with a cool and
contemptuous shrug. 'He's made of dodges. He said to me,
"Come up to the top of the house, sir, and I'll show you a
handsome girl. But I shall call you the master." So I went up to
the top of the house and he showed me the handsome girl (very
well worth looking at she was), and I was called the master. I
don't know why. I dare say he don't. He loves a dodge for its own
sake; being,' added Mr Fledgeby, after casting about for an
expressive phrase, 'the dodgerest of all the dodgers.'
'Oh my head!' cried the dolls' dressmaker, holding it with both her
hands, as if it were cracking. 'You can't mean what you say.'
'I can, my little woman, retorted Fledgeby, 'and I do, I assure you.
This repudiation was not only an act of deliberate policy on
Fledgeby's part, in case of his being surprised by any other caller,
but was also a retort upon Miss Wren for her over-sharpness, and a
pleasant instance of his humour as regarded the old Jew. 'He has
got a bad name as an old Jew, and he is paid for the use of it, and
I'll have my money's worth out of him.' This was Fledgeby's
habitual reflection in the way of business, and it was sharpened
just now by the old man's presuming to have a secret from him:
though of the secret itself, as annoying somebody else whom he
disliked, he by no means disapproved.
Miss Wren with a fallen countenance sat behind the door looking
thoughtfully at the ground, and the long and patient silence had
again set in for some time, when the expression of Mr Fledgeby's
face betokened that through the upper portion of the door, which
was of glass, he saw some one faltering on the brink of the
counting-house. Presently there was a rustle and a tap, and then
some more rustling and another tap. Fledgeby taking no notice,
the door was at length softly opened, and the dried face of a mild
little elderly gentleman looked in.
'Mr Riah?' said this visitor, very politely.
'I am waiting for him, sir,' returned Mr Fledgeby. 'He went out and
left me here. I expect him back every minute. Perhaps you had
better take a chair.'
The gentleman took a chair, and put his hand to his forehead, as if
he were in a melancholy frame of mind. Mr Fledgeby eyed him
aside, and seemed to relish his attitude.
'A fine day, sir,' remarked Fledgeby.
The little dried gentleman was so occupied with his own depressed
reflections that he did not notice the remark until the sound of Mr
Fledgeby's voice had died out of the counting-house. Then he
started, and said: 'I beg your pardon, sir. I fear you spoke to me?'
'I said,' remarked Fledgeby, a little louder than before, 'it was a
fine day.'
'I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon. Yes.'
Again the little dried gentleman put his hand to his forehead, and
again Mr Fledgeby seemed to enjoy his doing it. When the
gentleman changed his attitude with a sigh, Fledgeby spake with a
grin.
'Mr Twemlow, I think?'
The dried gentleman seemed much surprised.
'Had the pleasure of dining with you at Lammle's,' said Fledgeby.
'Even have the honour of being a connexion of yours. An
unexpected sort of place this to meet in; but one never knows,
when one gets into the City, what people one may knock up
against. I hope you have your health, and are enjoying yourself.'
There might have been a touch of impertinence in the last words;
on the other hand, it might have been but the native grace of Mr
Fledgeby's manner. Mr Fledgeby sat on a stool with a foot on the
rail of another stool, and his hat on. Mr Twemlow had uncovered
on looking in at the door, and remained so. Now the conscientious
Twemlow, knowing what he had done to thwart the gracious
Fledgeby, was particularly disconcerted by this encounter. He was
as ill at ease as a gentleman well could be. He felt himself bound
to conduct himself stiffly towards Fledgeby, and he made him a
distant bow. Fledgeby made his small eyes smaller in taking
special note of his manner. The dolls' dressmaker sat in her corner
behind the door, with her eyes on the ground and her hands folded
on her basket, holding her crutch-stick between them, and
appearing to take no heed of anything.
'He's a long time,' muttered Mr Fledgeby, looking at his watch.
'What time may you make it, Mr Twemlow?'
Mr Twemlow made it ten minutes past twelve, sir.
'As near as a toucher,' assented Fledgeby. 'I hope, Mr Twemlow,
your business here may be of a more agreeable character than
mine.'
'Thank you, sir,' said Mr Twemlow.
Fledgeby again made his small eyes smaller, as he glanced with
great complacency at Twemlow, who was timorously tapping the
table with a folded letter.
'What I know of Mr Riah,' said Fledgeby, with a very disparaging
utterance of his name, 'leads me to believe that this is about the
shop for disagreeable business. I have always found him the
bitingest and tightest screw in London.'
Mr Twemlow acknowledged the remark with a little distant bow.
It evidently made him nervous.
'So much so,' pursued Fledgeby, 'that if it wasn't to be true to a
friend, nobody should catch me waiting here a single minute. But
if you have friends in adversity, stand by them. That's what I say
and act up to.'
The equitable Twemlow felt that this sentiment, irrespective of the
utterer, demanded his cordial assent. 'You are very right, sir,' he
rejoined with spirit. 'You indicate the generous and manly course.
'Glad to have your approbation,' returned Fledgeby. 'It's a
coincidence, Mr Twemlow;' here he descended from his perch, and
sauntered towards him; 'that the friends I am standing by to-day
are the friends at whose house I met you! The Lammles. She's a
very taking and agreeable woman?'
Conscience smote the gentle Twemlow pale. 'Yes,' he said. 'She is.'
'And when she appealed to me this morning, to come and try what
I could do to pacify their creditor, this Mr Riah--that I certainly
have gained some little influence with in transacting business for
another friend, but nothing like so much as she supposes--and
when a woman like that spoke to me as her dearest Mr Fledgeby,
and shed tears--why what could I do, you know?'
Twemlow gasped 'Nothing but come.'
'Nothing but come. And so I came. But why,' said Fledgeby,
putting his hands in his pockets and counterfeiting deep
meditation, 'why Riah should have started up, when I told him that
the Lammles entreated him to hold over a Bill of Sale he has on all
their effects; and why he should have cut out, saying he would be
back directly; and why he should have left me here alone so long; I
cannot understand.'
The chivalrous Twemlow, Knight of the Simple Heart, was not in a
condition to offer any suggestion. He was too penitent, too
remorseful. For the first time in his life he had done an
underhanded action, and he had done wrong. He had secretly
interposed against this confiding young man, for no better real
reason than because the young man's ways were not his ways.
But, the confiding young man proceeded to heap coals of fire on
his sensitive head.
'I beg your pardon, Mr Twemlow; you see I am acquainted with
the nature of the affairs that are transacted here. Is there anything I
can do for you here? You have always been brought up as a
gentleman, and never as a man of business;' another touch of
possible impertinence in this place; 'and perhaps you are but a
poor man of business. What else is to be expected!'
'I am even a poorer man of business than I am a man, sir,' returned
Twemlow, 'and I could hardly express my deficiency in a stronger
way. I really do not so much as clearly understand my position in
the matter on which I am brought here. But there are reasons
which make me very delicate of accepting your assistance. I am
greatly, greatly, disinclined to profit by it. I don't deserve it.'
Good childish creature! Condemned to a passage through the
world by such narrow little dimly-lighted ways, and picking up so
few specks or spots on the road!
'Perhaps,' said Fledgeby, 'you may be a little proud of entering on
the topic,--having been brought up as a gentleman.'
'It's not that, sir,' returned Twemlow, 'it's not that. I hope I
distinguish between true pride and false pride.'
'I have no pride at all, myself,' said Fledgeby, 'and perhaps I don't
cut things so fine as to know one from t'other. But I know this is a
place where even a man of business needs his wits about him; and
if mine can be of any use to you here, you're welcome to them.'
'You are very good,' said Twemlow, faltering. 'But I am most
unwilling--'
'I don't, you know,' proceeded Fledgeby with an ill-favoured
glance, 'entertain the vanity of supposing that my wits could be of
any use to you in society, but they might be here. You cultivate
society and society cultivates you, but Mr Riah's not society. In
society, Mr Riah is kept dark; eh, Mr Twemlow?'
Twemlow, much disturbed, and with his hand fluttering about his
forehead, replied: 'Quite true.'
The confiding young man besought him to state his case. The
innocent Twemlow, expecting Fledgeby to be astounded by what
he should unfold, and not for an instant conceiving the possibility
of its happening every day, but treating of it as a terrible
phenomenon occurring in the course of ages, related how that he
had had a deceased friend, a married civil officer with a family,
who had wanted money for change of place on change of post, and
how he, Twemlow, had 'given him his name,' with the usual, but in
the eyes of Twemlow almost incredible result that he had been left
to repay what he had never had. How, in the course of years, he
had reduced the principal by trifling sums, 'having,' said
Twemlow, 'always to observe great economy, being in the
enjoyment of a fixed income limited in extent, and that depending
on the munificence of a certain nobleman,' and had always pinched
the full interest out of himself with punctual pinches. How he had
come, in course of time, to look upon this one only debt of his life
as a regular quarterly drawback, and no worse, when 'his name'
had some way fallen into the possession of Mr Riah, who had sent
him notice to redeem it by paying up in full, in one plump sum, or
take tremendous consequences. This, with hazy remembrances of
how he had been carried to some office to 'confess judgment' (as
he recollected the phrase), and how he had been carried to another
office where his life was assured for somebody not wholly
unconnected with the sherry trade whom he remembered by the
remarkable circumstance that he had a Straduarius violin to
dispose of, and also a Madonna, formed the sum and substance of
Mr Twemlow's narrative. Through which stalked the shadow of
the awful Snigsworth, eyed afar off by money-lenders as Security
in the Mist, and menacing Twemlow with his baronial truncheon.
To all, Mr Fledgeby listened with the modest gravity becoming a
confiding young man who knew it all beforehand, and, when it
was finished, seriously shook his head. 'I don't like, Mr
Twemlow,' said Fledgeby, 'I don't like Riah's calling in the
principal. If he's determined to call it in, it must come.'
'But supposing, sir,' said Twemlow, downcast, 'that it can't come?'
'Then,' retorted Fledgeby, 'you must go, you know.'
'Where?' asked Twemlow, faintly.
'To prison,' returned Fledgeby. Whereat Mr Twemlow leaned his
innocent head upon his hand, and moaned a little moan of distress
and disgrace.
'However,' said Fledgeby, appearing to pluck up his spirits, 'we'll
hope it's not so bad as that comes to. If you'll allow me, I'll
mention to Mr Riah when he comes in, who you are, and I'll tell
him you're my friend, and I'll say my say for you, instead of your
saying it for yourself; I may be able to do it in a more business-like
way. You won't consider it a liberty?'
'I thank you again and again, sir,' said Twemlow. 'I am strong,
strongly, disinclined to avail myself of your generosity, though my
helplessness yields. For I cannot but feel that I--to put it in the
mildest form of speech--that I have done nothing to deserve it.'
'Where CAN he be?' muttered Fledgeby, referring to his watch
again. 'What CAN he have gone out for? Did you ever see him,
Mr Twemlow?'
'Never.'
'He is a thorough Jew to look at, but he is a more thorough Jew to
deal with. He's worst when he's quiet. If he's quiet, I shall take it
as a very bad sign. Keep your eye upon him when he comes in,
and, if he's quiet, don't be hopeful. Here he is!--He looks quiet.'
With these words, which had the effect of causing the harmless
Twemlow painful agitation, Mr Fledgeby withdrew to his former
post, and the old man entered the counting-house.
'Why, Mr Riah,' said Fledgeby, 'I thought you were lost!'
The old man, glancing at the stranger, stood stock-still. He
perceived that his master was leading up to the orders he was to
take, and he waited to understand them.
'I really thought,' repeated Fledgeby slowly, 'that you were lost, Mr
Riah. Why, now I look at you--but no, you can't have done it; no,
you can't have done it!'
Hat in hand, the old man lifted his head, and looked distressfully at
Fledgeby as seeking to know what new moral burden he was to
bear.
'You can't have rushed out to get the start of everybody else, and
put in that bill of sale at Lammle's?' said Fledgeby. 'Say you
haven't, Mr Riah.'
'Sir, I have,' replied the old man in a low voice.
'Oh my eye!' cried Fledgeby. 'Tut, tut, tut! Dear, dear, dear! Well!
I knew you were a hard customer, Mr Riah, but I never thought
you were as hard as that.'
'Sir,' said the old man, with great uneasiness, 'I do as I am
directed. I am not the principal here. I am but the agent of a
superior, and I have no choice, no power.'
'Don't say so,' retorted Fledgeby, secretly exultant as the old man
stretched out his hands, with a shrinking action of defending
himself against the sharp construction of the two observers. 'Don't
play the tune of the trade, Mr Riah. You've a right to get in your
debts, if you're determined to do it, but don't pretend what every
one in your line regularly pretends. At least, don't do it to me.
Why should you, Mr Riah? You know I know all about you.'
The old man clasped the skirt of his long coat with his disengaged
hand, and directed a wistful look at Fledgeby.
'And don't,' said Fledgeby, 'don't, I entreat you as a favour, Mr
Riah, be so devilish meek, for I know what'll follow if you are.
Look here, Mr Riah. This gentleman is Mr Twemlow.'
The Jew turned to him and bowed. That poor lamb bowed in
return; polite, and terrified.
'I have made such a failure,' proceeded Fledgeby, 'in trying to do
anything with you for my friend Lammle, that I've hardly a hope of
doing anything with you for my friend (and connexion indeed) Mr
Twemlow. But I do think that if you would do a favour for
anybody, you would for me, and I won't fail for want of trying, and
I've passed my promise to Mr Twemlow besides. Now, Mr Riah,
here is Mr Twemlow. Always good for his interest, always
coming up to time, always paying his little way. Now, why should
you press Mr Twemlow? You can't have any spite against Mr
Twemlow! Why not be easy with Mr Twemlow?'
The old man looked into Fledgeby's little eyes for any sign of leave
to be easy with Mr Twemlow; but there was no sign in them.
'Mr Twemlow is no connexion of yours, Mr Riah,' said Fledgeby;
'you can't want to be even with him for having through life gone in
for a gentleman and hung on to his Family. If Mr Twemlow has a
contempt for business, what can it matter to you?'
'But pardon me,' interposed the gentle victim, 'I have not. I
should consider it presumption.'
'There, Mr Riah!' said Fledgeby, 'isn't that handsomely said?
Come! Make terms with me for Mr Twemlow.'
The old man looked again for any sign of permission to spare the
poor little gentleman. No. Mr Fledgeby meant him to be racked.
'I am very sorry, Mr Twemlow,' said Riah. 'I have my
instructions. I am invested with no authority for diverging from
them. The money must be paid.'
'In full and slap down, do you mean, Mr Riah?' asked Fledgeby, to
make things quite explicit.
'In full, sir, and at once,' was Riah's answer.
Mr Fledgeby shook his head deploringly at Twemlow, and mutely
expressed in reference to the venerable figure standing before him
with eyes upon the ground: 'What a Monster of an Israelite this is!'
'Mr Riah,' said Fledgeby.
The old man lifted up his eyes once more to the little eyes in Mr
Fledgeby's head, with some reviving hope that the sign might be
coming yet.
'Mr Riah, it's of no use my holding back the fact. There's a certain
great party in the background in Mr Twemlow's case, and you
know it.
'I know it,' the old man admitted.
'Now, I'll put it as a plain point of business, Mr Riah. Are you
fully determined (as a plain point of business) either to have that
said great party's security, or that said great party's money?'
'Fully determined,' answered Riah, as he read his master's face,
and learnt the book.
'Not at all caring for, and indeed as it seems to me rather enjoying,'
said Fledgeby, with peculiar unction, 'the precious kick-up and row
that will come off between Mr Twemlow and the said great party?'
This required no answer, and received none. Poor Mr Twemlow,
who had betrayed the keenest mental terrors since his noble
kinsman loomed in the perspective, rose with a sigh to take his
departure. 'I thank you very much, sir,' he said, offering Fledgeby
his feverish hand. 'You have done me an unmerited service.
Thank you, thank you!'
'Don't mention it,' answered Fledgeby. 'It's a failure so far, but I'll
stay behind, and take another touch at Mr Riah.'
'Do not deceive yourself Mr Twemlow,' said the Jew, then
addressing him directly for the first time. 'There is no hope for
you. You must expect no leniency here. You must pay in full, and
you cannot pay too promptly, or you will be put to heavy charges.
Trust nothing to me, sir. Money, money, money.' When he had
said these words in an emphatic manner, he acknowledged Mr
Twemlow's still polite motion of his head, and that amiable little
worthy took his departure in the lowest spirits.
Fascination Fledgeby was in such a merry vein when the countinghouse
was cleared of him, that he had nothing for it but to go to the
window, and lean his arms on the frame of the blind, and have his
silent laugh out, with his back to his subordinate. When he turned
round again with a composed countenance, his subordinate still
stood in the same place, and the dolls' dressmaker sat behind the
door with a look of horror.
'Halloa!' cried Mr Fledgeby, 'you're forgetting this young lady, Mr
Riah, and she has been waiting long enough too. Sell her her
waste, please, and give her good measure if you can make up your
mind to do the liberal thing for once.'
He looked on for a time, as the Jew filled her little basket with
such scraps as she was used to buy; but, his merry vein coming on
again, he was obliged to turn round to the window once more, and
lean his arms on the blind.
'There, my Cinderella dear,' said the old man in a whisper, and
with a worn-out look, 'the basket's full now. Bless you! And get
you gone!'
'Don't call me your Cinderella dear,' returned Miss Wren. 'O you
cruel godmother!'
She shook that emphatic little forefinger of hers in his face at
parting, as earnestly and reproachfully as she had ever shaken it at
her grim old child at home.
'You are not the godmother at all!' said she. 'You are the Wolf in
the Forest, the wicked Wolf! And if ever my dear Lizzie is sold
and betrayed, I shall know who sold and betrayed her!'
Chapter 14
MR WEGG PREPARES A GRINDSTONE FOR MR BOFFIN'S NOSE
Having assisted at a few more expositions of the lives of Misers,
Mr Venus became almost indispensable to the evenings at the
Bower. The circumstance of having another listener to the
wonders unfolded by Wegg, or, as it were, another calculator to
cast up the guineas found in teapots, chimneys, racks and mangers,
and other such banks of deposit, seemed greatly to heighten Mr
Boffin's enjoyment; while Silas Wegg, for his part, though of a
jealous temperament which might under ordinary circumstances
have resented the anatomist's getting into favour, was so very
anxious to keep his eye on that gentleman--lest, being too much
left to himself, he should be tempted to play any tricks with the
precious document in his keeping--that he never lost an
opportunity of commending him to Mr Boffin's notice as a third
party whose company was much to be desired. Another friendly
demonstration towards him Mr Wegg now regularly gratified.
After each sitting was over, and the patron had departed, Mr Wegg
invariably saw Mr Venus home. To be sure, he as invariably
requested to be refreshed with a sight of the paper in which he was
a joint proprietor; but he never failed to remark that it was the great
pleasure he derived from Mr Venus's improving society which had
insensibly lured him round to Clerkenwell again, and that, finding
himself once more attracted to the spot by the social powers of Mr
V., he would beg leave to go through that little incidental
procedure, as a matter of form. 'For well I know, sir,' Mr Wegg
would add, 'that a man of your delicate mind would wish to be
checked off whenever the opportunity arises, and it is not for me to
baulk your feelings.'
A certain rustiness in Mr Venus, which never became so
lubricated by the oil of Mr Wegg but that he turned under the
screw in a creaking and stiff manner, was very noticeable at about
this period. While assisting at the literary evenings, he even went
so far, on two or three occasions, as to correct Mr Wegg when he
grossly mispronounced a word, or made nonsense of a passage;
insomuch that Mr Wegg took to surveying his course in the day,
and to making arrangements for getting round rocks at night
instead of running straight upon them. Of the slightest anatomical
reference he became particularly shy, and, if he saw a bone ahead,
would go any distance out of his way rather than mention it by
name.
The adverse destinies ordained that one evening Mr Wegg's
labouring bark became beset by polysyllables, and embarrassed
among a perfect archipelago of hard words. It being necessary to
take soundings every minute, and to feel the way with the greatest
caution, Mr Wegg's attention was fully employed. Advantage was
taken of this dilemma by Mr Venus, to pass a scrap of paper into
Mr Boffin's hand, and lay his finger on his own lip.
When Mr Boffin got home at night he found that the paper
contained Mr Venus's card and these words: 'Should be glad to be
honoured with a call respecting business of your own, about dusk
on an early evening.'
The very next evening saw Mr Boffin peeping in at the preserved
frogs in Mr Venus's shop-window, and saw Mr Venus espying Mr
Boffin with the readiness of one on the alert, and beckoning that
gentleman into his interior. Responding, Mr Boffin was invited to
seat himself on the box of human miscellanies before the fire, and
did so, looking round the place with admiring eyes. The fire being
low and fitful, and the dusk gloomy, the whole stock seemed to be
winking and blinking with both eyes, as Mr Venus did. The
French gentleman, though he had no eyes, was not at all behindhand,
but appeared, as the flame rose and fell, to open and shut his
no eyes, with the regularity of the glass-eyed dogs and ducks and
birds. The big-headed babies were equally obliging in lending
their grotesque aid to the general effect.
'You see, Mr Venus, I've lost no time,' said Mr Boffin. 'Here I am.'
'Here you are, sir,' assented Mr Venus.
'I don't like secrecy,' pursued Mr Boffin--'at least, not in a general
way I don't--but I dare say you'll show me good reason for being
secret so far.'
'I think I shall, sir,' returned Venus.
'Good,' said Mr Boffin. 'You don't expect Wegg, I take it for
granted?'
'No, sir. I expect no one but the present company.'
Mr Boffin glanced about him, as accepting under that inclusive
denomination the French gentleman and the circle in which he
didn't move, and repeated, 'The present company.'
'Sir,' said Mr Venus, 'before entering upon business, I shall have to
ask you for your word and honour that we are in confidence.'
'Let's wait a bit and understand what the expression means,'
answered Mr Boffin. 'In confidence for how long? In confidence
for ever and a day?'
'I take your hint, sir,' said Venus; 'you think you might consider
the business, when you came to know it, to be of a nature
incompatible with confidence on your part?'
'I might,' said Mr Boffin with a cautious look.
'True, sir. Well, sir,' observed Venus, after clutching at his dusty
hair, to brighten his ideas, 'let us put it another way. I open the
business with you, relying upon your honour not to do anything in
it, and not to mention me in it, without my knowledge.'
'That sounds fair,' said Mr Boffin. 'I agree to that.'
'I have your word and honour, sir?'
'My good fellow,' retorted Mr Boffin, 'you have my word; and how
you can have that, without my honour too, I don't know. I've
sorted a lot of dust in my time, but I never knew the two things go
into separate heaps.'
This remark seemed rather to abash Mr Venus. He hesitated, and
said, 'Very true, sir;' and again, 'Very true, sir,' before resuming the
thread of his discourse.
'Mr Boffin, if I confess to you that I fell into a proposal of which
you were the subject, and of which you oughtn't to have been the
subject, you will allow me to mention, and will please take into
favourable consideration, that I was in a crushed state of mind at
the time.'
The Golden Dustman, with his hands folded on the top of his stout
stick, with his chin resting upon them, and with something leering
and whimsical in his eyes, gave a nod, and said, 'Quite so, Venus.'
'That proposal, sir, was a conspiring breach of your confidence, to
such an extent, that I ought at once to have made it known to you.
But I didn't, Mr Boffin, and I fell into it.'
Without moving eye or finger, Mr Boffin gave another nod, and
placidly repeated, 'Quite so, Venus.'
'Not that I was ever hearty in it, sir,' the penitent anatomist went
on, 'or that I ever viewed myself with anything but reproach for
having turned out of the paths of science into the paths of--' he was
going to say 'villany,' but, unwilling to press too hard upon
himself, substituted with great emphasis--'Weggery.'
Placid and whimsical of look as ever, Mr Boffin answered:
'Quite so, Venus.'
'And now, sir,' said Venus, 'having prepared your mind in the
rough, I will articulate the details.' With which brief professional
exordium, he entered on the history of the friendly move, and truly
recounted it. One might have thought that it would have extracted
some show of surprise or anger, or other emotion, from Mr Boffin,
but it extracted nothing beyond his former comment:
'Quite so, Venus.'
'I have astonished you, sir, I believe?' said Mr Venus, pausing
dubiously.
Mr Boffin simply answered as aforesaid: 'Quite so, Venus.'
By this time the astonishment was all on the other side. It did not,
however, so continue. For, when Venus passed to Wegg's
discovery, and from that to their having both seen Mr Boffin dig up
the Dutch bottle, that gentleman changed colour, changed his
attitude, became extremely restless, and ended (when Venus
ended) by being in a state of manifest anxiety, trepidation, and
confusion.
'Now, sir,' said Venus, finishing off; 'you best know what was in
that Dutch bottle, and why you dug it up, and took it away. I don't
pretend to know anything more about it than I saw. All I know is
this: I am proud of my calling after all (though it has been attended
by one dreadful drawback which has told upon my heart, and
almost equally upon my skeleton), and I mean to live by my
calling. Putting the same meaning into other words, I do not mean
to turn a single dishonest penny by this affair. As the best amends
I can make you for having ever gone into it, I make known to you,
as a warning, what Wegg has found out. My opinion is, that
Wegg is not to be silenced at a modest price, and I build that
opinion on his beginning to dispose of your property the moment
he knew his power. Whether it's worth your while to silence him
at any price, you will decide for yourself, and take your measures
accordingly. As far as I am concerned, I have no price. If I am
ever called upon for the truth, I tell it, but I want to do no more
than I have now done and ended.'
'Thank'ee, Venus!' said Mr Boffin, with a hearty grip of his hand;
'thank'ee, Venus, thank'ee, Venus!' And then walked up and down
the little shop in great agitation. 'But look here, Venus,' he byand-
by resumed, nervously sitting down again; 'if I have to buy
Wegg up, I shan't buy him any cheaper for your being out of it.
Instead of his having half the money--it was to have been half, I
suppose? Share and share alike?'
'It was to have been half, sir,' answered Venus.
'Instead of that, he'll now have all. I shall pay the same, if not
more. For you tell me he's an unconscionable dog, a ravenous
rascal.'
'He is,' said Venus.
'Don't you think, Venus,' insinuated Mr Boffin, after looking at the
fire for a while--'don't you feel as if--you might like to pretend to be
in it till Wegg was bought up, and then ease your mind by handing
over to me what you had made believe to pocket?'
'No I don't, sir,' returned Venus, very positively.
'Not to make amends?' insinuated Mr Boffin.
'No, sir. It seems to me, after maturely thinking it over, that the
best amends for having got out of the square is to get back into the
square.'
'Humph!' mused Mr Boffin. 'When you say the square, you mean--'
'I mean,' said Venus, stoutly and shortly, 'the right.'
'It appears to me,' said Mr Boffin, grumbling over the fire in an
injured manner, 'that the right is with me, if it's anywhere. I have
much more right to the old man's money than the Crown can ever
have. What was the Crown to him except the King's Taxes?
Whereas, me and my wife, we was all in all to him.'
Mr Venus, with his head upon his hands, rendered melancholy by
the contemplation of Mr Boffin's avarice, only murmured to steep
himself in the luxury of that frame of mind: 'She did not wish so to
regard herself, nor yet to be so regarded.'
'And how am I to live,' asked Mr Boffin, piteously, 'if I'm to be
going buying fellows up out of the little that I've got? And how am
I to set about it? When am I to get my money ready? When am I
to make a bid? You haven't told me when he threatens to drop
down upon me.'
Venus explained under what conditions, and with what views, the
dropping down upon Mr Boffin was held over until the Mounds
should be cleared away. Mr Boffin listened attentively. 'I
suppose,' said he, with a gleam of hope, 'there's no doubt about the
genuineness and date of this confounded will?'
'None whatever,' said Mr Venus.
'Where might it be deposited at present?' asked Mr Boffin, in a
wheedling tone.
'It's in my possession, sir.'
'Is it?' he cried, with great eagerness. 'Now, for any liberal sum of
money that could be agreed upon, Venus, would you put it in the
fire?'
'No, sir, I wouldn't,' interrupted Mr Venus.
'Nor pass it over to me?'
'That would be the same thing. No, sir,' said Mr Venus.
The Golden Dustman seemed about to pursue these questions,
when a stumping noise was heard outside, coming towards the
door. 'Hush! here's Wegg!' said Venus. 'Get behind the young
alligator in the corner, Mr Boffin, and judge him for yourself. I
won't light a candle till he's gone; there'll only be the glow of the
fire; Wegg's well acquainted with the alligator, and he won't take
particular notice of him. Draw your legs in, Mr Boffin, at present I
see a pair of shoes at the end of his tail. Get your head well behind
his smile, Mr Boffin, and you'll lie comfortable there; you'll find
plenty of room behind his smile. He's a little dusty, but he's very
like you in tone. Are you right, sir?'
Mr Boffin had but whispered an affirmative response, when
Wegg came stumping in. 'Partner,' said that gentleman in a
sprightly manner, 'how's yourself?'
'Tolerable,' returned Mr Venus. 'Not much to boast of.'
'In-deed!' said Wegg: 'sorry, partner, that you're not picking up
faster, but your soul's too large for your body, sir; that's where it is.
And how's our stock in trade, partner? Safe bind, safe find,
partner? Is that about it?'
'Do you wish to see it?' asked Venus.
'If you please, partner,' said Wegg, rubbing his hands. 'I wish to
see it jintly with yourself. Or, in similar words to some that was
set to music some time back:
"I wish you to see it with your eyes,
And I will pledge with mine."'
Turning his back and turning a key, Mr Venus produced the
document, holding on by his usual corner. Mr Wegg, holding on
by the opposite corner, sat down on the seat so lately vacated by
Mr Boffin, and looked it over. 'All right, sir,' he slowly and
unwillingly admitted, in his reluctance to loose his hold, 'all right!'
And greedily watched his partner as he turned his back again, and
turned his key again.
'There's nothing new, I suppose?' said Venus, resuming his low
chair behind the counter.
'Yes there is, sir,' replied Wegg; 'there was something new this
morning. That foxey old grasper and griper--'
'Mr Boffin?' inquired Venus, with a glance towards the alligator's
yard or two of smile.
'Mister be blowed!' cried Wegg, yielding to his honest indignation.
'Boffin. Dusty Boffin. That foxey old grunter and grinder, sir,
turns into the yard this morning, to meddle with our property, a
menial tool of his own, a young man by the name of Sloppy. Ecod,
when I say to him, "What do you want here, young man? This is a
private yard," he pulls out a paper from Boffin's other blackguard,
the one I was passed over for. "This is to authorize Sloppy to
overlook the carting and to watch the work." That's pretty strong, I
think, Mr Venus?'
'Remember he doesn't know yet of our claim on the property,'
suggested Venus.
'Then he must have a hint of it,' said Wegg, 'and a strong one that'll
jog his terrors a bit. Give him an inch, and he'll take an ell. Let
him alone this time, and what'll he do with our property next? I
tell you what, Mr Venus; it comes to this; I must be overbearing
with Boffin, or I shall fly into several pieces. I can't contain myself
when I look at him. Every time I see him putting his hand in his
pocket, I see him putting it into my pocket. Every time I hear him
jingling his money, I hear him taking liberties with my money.
Flesh and blood can't bear it. No,' said Mr Wegg, greatly
exasperated, 'and I'll go further. A wooden leg can't bear it!'
'But, Mr Wegg,' urged Venus, 'it was your own idea that he should
not be exploded upon, till the Mounds were carted away.'
'But it was likewise my idea, Mr Venus,' retorted Wegg, 'that if he
came sneaking and sniffing about the property, he should be
threatened, given to understand that he has no right to it, and be
made our slave. Wasn't that my idea, Mr Venus?'
'It certainly was, Mr Wegg.'
'It certainly was, as you say, partner,' assented Wegg, put into a
better humour by the ready admission. 'Very well. I consider his
planting one of his menial tools in the yard, an act of sneaking and
sniffing. And his nose shall be put to the grindstone for it.'
'It was not your fault, Mr Wegg, I must admit,' said Venus, 'that he
got off with the Dutch bottle that night.'
'As you handsomely say again, partner! No, it was not my fault.
I'd have had that bottle out of him. Was it to be borne that he
should come, like a thief in the dark, digging among stuff that was
far more ours than his (seeing that we could deprive him of every
grain of it, if he didn't buy us at our own figure), and carrying off
treasure from its bowels? No, it was not to be borne. And for that,
too, his nose shall be put to the grindstone.'
'How do you propose to do it, Mr Wegg?'
'To put his nose to the grindstone? I propose,' returned that
estimable man, 'to insult him openly. And, if looking into this eye
of mine, he dares to offer a word in answer, to retort upon him
before he can take his breath, "Add another word to that, you dusty
old dog, and you're a beggar."'
'Suppose he says nothing, Mr Wegg?'
'Then,' replied Wegg, 'we shall have come to an understanding
with very little trouble, and I'll break him and drive him, Mr
Venus. I'll put him in harness, and I'll bear him up tight, and I'll
break him and drive him. The harder the old Dust is driven, sir,
the higher he'll pay. And I mean to be paid high, Mr Venus, I
promise you.'
'You speak quite revengefully, Mr Wegg.'
'Revengefully, sir? Is it for him that I have declined and falled,
night after night? Is it for his pleasure that I've waited at home of
an evening, like a set of skittles, to be set up and knocked over, set
up and knocked over, by whatever balls--or books--he chose to
bring against me? Why, I'm a hundred times the man he is, sir;
five hundred times!'
Perhaps it was with the malicious intent of urging him on to his
worst that Mr Venus looked as if he doubted that.
'What? Was it outside the house at present ockypied, to its
disgrace, by that minion of fortune and worm of the hour,' said
Wegg, falling back upon his strongest terms of reprobation, and
slapping the counter, 'that I, Silas Wegg, five hundred times the
man he ever was, sat in all weathers, waiting for a errand or a
customer? Was it outside that very house as I first set eyes upon
him, rolling in the lap of luxury, when I was selling halfpenny
ballads there for a living? And am I to grovel in the dust for HIM
to walk over? No!'
There was a grin upon the ghastly countenance of the French
gentleman under the influence of the firelight, as if he were
computing how many thousand slanderers and traitors array
themselves against the fortunate, on premises exactly answering
to those of Mr Wegg. One might have fancied that the big-headed
babies were toppling over with their hydrocephalic attempts to
reckon up the children of men who transform their benefactors into
their injurers by the same process. The yard or two of smile on the
part of the alligator might have been invested with the meaning,
'All about this was quite familiar knowledge down in the depths of
the slime, ages ago.'
'But,' said Wegg, possibly with some slight perception to the
foregoing effect, 'your speaking countenance remarks, Mr Venus,
that I'm duller and savager than usual. Perhaps I HAVE allowed
myself to brood too much. Begone, dull Care! 'Tis gone, sir. I've
looked in upon you, and empire resumes her sway. For, as the
song says--subject to your correction, sir--
"When the heart of a man is depressed with cares,
The mist is dispelled if Venus appears.
Like the notes of a fiddle, you sweetly, sir, sweetly,
Raises our spirits and charms our ears."
Good-night, sir.'
'I shall have a word or two to say to you, Mr Wegg, before long,'
remarked Venus, 'respecting my share in the project we've been
speaking of.'
'My time, sir,' returned Wegg, 'is yours. In the meanwhile let it be
fully understood that I shall not neglect bringing the grindstone to
bear, nor yet bringing Dusty Boffin's nose to it. His nose once
brought to it, shall be held to it by these hands, Mr Venus, till the
sparks flies out in showers.'
With this agreeable promise Wegg stumped out, and shut the
shop-door after him. 'Wait till I light a candle, Mr Boffin,' said
Venus, 'and you'll come out more comfortable.' So, he lighting a
candle and holding it up at arm's length, Mr Boffin disengaged
himself from behind the alligator's smile, with an expression of
countenance so very downcast that it not only appeared as if the
alligator had the whole of the joke to himself, but further as if it
had been conceived and executed at Mr Boffin's expense.
'That's a treacherous fellow,' said Mr Boffin, dusting his arms and
legs as he came forth, the alligator having been but musty
company. 'That's a dreadful fellow.'
'The alligator, sir?' said Venus.
'No, Venus, no. The Serpent.'
'You'll have the goodness to notice, Mr Boffin,' remarked Venus,
'that I said nothing to him about my going out of the affair
altogether, because I didn't wish to take you anyways by surprise.
But I can't be too soon out of it for my satisfaction, Mr Boffin, and
I now put it to you when it will suit your views for me to retire?'
'Thank'ee, Venus, thank'ee, Venus; but I don't know what to say,'
returned Mr Boflin, 'I don't know what to do. He'll drop down on
me any way. He seems fully determined to drop down; don't he?'
Mr Venus opined that such was clearly his intention.
'You might be a sort of protection for me, if you remained in it,'
said Mr Boffin; 'you might stand betwixt him and me, and take the
edge off him. Don't you feel as if you could make a show of
remaining in it, Venus, till I had time to turn myself round?'
Venus naturally inquired how long Mr Boffin thought it might take
him to turn himself round?
'I am sure I don't know,' was the answer, given quite at a loss.
'Everything is so at sixes and sevens. If I had never come into the
property, I shouldn't have minded. But being in it, it would be very
trying to be turned out; now, don't you acknowledge that it would,
Venus?'
Mr Venus preferred, he said, to leave Mr Boffin to arrive at his
own conclusions on that delicate question.
'I am sure I don't know what to do,' said Mr Boffin. 'If I ask
advice of any one else, it's only letting in another person to be
bought out, and then I shall be ruined that way, and might as well
have given up the property and gone slap to the workhouse. If I
was to take advice of my young man, Rokesmith, I should have to
buy HIM out. Sooner or later, of course, he'd drop down upon me,
like Wegg. I was brought into the world to be dropped down
upon, it appears to me.'
Mr Venus listened to these lamentations in silence, while Mr
Boffin jogged to and fro, holding his pockets as if he had a pain in
them.
'After all, you haven't said what you mean to do yourself, Venus.
When you do go out of it, how do you mean to go?'
Venus replied that as Wegg had found the document and handed it
to him, it was his intention to hand it back to Wegg, with the
declaration that he himself would have nothing to say to it, or do
with it, and that Wegg must act as he chose, and take the
consequences.
'And then he drops down with his whole weight upon ME!' cried
Mr Boffin, ruefully. 'I'd sooner be dropped upon by you than by
him, or even by you jintly, than by him alone!'
Mr Venus could only repeat that it was his fixed intention to
betake himself to the paths of science, and to walk in the same all
the days of his life; not dropping down upon his fellow-creatures
until they were deceased, and then only to articulate them to the
best of his humble ability.
'How long could you be persuaded to keep up the appearance of
remaining in it?' asked Mr Boffin, retiring on his other idea.
'Could you be got to do so, till the Mounds are gone?'
No. That would protract themental uneasiness of Mr Venus too
long, he said.
'Not if I was to show you reason now?' demanded Mr Boffin; 'not if
I was to show you good and sufficient reason?'
If by good and sufficient reason Mr Boffin meant honest and
unimpeachable reason, that might weigh with Mr Venus against
his personal wishes and convenience. But he must add that he saw
no opening to the possibility of such reason being shown him.
'Come and see me, Venus,' said Mr Boffin, 'at my house.'
'Is the reason there, sir?' asked Mr Venus, with an incredulous
smile and blink.
'It may be, or may not be,' said Mr Boffin, 'just as you view it. But
in the meantime don't go out of the matter. Look here. Do this.
Give me your word that you won't take any steps with Wegg,
without my knowledge, just as I have given you my word that I
won't without yours.'
'Done, Mr Boffin!' said Venus, after brief consideration.
'Thank'ee, Venus, thank'ee, Venus! Done!'
'When shall I come to see you, Mr Boffin.'
'When you like. The sooner the better. I must be going now.
Good-night, Venus.'
'Good-night, sir.'
'And good-night to the rest of the present company,' said Mr
Boffin, glancing round the shop. 'They make a queer show, Venus,
and I should like to be better acquainted with them some day.
Good-night, Venus, good-night! Thankee, Venus, thankee,
Venus!' With that he jogged out into the street, and jogged upon
his homeward way.
'Now, I wonder,' he meditated as he went along, nursing his stick,
'whether it can be, that Venus is setting himself to get the better of
Wegg? Whether it can be, that he means, when I have bought
Wegg out, to have me all to himself and to pick me clean to the
bones!'
It was a cunning and suspicious idea, quite in the way of his
school of Misers, and he looked very cunning and suspicious as he
went jogging through the streets. More than once or twice, more
than twice or thrice, say half a dozen times, he took his stick from
the arm on which he nursed it, and hit a straight sharp rap at the
air with its head. Possibly the wooden countenance of Mr Silas
Wegg was incorporeally before him at those moments, for he hit
with intense satisfaction.
He was within a few streets of his own house, when a little private
carriage, coming in the contrary direction, passed him, turned
round, and passed him again. It was a little carriage of eccentric
movement, for again he heard it stop behind him and turn round,
and again he saw it pass him. Then it stopped, and then went on,
out of sight. But, not far out of sight, for, when he came to the
corner of his own street, there it stood again.
There was a lady's face at the window as he came up with this
carriage, and he was passing it when the lady softly called to him
by his name.
'I beg your pardon, Ma'am?' said Mr Boffin, coming to a stop.
'It is Mrs Lammle,' said the lady.
Mr Boffin went up to the window, and hoped Mrs Lammle was
well.
'Not very well, dear Mr Boffin; I have fluttered myself by being--
perhaps foolishly--uneasy and anxious. I have been waiting for
you some time. Can I speak to you?'
Mr Boffin proposed that Mrs Lammle should drive on to his house,
a few hundred yards further.
'I would rather not, Mr Boffin, unless you particularly wish it. I
feel the difficulty and delicacy of the matter so much that I would
rather avoid speaking to you at your own home. You must think
this very strange?'
Mr Boffin said no, but meant yes.
'It is because I am so grateful for the good opinion of all my
friends, and am so touched by it, that I cannot bear to run the risk
of forfeiting it in any case, even in the cause of duty. I have asked
my husband (my dear Alfred, Mr Boffin) whether it is the cause of
duty, and he has most emphatically said Yes. I wish I had asked
him sooner. It would have spared me much distress.'
('Can this be more dropping down upon me!' thought Mr Boffin,
quite bewildered.)
'It was Alfred who sent me to you, Mr Boffin. Alfred said, "Don't
come back, Sophronia, until you have seen Mr Boffin, and told him
all. Whatever he may think of it, he ought certainly to know it."
Would you mind coming into the carriage?'
Mr Boffin answered, 'Not at all,' and took his seat at Mrs Lammle's
side.
'Drive slowly anywhere,' Mrs Lammle called to her coachman, 'and
don't let the carriage rattle.'
'It MUST he more dropping down, I think,' said Mr Boffin to
himself. 'What next?'
Chapter 15
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN AT HIS WORST
The breakfast table at Mr Boffin's was usually a very pleasant one,
and was always presided over by Bella. As though he began each
new day in his healthy natural character, and some waking hours
were necessary to his relapse into the corrupting influences of his
wealth, the face and the demeanour of the Golden Dustman were
generally unclouded at that meal. It would have been easy to
believe then, that there was no change in him. It was as the day
went on that the clouds gathered, and the brightness of the
mornmg became obscured. One might have said that the shadows
of avarice and distrust lengthened as his own shadow lengthened,
and that the night closed around him gradually.
But, one morning long afterwards to be remembered, it was black
midnight with the Golden Dustman when he first appeared. His
altered character had never been so grossly marked. His bearing
towards his Secretary was so charged with insolent distrust and
arrogance, that the latter rose and left the table before breakfast
was half done. The look he directed at the Secretary's retiring
figure was so cunningly malignant, that Bella would have sat
astounded and indignant, even though he had not gone the length
of secretly threatening Rokesmith with his clenched fist as he
closed the door. This unlucky morning, of all mornings in the year,
was the morning next after Mr Boffin's interview with Mrs
Lammle in her little carriage.
Bella looked to Mrs Boffin's face for comment on, or explanation
of, this stormy humour in her husband, but none was there. An
anxious and a distressed observation of her own face was all she
could read in it. When they were left alone together--which was
not until noon, for Mr Boffin sat long in his easy-chair, by turns
jogging up and down the breakfast-room, clenching his fist and
muttering--Bella, in consternation, asked her what had happened,
what was wrong? 'I am forbidden to speak to you about it, Bella
dear; I mustn't tell you,' was all the answer she could get. And
still, whenever, in her wonder and dismay, she raised her eyes to
Mrs Boffin's face, she saw in it the same anxious and distressed
observation of her own.
Oppressed by her sense that trouble was impending, and lost in
speculations why Mrs Boffin should look at her as if she had any
part in it, Bella found the day long and dreary. It was far on in the
afternoon when, she being in her own room, a servant brought her
a message from Mr Boffin begging her to come to his.
Mrs Boffin was there, seated on a sofa, and Mr Boffin was jogging
up and down. On seeing Bella he stopped, beckoned her to him,
and drew her arm through his. 'Don't be alarmed, my dear,' he
said, gently; 'I am not angry with you. Why you actually tremble!
Don't be alarmed, Bella my dear. I'll see you righted.'
'See me righted?' thought Bella. And then repeated aloud in a tone
of astonishment: 'see me righted, sir?'
'Ay, ay!' said Mr Boffin. 'See you righted. Send Mr Rokesmith
here, you sir.'
Bella would have been lost in perplexity if there had been pause
enough; but the servant found Mr Rokesmith near at hand, and he
almost immediately presented himself.
'Shut the door, sir!' said Mr Boffin. 'I have got something to say to
you which I fancy you'll not be pleased to hear.'
'I am sorry to reply, Mr Boffin,' returned the Secretary, as, having
closed the door, he turned and faced him, 'that I think that very
likely.'
'What do you mean?' blustered Mr Boffin.
'I mean that it has become no novelty to me to hear from your lips
what I would rather not hear.'
'Oh! Perhaps we shall change that,' said Mr Boffin with a
threatening roll of his head.
'I hope so,' returned the Secretary. He was quiet and respectful;
but stood, as Bella thought (and was glad to think), on his
manhood too.
'Now, sir,' said Mr Boffin, 'look at this young lady on my arm.
Bella involuntarily raising her eyes, when this sudden reference
was made to herself, met those of Mr Rokesmith. He was pale
and seemed agitated. Then her eyes passed on to Mrs Boffin's, and
she met the look again. In a flash it enlightened her, and she
began to understand what she had done.
'I say to you, sir,' Mr Boffin repeated, 'look at this young lady on
my arm.
'I do so,' returned the Secretary.
As his glance rested again on Bella for a moment, she thought
there was reproach in it. But it is possible that the reproach was
within herself.
'How dare you, sir,' said Mr Boffin, 'tamper, unknown to me, with
this young lady? How dare you come out of your station, and your
place in my house, to pester this young lady with your impudent
addresses?'
'I must decline to answer questions,' said the Secretary, 'that are
so offensively asked.'
'You decline to answer?' retorted Mr Boffin. 'You decline to
answer, do you? Then I'll tell you what it is, Rokesmith; I'll
answer for you. There are two sides to this matter, and I'll take 'em
separately. The first side is, sheer Insolence. That's the first side.'
The Secretary smiled with some bitterness, as though he would
have said, 'So I see and hear.'
'It was sheer Insolence in you, I tell you,' said Mr Boffin, 'even to
think of this young lady. This young lady was far above YOU.
This young lady was no match for YOU. This young lady was
lying in wait (as she was qualified to do) for money, and you had
no money.'
Bella hung her head and seemed to shrink a little from Mr Boffin's
protecting arm.
'What are you, I should like to know,' pursued Mr Boffin, 'that you
were to have the audacity to follow up this young lady? This
young lady was looking about the market for a good bid; she
wasn't in it to be snapped up by fellows that had no money to lay
out; nothing to buy with.'
'Oh, Mr Boffin! Mrs Boffin, pray say something for me!'
murmured Bella, disengaging her arm, and covering her face with
her hands.
'Old lady,' said Mr Boflin, anticipating his wife, 'you hold your
tongue. Bella, my dear, don't you let yourself be put out. I'll right
you.'
'But you don't, you don't right me!' exclaimed Bella, with great
emphasis. 'You wrong me, wrong me!'
'Don't you be put out, my dear,' complacently retorted Mr Boffin.
'I'll bring this young man to book. Now, you Rokesmith! You
can't decline to hear, you know, as well as to answer. You hear me
tell you that the first side of your conduct was Insolence--Insolence
and Presumption. Answer me one thing, if you can. Didn't this
young lady tell you so herself?'
'Did I, Mr Rokesmith?' asked Bella with her face still covered. 'O
say, Mr Rokesmith! Did I?'
'Don't be distressed, Miss Wilfer; it matters very little now.'
'Ah! You can't deny it, though!' said Mr Boffin, with a knowing
shake of his head.
'But I have asked him to forgive me since,' cried Bella; 'and I
would ask him to forgive me now again, upon my knees, if it
would spare him!'
Here Mrs Boffin broke out a-crying.
'Old lady,' said Mr Boffin, 'stop that noise! Tender-hearted in
you, Miss Bella; but I mean to have it out right through with this
young man, having got him into a corner. Now, you Rokesmith. I
tell you that's one side of your conduct--Insolence and
Presumption. Now, I'm a-coming to the other, which is much
worse. This was a speculation of yours.'
'I indignantly deny it.'
'It's of no use your denying it; it doesn't signify a bit whether you
deny it or not; I've got a head upon my shoulders, and it ain't a
baby's. What!' said Mr Boffin, gathering himself together in his
most suspicious attitude, and wrinkling his face into a very map of
curves and corners. 'Don't I know what grabs are made at a man
with money? If I didn't keep my eyes open, and my pockets
buttoned, shouldn't I be brought to the workhouse before I knew
where I was? Wasn't the experience of Dancer, and Elwes, and
Hopkins, and Blewbury Jones, and ever so many more of 'em,
similar to mine? Didn't everybody want to make grabs at what
they'd got, and bring 'em to poverty and ruin? Weren't they forced
to hide everything belonging to 'em, for fear it should be snatched
from 'em? Of course they was. I shall be told next that they didn't
know human natur!'
'They! Poor creatures,' murmured the Secretary.
'What do you say?' asked Mr Boffin, snapping at him. 'However,
you needn't be at the trouble of repeating it, for it ain't worth
hearing, and won't go down with ME. I'm a-going to unfold your
plan, before this young lady; I'm a-going to show this young lady
the second view of you; and nothing you can say will stave it off.
(Now, attend here, Bella, my dear.) Rokesmith, you're a needy
chap. You're a chap that I pick up in the street. Are you, or ain't
you?'
'Go on, Mr Boflin; don't appeal to me.'
'Not appeal to YOU,' retorted Mr Boffin as if he hadn't done so.
'No, I should hope not! Appealing to YOU, would be rather a rum
course. As I was saying, you're a needy chap that I pick up in the
street. You come and ask me in the street to take you for a
Secretary, and I take you. Very good.'
'Very bad,' murmured the Secretary.
'What do you say?' asked Mr Boffin, snapping at him again.
He returned no answer. Mr Boffin, after eyeing him with a
comical look of discomfited curiosity, was fain to begin afresh.
'This Rokesmith is a needy young man that I take for my Secretary
out of the open street. This Rokesmith gets acquainted with my
affairs, and gets to know that I mean to settle a sum of money on
this young lady. "Oho!" says this Rokesmith;' here Mr Boffin
clapped a finger against his nose, and tapped it several times with
a sneaking air, as embodying Rokesmith confidentially
confabulating with his own nose; '"This will be a good haul; I'll go
in for this!" And so this Rokesmith, greedy and hungering, begins
a-creeping on his hands and knees towards the money. Not so bad
a speculation either: for if this young lady had had less spirit, or
had had less sense, through being at all in the romantic line, by
George he might have worked it out and made it pay! But
fortunately she was too many for him, and a pretty figure he cuts
now he is exposed. There he stands!' said Mr Boffin, addressing
Rokesmith himself with ridiculous inconsistency. 'Look at him!'
'Your unfortunate suspicions, Mr Boffin--' began the Secretary.
'Precious unfortunate for you, I can tell you,' said Mr Boffin.
'--are not to be combated by any one, and I address myself to no
such hopeless task. But I will say a word upon the truth.'
'Yah! Much you care about the truth,' said Mr Boffin, with a snap
of his fingers.
'Noddy! My dear love!' expostulated his wife.
'Old lady,' returned Mr Boffin, 'you keep still. I say to this
Rokesmith here, much he cares about the truth. I tell him again,
much he cares about the truth.'
'Our connexion being at an end, Mr Boffin,' said the Secretary, 'it
can be of very little moment to me what you say.'
'Oh! You are knowing enough,' retorted Mr Boffin, with a sly
look, 'to have found out that our connexion's at an end, eh? But
you can't get beforehand with me. Look at this in my hand. This
is your pay, on your discharge. You can only follow suit. You
can't deprive me of the lead. Let's have no pretending that you
discharge yourself. I discharge you.'
'So that I go,' remarked the Secretary, waving the point aside with
his hand, 'it is all one to me.'
'Is it?' said Mr Boffin. 'But it's two to me, let me tell you.
Allowing a fellow that's found out, to discharge himself, is one
thing; discharging him for insolence and presumption, and
likewise for designs upon his master's money, is another. One and
one's two; not one. (Old lady, don't you cut in. You keep still.)'
'Have you said all you wish to say to me?' demanded the Secretary.
'I don't know whether I have or not,' answered Mr Boffin. 'It
depends.'
'Perhaps you will consider whether there are any other strong
expressions that you would like to bestow upon me?'
'I'll consider that,' said Mr Boffin, obstinately, 'at my convenience,
and not at yours. You want the last word. It may not be suitable
to let you have it.'
'Noddy! My dear, dear Noddy! You sound so hard!' cried poor
Mrs Boffin, not to be quite repressed.
'Old lady,' said her husband, but without harshness, 'if you cut in
when requested not, I'll get a pillow and carry you out of the room
upon it. What do you want to say, you Rokesmith?'
'To you, Mr Boffin, nothing. But to Miss Wilfer and to your good
kind wife, a word.'
'Out with it then,' replied Mr Boffin, 'and cut it short, for we've
had enough of you.'
'I have borne,' said the Secretary, in a low voice, 'with my false
position here, that I might not be separated from Miss Wilfer. To
be near her, has been a recompense to me from day to day, even for
the undeserved treatment I have had here, and for the degraded
aspect in which she has often seen me. Since Miss Wilfer rejected
me, I have never again urged my suit, to the best of my belief, with
a spoken syllable or a look. But I have never changed in my
devotion to her, except--if she will forgive my saying so--that it is
deeper than it was, and better founded.'
'Now, mark this chap's saying Miss Wilfer, when he means L.s.d.!'
cried Mr Boffin, with a cunning wink. 'Now, mark this chap's
making Miss Wilfer stand for Pounds, Shillings, and Pence!'
'My feeling for Miss Wilfer,' pursued the Secretary, without
deigning to notice him, 'is not one to be ashamed of. I avow it. I
love her. Let me go where I may when I presently leave this house,
I shall go into a blank life, leaving her.'
'Leaving L.s.d. behind me,' said Mr Boffin, by way of commentary,
with another wink.
'That I am incapable,' the Secretary went on, still without heeding
him, 'of a mercenary project, or a mercenary thought, in connexion
with Miss Wilfer, is nothing meritorious in me, because any prize
that I could put before my fancy would sink into insignificance
beside her. If the greatest wealth or the highest rank were hers, it
would only be important in my sight as removing her still farther
from me, and making me more hopeless, if that could be. Say,'
remarked the Secretary, looking full at his late master, 'say that
with a word she could strip Mr Boffin of his fortune and take
possession of it, she would be of no greater worth in my eyes than
she is.'
'What do you think by this time, old lady,' asked Mr Boffin,
turning to his wife in a bantering tone, 'about this Rokesmith here,
and his caring for the truth? You needn't say what you think, my
dear, because I don't want you to cut in, but you can think it all the
same. As to taking possession of my property, I warrant you he
wouldn't do that himself if he could.'
'No,' returned the Secretary, with another full look.
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr Boffin. 'There's nothing like a good 'un
while you ARE about it.'
'I have been for a moment,' said the Secretary, turning from him
and falling into his former manner, 'diverted from the little I have
to say. My interest in Miss Wilfer began when I first saw her;
even began when I had only heard of her. It was, in fact, the cause
of my throwing myself in Mr Boffin's way, and entering his
service. Miss Wilfer has never known this until now. I mention it
now, only as a corroboration (though I hope it may be needless) of
my being free from the sordid design attributed to me.'
'Now, this is a very artful dog,' said Mr Boffin, with a deep look.
'This is a longer-headed schemer than I thought him. See how
patiently and methodically he goes to work. He gets to know about
me and my property, and about this young lady, and her share in
poor young John's story, and he puts this and that together, and he
says to himself, "I'll get in with Boffin, and I'll get in with this
young lady, and I'll work 'em both at the same time, and I'll bring
my pigs to market somewhere." I hear him say it, bless you! I
look at him, now, and I see him say it!'
Mr Boffin pointed at the culprit, as it were in the act, and hugged
himself in his great penetration.
'But luckily he hadn't to deal with the people he supposed, Bella,
my dear!' said Mr Boffin. 'No! Luckily he had to deal with you,
and with me, and with Daniel and Miss Dancer, and with Elwes,
and with Vulture Hopkins, and with Blewbury Jones and all the
rest of us, one down t'other come on. And he's beat; that's what he
is; regularly beat. He thought to squeeze money out of us, and he
has done for himself instead, Bella my dear!'
Bella my dear made no response, gave no sign of acquiescence.
When she had first covered her face she had sunk upon a chair
with her hands resting on the back of it, and had never moved
since. There was a short silence at this point, and Mrs Boffin
softly rose as if to go to her. But, Mr Boffin stopped her with a
gesture, and she obediently sat down again and stayed where she
was.
'There's your pay, Mister Rokesmith,' said the Golden Dustman,
jerking the folded scrap of paper he had in his hand, towards his
late Secretary. 'I dare say you can stoop to pick it up, after what
you have stooped to here.'
'I have stooped to nothing but this,' Rokesmith answered as he
took it from the ground; 'and this is mine, for I have earned it by
the hardest of hard labour.'
'You're a pretty quick packer, I hope,' said Mr Boffin; 'because the
sooner you are gone, bag and baggage, the better for all parties.'
'You need have no fear of my lingering.'
'There's just one thing though,' said Mr Boffin, 'that I should like to
ask you before we come to a good riddance, if it was only to show
this young lady how conceited you schemers are, in thinking that
nobody finds out how you contradict yourselves.'
'Ask me anything you wish to ask,' returned Rokesmith, 'but use
the expedition that you recommend.'
'You pretend to have a mighty admiration for this young lady?' said
Mr Boffin, laying his hand protectingly on Bella's head without
looking down at her.
'I do not pretend.'
'Oh! Well. You HAVE a mighty admiration for this young lady--
since you are so particular?'
'Yes.'
'How do you reconcile that, with this young lady's being a weakspirited,
improvident idiot, not knowing what was due to herself,
flinging up her money to the church-weathercocks, and racing off
at a splitting pace for the workhouse?'
'I don't understand you.'
'Don't you? Or won't you? What else could you have made this
young lady out to be, if she had listened to such addresses as
yours?'
'What else, if I had been so happy as to win her affections and
possess her heart?'
'Win her affections,' retorted Mr Boffin, with ineffable contempt,
'and possess her heart! Mew says the cat, Quack-quack says the
duck, Bow-wow-wow says the dog! Win her affections and
possess her heart! Mew, Quack-quack, Bow-wow!'
John Rokesmith stared at him in his outburst, as if with some faint
idea that he had gone mad.
'What is due to this young lady,' said Mr Boffin, 'is Money, and
this young lady right well knows it.'
'You slander the young lady.'
'YOU slander the young lady; you with your affections and hearts
and trumpery,' returned Mr Boffin. 'It's of a piece with the rest of
your behaviour. I heard of these doings of yours only last night, or
you should have heard of 'em from me, sooner, take your oath of it.
I heard of 'em from a lady with as good a headpiece as the best,
and she knows this young lady, and I know this young lady, and
we all three know that it's Money she makes a stand for--money,
money, money--and that you and your affections and hearts are a
Lie, sir!'
'Mrs Boffin,' said Rokesmith, quietly turning to her, 'for your
delicate and unvarying kindness I thank you with the warmest
gratitude. Good-bye! Miss Wilfer, good-bye!'
'And now, my dear,' said Mr Boffin, laying his hand on Bella's
head again, 'you may begin to make yourself quite comfortable,
and I hope you feel that you've been righted.'
But, Bella was so far from appearing to feel it, that she shrank
from his hand and from the chair, and, starting up in an incoherent
passion of tears, and stretching out her arms, cried, 'O Mr
Rokesmith, before you go, if you could but make me poor again!
O! Make me poor again, Somebody, I beg and pray, or my heart
will break if this goes on! Pa, dear, make me poor again and take
me home! I was bad enough there, but I have been so much worse
here. Don't give me money, Mr Boffin, I won't have money. Keep
it away from me, and only let me speak to good little Pa, and lay
my head upon his shoulder, and tell him all my griefs. Nobody
else can understand me, nobody else can comfort me, nobody else
knows how unworthy I am, and yet can love me like a little child.
I am better with Pa than any one--more innocent, more sorry, more
glad!' So, crying out in a wild way that she could not bear this,
Bella drooped her head on Mrs Boffin's ready breast.
John Rokesmith from his place in the room, and Mr Boffin from
his, looked on at her in silence until she was silent herself. Then
Mr Boffin observed in a soothing and comfortable tone, 'There, my
dear, there; you are righted now, and it's ALL right. I don't
wonder, I'm sure, at your being a little flurried by having a scene
with this fellow, but it's all over, my dear, and you're righted, and
it's--and it's ALL right!' Which Mr Boffin repeated with a highly
satisfied air of completeness and finality.
'I hate you!' cried Bella, turning suddenly upon him, with a stamp
of her little foot--'at least, I can't hate you, but I don't like you!'
'HUL--LO!' exclaimed Mr Boffin in an amazed under-tone.
'You're a scolding, unjust, abusive, aggravating, bad old creature!'
cried Bella. 'I am angry with my ungrateful self for calling you
names; but you are, you are; you know you are!'
Mr Boffin stared here, and stared there, as misdoubting that he
must be in some sort of fit.
'I have heard you with shame,' said Bella. 'With shame for myself,
and with shame for you. You ought to be above the base talebearing
of a time-serving woman; but you are above nothing now.'
Mr Boffin, seeming to become convinced that this was a fit, rolled
his eyes and loosened his neckcloth.
'When I came here, I respected you and honoured you, and I soon
loved you,' cried Bella. 'And now I can't bear the sight of you. At
least, I don't know that I ought to go so far as that--only you're a--
you're a Monster!' Having shot this bolt out with a great
expenditure of force, Bella hysterically laughed and cried together.
'The best wish I can wish you is,' said Bella, returning to the
charge, 'that you had not one single farthing in the world. If any
true friend and well-wisher could make you a bankrupt, you would
be a Duck; but as a man of property you are a Demon!'
After despatching this second bolt with a still greater expenditure
of force, Bella laughed and cried still more.
'Mr Rokesmith, pray stay one moment. Pray hear one word from
me before you go! I am deeply sorry for the reproaches you have
borne on my account. Out of the depths of my heart I earnestly and
truly beg your pardon.'
As she stepped towards him, he met her. As she gave him her
hand, he put it to his lips, and said, 'God bless you!' No laughing
was mixed with Bella's crying then; her tears were pure and
fervent.
'There is not an ungenerous word that I have heard addressed to
you--heard with scorn and indignation, Mr Rokesmith--but it has
wounded me far more than you, for I have deserved it, and you
never have. Mr Rokesmith, it is to me you owe this perverted
account of what passed between us that night. I parted with the
secret, even while I was angry with myself for doing so. It was
very bad in me, but indeed it was not wicked. I did it in a moment
of conceit and folly--one of my many such moments--one of my
many such hours--years. As I am punished for it severely, try to
forgive it!'
'I do with all my soul.'
'Thank you. O thank you! Don't part from me till I have said one
other word, to do you justice. The only fault you can be truly
charged with, in having spoken to me as you did that night--with
how much delicacy and how much forbearance no one but I can
know or be grateful to you for--is, that you laid yourself open to be
slighted by a worldly shallow girl whose head was turned, and
who was quite unable to rise to the worth of what you offered her.
Mr Rokesmith, that girl has often seen herself in a pitiful and poor
light since, but never in so pitiful and poor a light as now, when
the mean tone in which she answered you--sordid and vain girl that
she was--has been echoed in her ears by Mr Boffin.'
He kissed her hand again.
'Mr Boffin's speeches were detestable to me, shocking to me,' said
Bella, startling that gentleman with another stamp of her little foot.
'It is quite true that there was a time, and very lately, when I
deserved to be so "righted," Mr Rokesmith; but I hope that I shall
never deserve it again!'
He once more put her hand to his lips, and then relinquished it, and
left the room. Bella was hurrying back to the chair in which she
had hidden her face so long, when, catching sight of Mrs Boffin by
the way, she stopped at her. 'He is gone,' sobbed Bella indignantly,
despairingly, in fifty ways at once, with her arms round Mrs
Boffin's neck. 'He has been most shamefully abused, and most
unjustly and most basely driven away, and I am the cause of it!'
All this time, Mr Boffin had been rolling his eyes over his loosened
neckerchief, as if his fit were still upon him. Appearing now to
think that he was coming to, he stared straight before him for a
while, tied his neckerchief again, took several long inspirations,
swallowed several times, and ultimately exclaimed with a deep
sigh, as if he felt himself on the whole better: 'Well!'
No word, good or bad, did Mrs Boffin say; but she tenderly took
care of Bella, and glanced at her husband as if for orders. Mr
Boffin, without imparting any, took his seat on a chair over against
them, and there sat leaning forward, with a fixed countenance, his
legs apart, a hand on each knee, and his elbows squared, until
Bella should dry her eyes and raise her head, which in the fulness
of time she did.
'I must go home,' said Bella, rising hurriedly. 'I am very grateful
to you for all you have done for me, but I can't stay here.'
'My darling girl!' remonstrated Mrs Boffin.
'No, I can't stay here,' said Bella; 'I can't indeed.--Ugh! you vicious
old thing!' (This to Mr Boffin.)
'Don't be rash, my love,' urged Mrs Boffin. 'Think well of what
you do.'
'Yes, you had better think well,' said Mr Boffin.
'I shall never more think well of YOU,' cried Bella, cutting him
short, with intense defiance in her expressive little eyebrows, and
championship of the late Secretary in every dimple. 'No! Never
again! Your money has changed you to marble. You are a hardhearted
Miser. You are worse than Dancer, worse than Hopkins,
worse than Blackberry Jones, worse than any of the wretches. And
more!' proceeded Bella, breaking into tears again, 'you were wholly
undeserving of the Gentleman you have lost.'
'Why, you don't mean to say, Miss Bella,' the Golden Dustman
slowly remonstrated, 'that you set up Rokesmith against me?'
'I do!' said Bella. 'He is worth a Million of you.'
Very pretty she looked, though very angry, as she made herself as
tall as she possibly could (which was not extremely tall), and
utterly renounced her patron with a lofty toss of her rich brown
head.
'I would rather he thought well of me,' said Bella, 'though he swept
the street for bread, than that you did, though you splashed the
mud upon him from the wheels of a chariot of pure gold.--There!'
'Well I'm sure!' cried Mr Boffin, staring.
'And for a long time past, when you have thought you set yourself
above him, I have only seen you under his feet,' said Bella--'There!
And throughout I saw in him the master, and I saw in you the
man--There! And when you used him shamefully, I took his part
and loved him--There! I boast of it!'
After which strong avowal Bella underwent reaction, and cried to
any extent, with her face on the back of her chair.
'Now, look here,' said Mr Boffin, as soon as he could find an
opening for breaking the silence and striking in. 'Give me your
attention, Bella. I am not angry.'
'I AM!' said Bella.
'I say,' resumed the Golden Dustman, 'I am not angry, and I mean
kindly to you, and I want to overlook this. So you'll stay where you
are, and we'll agree to say no more about it.'
'No, I can't stay here,' cried Bella, rising hurriedly again; 'I can't
think of staying here. I must go home for good.'
'Now, don't be silly,' Mr Boffin reasoned. 'Don't do what you can't
undo; don't do what you're sure to be sorry for.'
'I shall never be sorry for it,' said Bella; 'and I should always be
sorry, and should every minute of my life despise myself if I
remained here after what has happened.'
'At least, Bella,' argued Mr Boffin, 'let there be no mistake about it.
Look before you leap, you know. Stay where you are, and all's
well, and all's as it was to be. Go away, and you can never come
back.'
'I know that I can never come back, and that's what I mean,' said
Bella.
'You mustn't expect,' Mr Boffin pursued, 'that I'm a-going to settle
money on you, if you leave us like this, because I am not. No,
Bella! Be careful! Not one brass farthing.'
'Expect!' said Bella, haughtily. 'Do you think that any power on
earth could make me take it, if you did, sir?'
But there was Mrs Boffin to part from, and, in the full flush of her
dignity, the impressible little soul collapsed again. Down upon her
knees before that good woman, she rocked herself upon her breast,
and cried, and sobbed, and folded her in her arms with all her
might.
'You're a dear, a dear, the best of dears!' cried Bella. 'You're the
best of human creatures. I can never be thankful enough to you,
and I can never forget you. If I should live to be blind and deaf I
know I shall see and hear you, in my fancy, to the last of my dim
old days!'
Mrs Boffin wept most heartily, and embraced her with all
fondness; but said not one single word except that she was her dear
girl. She said that often enough, to be sure, for she said it over and
over again; but not one word else.
Bella broke from her at length, and was going weeping out of the
room, when in her own little queer affectionate way, she half
relented towards Mr Boffin.
'I am very glad,' sobbed Bella, 'that I called you names, sir,
because you richly deserved it. But I am very sorry that I called
you names, because you used to be so different. Say good-bye!'
'Good-bye,' said Mr Boffin, shortly.
'If I knew which of your hands was the least spoilt, I would ask
you to let me touch it,' said Bella, 'for the last time. But not
because I repent of what I have said to you. For I don't. It's true!'
'Try the left hand,' said Mr Boffin, holding it out in a stolid
manner; 'it's the least used.'
'You have been wonderfully good and kind to me,' said Bella, 'and
I kiss it for that. You have been as bad as bad could be to Mr
Rokesmith, and I throw it away for that. Thank you for myself,
and good-bye!'
'Good-bye,' said Mr Boffin as before.
Bella caught him round the neck and kissed him, and ran out for
ever.
She ran up-stairs, and sat down on the floor in her own room, and
cried abundantly. But the day was declining and she had no time
to lose. She opened all the places where she kept her dresses;
selected only those she had brought with her, leaving all the rest;
and made a great misshapen bundle of them, to be sent for
afterwards.
'I won't take one of the others,' said Bella, tying the knots of the
bundle very tight, in the severity of her resolution. 'I'll leave all the
presents behind, and begin again entirely on my own account.'
That the resolution might be thoroughly carried into practice, she
even changed the dress she wore, for that in which she had come to
the grand mansion. Even the bonnet she put on, was the bonnet
that had mounted into the Boffin chariot at Holloway.
'Now, I am complete,' said Bella. 'It's a little trying, but I have
steeped my eyes in cold water, and I won't cry any more. You have
been a pleasant room to me, dear room. Adieu! We shall never
see each other again.'
With a parting kiss of her fingers to it, she softly closed the door
and went with a light foot down the great staircase, pausing and
listening as she went, that she might meet none of the household.
No one chanced to be about, and she got down to the hall in quiet.
The door of the late Secretary's room stood open. She peeped in as
she passed, and divined from the emptiness of his table, and the
general appearance of things, that he was already gone. Softly
opening the great hall door, and softly closing it upon herself, she
turned and kissed it on the outside--insensible old combination of
wood and iron that it was!--before she ran away from the house at
a swift pace.
'That was well done!' panted Bella, slackening in the next street,
and subsiding into a walk. 'If I had left myself any breath to cry
with, I should have cried again. Now poor dear darling little Pa,
you are going to see your lovely woman unexpectedly.'
Chapter 16
THE FEAST OF THE THREE HOBGOBLINS
The City looked unpromising enough, as Bella made her way
along its gritty streets. Most of its money-mills were slackening
sail, or had left off grinding for the day. The master-millers had
already departed, and the journeymen were departing. There was a
jaded aspect on the business lanes and courts, and the very
pavements had a weary appearance, confused by the tread of a
million of feet. There must be hours of night to temper down the
day's distraction of so feverish a place. As yet the worry of the
newly-stopped whirling and grinding on the part of the moneymills
seemed to linger in the air, and the quiet was more like the
prostration of a spent giant than the repose of one who was
renewing his strength.
If Bella thought, as she glanced at the mighty Bank, how agreeable
it would be to have an hour's gardening there, with a bright copper
shovel, among the money, still she was not in an avaricious vein.
Much improved in that respect, and with certain half-formed
images which had little gold in their composition, dancing before
her bright eyes, she arrived in the drug-flavoured region of
Mincing Lane, with the sensation of having just opened a drawer
in a chemist's shop.
The counting-house of Chicksey, Veneering, and Stobbles was
pointed out by an elderly female accustomed to the care of offices,
who dropped upon Bella out of a public-house, wiping her mouth,
and accounted for its humidity on natural principles well known to
the physical sciences, by explaining that she had looked in at the
door to see what o'clock it was. The counting-house was a walleyed
ground floor by a dark gateway, and Bella was considering,
as she approached it, could there be any precedent in the City for
her going in and asking for R. Wilfer, when whom should she see,
sitting at one of the windows with the plate-glass sash raised, but
R. Wilfer himself, preparing to take a slight refection.
On approaching nearer, Bella discerned that the refection had the
appearance of a small cottage-loaf and a pennyworth of milk.
Simultaneously with this discovery on her part, her father
discovered her, and invoked the echoes of Mincing Lane to exclaim
'My gracious me!'
He then came cherubically flying out without a hat, and embraced
her, and handed her in. 'For it's after hours and I am all alone, my
dear,' he explained, 'and am having--as I sometimes do when they
are all gone--a quiet tea.'
Looking round the office, as if her father were a captive and this
his cell, Bella hugged him and choked him to her heart's content.
'I never was so surprised, my dear!' said her father. 'I couldn't
believe my eyes. Upon my life, I thought they had taken to lying!
The idea of your coming down the Lane yourself! Why didn't you
send the footman down the Lane, my dear?'
'I have brought no footman with me, Pa.'
'Oh indeed! But you have brought the elegant turn-out, my love?'
'No, Pa.'
'You never can have walked, my dear?'
'Yes, I have, Pa.'
He looked so very much astonished, that Bella could not make up
her mind to break it to him just yet.
'The consequence is, Pa, that your lovely woman feels a little faint,
and would very much like to share your tea.'
The cottage loaf and the pennyworth of milk had been set forth on
a sheet of paper on the window-seat. The cherubic pocket-knife,
with the first bit of the loaf still on its point, lay beside them where
it had been hastily thrown down. Bella took the bit off, and put it
in her mouth. 'My dear child,' said her father, 'the idea of your
partaking of such lowly fare! But at least you must have your own
loaf and your own penn'orth. One moment, my dear. The Dairy
is just over the way and round the corner.'
Regardless of Bella's dissuasions he ran out, and quickly returned
with the new supply. 'My dear child,' he said, as he spread it on
another piece of paper before her, 'the idea of a splendid--!' and
then looked at her figure, and stopped short.
'What's the matter, Pa?'
'--of a splendid female,' he resumed more slowly, 'putting up with
such accommodation as the present!--Is that a new dress you have
on, my dear?'
'No, Pa, an old one. Don't you remember it?'
'Why, I THOUGHT I remembered it, my dear!'
'You should, for you bought it, Pa.'
'Yes, I THOUGHT I bought it my dear!' said the cherub, giving
himself a little shake, as if to rouse his faculties.
'And have you grown so fickle that you don't like your own taste,
Pa dear?'
'Well, my love,' he returned, swallowing a bit of the cottage loaf
with considerable effort, for it seemed to stick by the way: 'I should
have thought it was hardly sufficiently splendid for existing
circumstances.'
'And so, Pa,' said Bella, moving coaxingly to his side instead of
remaining opposite, 'you sometimes have a quiet tea here all alone?
I am not in the tea's way, if I draw my arm over your shoulder like
this, Pa?'
'Yes, my dear, and no, my dear. Yes to the first question, and
Certainly Not to the second. Respecting the quiet tea, my dear,
why you see the occupations of the day are sometimes a little
wearing; and if there's nothing interposed between the day and
your mother, why SHE is sometimes a little wearing, too.'
'I know, Pa.'
'Yes, my dear. So sometimes I put a quiet tea at the window here,
with a little quiet contemplation of the Lane (which comes
soothing), between the day, and domestic--'
'Bliss,' suggested Bella, sorrowfully.
'And domestic Bliss,' said her father, quite contented to accept the
phrase.
Bella kissed him. 'And it is in this dark dingy place of captivity,
poor dear, that you pass all the hours of your life when you are not
at home?'
'Not at home, or not on the road there, or on the road here, my love.
Yes. You see that little desk in the corner?'
'In the dark corner, furthest both from the light and from the
fireplace? The shabbiest desk of all the desks?'
'Now, does it really strike you in that point of view, my dear?' said
her father, surveying it artistically with his head on one side: 'that's
mine. That's called Rumty's Perch.'
'Whose Perch?' asked Bella with great indignation.
'Rumty's. You see, being rather high and up two steps they call it
a Perch. And they call ME Rumty.'
'How dare they!' exclaimed Bella.
'They're playful, Bella my dear; they're playful. They're more or
less younger than I am, and they're playful. What does it matter?
It might be Surly, or Sulky, or fifty disagreeable things that I really
shouldn't like to be considered. But Rumty! Lor, why not Rumty?'
To inflict a heavy disappointment on this sweet nature, which had
been, through all her caprices, the object of her recognition, love,
and admiration from infancy, Bella felt to be the hardest task of her
hard day. 'I should have done better,' she thought, 'to tell him at
first; I should have done better to tell him just now, when he had
some slight misgiving; he is quite happy again, and I shall make
him wretched.'
He was falling back on his loaf and milk, with the pleasantest
composure, and Bella stealing her arm a little closer about him,
and at the same time sticking up his hair with an irresistible
propensity to play with him founded on the habit of her whole life,
had prepared herself to say: 'Pa dear, don't be cast down, but I
must tell you something disagreeable!' when he interrupted her in
an unlooked-for manner.
'My gracious me!' he exclaimed, invoking the Mincing Lane
echoes as before. 'This is very extraordinary!'
'What is, Pa?'
'Why here's Mr Rokesmith now!'
'No, no, Pa, no,' cried Bella, greatly flurried. 'Surely not.'
'Yes there is! Look here!'
Sooth to say, Mr Rokesmith not only passed the window, but came
into the counting-house. And not only came into the countinghouse,
but, finding himself alone there with Bella and her father,
rushed at Bella and caught her in his arms, with the rapturous
words 'My dear, dear girl; my gallant, generous, disinterested,
courageous, noble girl!' And not only that even, (which one might
have thought astonishment enough for one dose), but Bella, after
hanging her head for a moment, lifted it up and laid it on his
breast, as if that were her head's chosen and lasting resting-place!
'I knew you would come to him, and I followed you,' said
Rokesmith. 'My love, my life! You ARE mine?'
To which Bella responded, 'Yes, I AM yours if you think me worth
taking!' And after that, seemed to shrink to next to nothing in the
clasp of his arms, partly because it was such a strong one on his
part, and partly because there was such a yielding to it on hers.
The cherub, whose hair would have done for itself under the
influence of this amazing spectacle, what Bella had just now done
for it, staggered back into the window-seat from which he had
risen, and surveyed the pair with his eyes dilated to their utmost.
'But we must think of dear Pa,' said Bella; 'I haven't told dear Pa;
let us speak to Pa.' Upon which they turned to do so.
'I wish first, my dear,' remarked the cherub faintly, 'that you'd have
the kindness to sprinkle me with a little milk, for I feel as if I was--
Going.'
In fact, the good little fellow had become alarmingly limp, and his
senses seemed to be rapidly escaping, from the knees upward.
Bella sprinkled him with kisses instead of milk, but gave him a
little of that article to drink; and he gradually revived under her
caressing care.
'We'll break it to you gently, dearest Pa,' said Bella.
'My dear,' returned the cherub, looking at them both, 'you broke so
much in the first--Gush, if I may so express myself--that I think I
am equal to a good large breakage now.'
'Mr Wilfer,' said John Rokesmith, excitedly and joyfully, 'Bella
takes me, though I have no fortune, even no present occupation;
nothing but what I can get in the life before us. Bella takes me!'
'Yes, I should rather have inferred, my dear sir,' returned the
cherub feebly, 'that Bella took you, from what I have within these
few minutes remarked.'
'You don't know, Pa,' said Bella, 'how ill I have used him!'
'You don't know, sir,' said Rokesmith, 'what a heart she has!'
'You don't know, Pa,' said Bella, 'what a shocking creature I was
growing, when he saved me from myself!'
'You don't know, sir,' said Rokesmith, 'what a sacrifice she has
made for me!'
'My dear Bella,' replied the cherub, still pathetically scared, 'and
my dear John Rokesmith, if you will allow me so to call you--'
'Yes do, Pa, do!' urged Bella. 'I allow you, and my will is his law.
Isn't it--dear John Rokesmith?'
There was an engaging shyness in Bella, coupled with an engaging
tenderness of love and confidence and pride, in thus first calling
him by name, which made it quite excusable in John Rokesmith to
do what he did. What he did was, once more to give her the
appearance of vanishing as aforesaid.
'I think, my dears,' observed the cherub, 'that if you could make it
convenient to sit one on one side of me, and the other on the other,
we should get on rather more consecutively, and make things
rather plainer. John Rokesmith mentioned, a while ago, that he
had no present occupation.'
'None,' said Rokesmith.
'No, Pa, none,' said Bella.
'From which I argue,' proceeded the cherub, 'that he has left Mr
Boffin?'
'Yes, Pa. And so--'
'Stop a bit, my dear. I wish to lead up to it by degrees. And that
Mr Boffin has not treated him well?'
'Has treated him most shamefully, dear Pa!' cried Bella with a
flashing face.
'Of which,' pursued the cherub, enjoining patience with his hand, 'a
certain mercenary young person distantly related to myself, could
not approve? Am I leading up to it right?'
'Could not approve, sweet Pa,' said Bella, with a tearful laugh and
a joyful kiss.
'Upon which,' pursued the cherub, 'the certain mercenary young
person distantly related to myself, having previously observed and
mentioned to myself that prosperity was spoiling Mr Boffin, felt
that she must not sell her sense of what was right and what was
wrong, and what was true and what was false, and what was just
and what was unjust, for any price that could be paid to her by any
one alive? Am I leading up to it right?'
With another tearful laugh Bella joyfully kissed him again.
'And therefore--and therefore,' the cherub went on in a glowing
voice, as Bella's hand stole gradually up his waistcoat to his neck,
'this mercenary young person distantly related to myself, refused
the price, took off the splendid fashions that were part of it, put on
the comparatively poor dress that I had last given her, and trusting
to my supporting her in what was right, came straight to me. Have
I led up to it?'
Bella's hand was round his neck by this time, and her face was on
it.
'The mercenary young person distantly related to myself,' said her
good father, 'did well! The mercenary young person distantly
related to myself, did not trust to me in vain! I admire this
mercenary young person distantly related to myself, more in this
dress than if she had come to me in China silks, Cashmere shawls,
and Golconda diamonds. I love this young person dearly. I say to
the man of this young person's heart, out of my heart and with all
of it, "My blessing on this engagement betwixt you, and she brings
you a good fortune when she brings you the poverty she has
accepted for your sake and the honest truth's!"'
The stanch little man's voice failed him as he gave John Rokesmith
his hand, and he was silent, bending his face low over his
daughter. But, not for long. He soon looked up, saying in a
sprightly tone:
'And now, my dear child, if you think you can entertain John
Rokesmith for a minute and a half, I'll run over to the Dairy, and
fetch HIM a cottage loaf and a drink of milk, that we may all have
tea together.'
It was, as Bella gaily said, like the supper provided for the three
nursery hobgoblins at their house in the forest, without their
thunderous low growlings of the alarming discovery, 'Somebody's
been drinking MY milk!' It was a delicious repast; by far the most
delicious that Bella, or John Rokesmith, or even R. Wilfer had ever
made. The uncongenial oddity of its surroundings, with the two
brass knobs of the iron safe of Chicksey, Veneering, and Stobbles
staring from a corner, like the eyes of some dull dragon, only made
it the more delightful.
'To think,' said the cherub, looking round the office with
unspeakable enjoyment, 'that anything of a tender nature should
come off here, is what tickles me. To think that ever I should have
seen my Bella folded in the arms of her future husband, HERE,
you know!'
It was not until the cottage loaves and the milk had for some time
disappeared, and the foreshadowings of night were creeping over
Mincing Lane, that the cherub by degrees became a little nervous,
and said to Bella, as he cleared his throat:
'Hem!--Have you thought at all about your mother, my dear?'
'Yes, Pa.'
'And your sister Lavvy, for instance, my dear?'
'Yes, Pa. I think we had better not enter into particulars at home. I
think it will be quite enough to say that I had a difference with Mr
Boffin, and have left for good.'
'John Rokesmith being acquainted with your Ma, my love,' said
her father, after some slight hesitation, 'I need have no delicacy in
hinting before him that you may perhaps find your Ma a little
wearing.'
'A little, patient Pa?' said Bella with a tuneful laugh: the tunefuller
for being so loving in its tone.
'Well! We'll say, strictly in confidence among ourselves, wearing;
we won't qualify it,' the cherub stoutly admitted. 'And your
sister's temper is wearing.'
'I don't mind, Pa.'
'And you must prepare yourself you know, my precious,' said her
father, with much gentleness, 'for our looking very poor and
meagre at home, and being at the best but very uncomfortable,
after Mr Boffin's house.'
'I don't mind, Pa. I could bear much harder trials--for John.'
The closing words were not so softly and blushingly said but that
John heard them, and showed that he heard them by again
assisting Bella to another of those mysterious disappearances.
'Well!' said the cherub gaily, and not expressing disapproval, 'when
you--when you come back from retirement, my love, and reappear
on the surface, I think it will be time to lock up and go.'
If the counting-house of Chicksey, Veneering, and Stobbles had
ever been shut up by three happier people, glad as most people
were to shut it up, they must have been superlatively happy indeed.
But first Bella mounted upon Rumty's Perch, and said, 'Show me
what you do here all day long, dear Pa. Do you write like this?'
laying her round cheek upon her plump left arm, and losing sight
of her pen in waves of hair, in a highly unbusiness-like manner.
Though John Rokesmith seemed to like it.
So, the three hobgoblins, having effaced all traces of their feast,
and swept up the crumbs, came out of Mincing Lane to walk to
Holloway; and if two of the hobgoblins didn't wish the distance
twice as long as it was, the third hobgoblin was much mistaken.
Indeed, that modest spirit deemed himself so much in the way of
their deep enjoyment of the journey, that he apologetically
remarked: 'I think, my dears, I'll take the lead on the other side of
the road, and seem not to belong to you.' Which he did,
cherubically strewing the path with smiles, in the absence of
flowers.
It was almost ten o'clock when they stopped within view of Wilfer
Castle; and then, the spot being quiet and deserted, Bella began a
series of disappearances which threatened to last all night.
'I think, John,' the cherub hinted at last, 'that if you can spare me
the young person distantly related to myself, I'll take her in.'
'I can't spare her,' answered John, 'but I must lend her to you.'--My
Darling!' A word of magic which caused Bella instantly to
disappear again.
'Now, dearest Pa,' said Bella, when she became visible, 'put your
hand in mine, and we'll run home as fast as ever we can run, and
get it over. Now, Pa. Once!--'
'My dear,' the cherub faltered, with something of a craven air, 'I
was going to observe that if your mother--'
'You mustn't hang back, sir, to gain time,' cried Bella, putting out
her right foot; 'do you see that, sir? That's the mark; come up to the
mark, sir. Once! Twice! Three times and away, Pa!' Off she
skimmed, bearing the cherub along, nor ever stopped, nor suffered
him to stop, until she had pulled at the bell. 'Now, dear Pa,' said
Bella, taking him by both ears as if he were a pitcher, and
conveying his face to her rosy lips, 'we are in for it!'
Miss Lavvy came out to open the gate, waited on by that attentive
cavalier and friend of the family, Mr George Sampson. 'Why, it's
never Bella!' exclaimed Miss Lavvy starting back at the sight. And
then bawled, 'Ma! Here's Bella!'
This produced, before they could get into the house, Mrs Wilfer.
Who, standing in the portal, received them with ghostly gloom,
and all her other appliances of ceremony.
'My child is welcome, though unlooked for,' said she, at the time
presenting her cheek as if it were a cool slate for visitors to enrol
themselves upon. 'You too, R. W., are welcome, though late.
Does the male domestic of Mrs Boffin hear me there?' This deeptoned
inquiry was cast forth into the night, for response from the
menial in question.
'There is no one waiting, Ma, dear,' said Bella.
'There is no one waiting?' repeated MrsWilfer in majestic accents.
'No, Ma, dear.'
A dignified shiver pervaded Mrs Wilfer's shoulders and gloves, as
who should say, 'An Enigma!' and then she marched at the head of
the procession to the family keeping-room, where she observed:
'Unless, R. W.': who started on being solemnly turned upon: 'you
have taken the precaution of making some addition to our frugal
supper on your way home, it will prove but a distasteful one to
Bella. Cold neck of mutton and a lettuce can ill compete with the
luxuries of Mr Boffin's board.'
'Pray don't talk like that, Ma dear,' said Bella; 'Mr Boffin's board is
nothing to me.'
But, here Miss Lavinia, who had been intently eyeing Bella's
bonnet, struck in with 'Why, Bella!'
'Yes, Lavvy, I know.'
The Irrepressible lowered her eyes to Bella's dress, and stooped to
look at it, exclaiming again: 'Why, Bella!'
'Yes, Lavvy, I know what I have got on. I was going to tell Ma
when you interrupted. I have left Mr Boffin's house for good, Ma,
and I have come home again.'
Mrs Wilfer spake no word, but, having glared at her offspring for a
minute or two in an awful silence, retired into her corner of state
backward, and sat down: like a frozen article on sale in a Russian
market.
'In short, dear Ma,' said Bella, taking off the depreciated bonnet
and shaking out her hair, 'I have had a very serious difference with
Mr Boffin on the subject of his treatment of a member of his
household, and it's a final difference, and there's an end of all.'
'And I am bound to tell you, my dear,' added R. W., submissively,
'that Bella has acted in a truly brave spirit, and with a truly right
feeling. And therefore I hope, my dear, you'll not allow yourself to
be greatly disappointed.'
'George!' said Miss Lavvy, in a sepulchral, warning voice, founded
on her mother's; 'George Sampson, speak! What did I tell you
about those Boffins?'
Mr Sampson perceiving his frail bark to be labouring among
shoals and breakers, thought it safest not to refer back to any
particular thing that he had been told, lest he should refer back to
the wrong thing. With admirable seamanship he got his bark into
deep water by murmuring 'Yes indeed.'
'Yes! I told George Sampson, as George Sampson tells you, said
Miss Lavvy, 'that those hateful Boffins would pick a quarrel with
Bella, as soon as her novelty had worn off. Have they done it, or
have they not? Was I right, or was I wrong? And what do you say
to us, Bella, of your Boffins now?'
'Lavvy and Ma,' said Bella, 'I say of Mr and Mrs Boffin what I
always have said; and I always shall say of them what I always
have said. But nothing will induce me to quarrel with any one tonight.
I hope you are not sorry to see me, Ma dear,' kissing her;
'and I hope you are not sorry to see me, Lavvy,' kissing her too;
'and as I notice the lettuce Ma mentioned, on the table, I'll make
the salad.'
Bella playfully setting herself about the task, Mrs Wilfer's
impressive countenance followed her with glaring eyes, presenting
a combination of the once popular sign of the Saracen's Head, with
a piece of Dutch clock-work, and suggesting to an imaginative
mind that from the composition of the salad, her daughter might
prudently omit the vinegar. But no word issued from the majestic
matron's lips. And this was more terrific to her husband (as
perhaps she knew) than any flow of eloquence with which she
could have edified the company.
'Now, Ma dear,' said Bella in due course, 'the salad's ready, and it's
past supper-time.'
Mrs Wilfer rose, but remained speechless. 'George!' said Miss
Lavinia in her voice of warning, 'Ma's chair!' Mr Sampson flew to
the excellent lady's back, and followed her up close chair in hand,
as she stalked to the banquet. Arrived at the table, she took her
rigid seat, after favouring Mr Sampson with a glare for himself,
which caused the young gentleman to retire to his place in much
confusion.
The cherub not presuming to address so tremendous an object,
transacted her supper through the agency of a third person, as
'Mutton to your Ma, Bella, my dear'; and 'Lavvy, I dare say your
Ma would take some lettuce if you were to put it on her plate.'
Mrs Wilfer's manner of receiving those viands was marked by
petrified absence of mind; in which state, likewise, she partook of
them, occasionally laying down her knife and fork, as saying
within her own spirit, 'What is this I am doing?' and glaring at one
or other of the party, as if in indignant search of information. A
magnetic result of such glaring was, that the person glared at could
not by any means successfully pretend to he ignorant of the fact:
so that a bystander, without beholding Mrs Wilfer at all, must have
known at whom she was glaring, by seeing her refracted from the
countenance of the beglared one.
Miss Lavinia was extremely affable to Mr Sampson on this special
occasion, and took the opportunity of informing her sister why.
'It was not worth troubling you about, Bella, when you were in a
sphere so far removed from your family as to make it a matter in
which you could be expected to take very little interest,' said
Lavinia with a toss of her chin; 'but George Sampson is paying his
addresses to me.'
Bella was glad to hear it. Mr Sampson became thoughtfully red,
and felt called upon to encircle Miss Lavinia's waist with his arm;
but, encountering a large pin in the young lady's belt, scarified a
finger, uttered a sharp exclamation, and attracted the lightning of
Mrs Wilfer's glare.
'George is getting on very well,' said Miss Lavinia which might
not have been supposed at the moment--'and I dare say we shall be
married, one of these days. I didn't care to mention it when you
were with your Bof--' here Miss Lavinia checked herself in a
bounce, and added more placidly, 'when you were with Mr and
Mrs Boffin; but now I think it sisterly to name the circumstance.'
'Thank you, Lavvy dear. I congratulate you.'
'Thank you, Bella. The truth is, George and I did discuss whether I
should tell you; but I said to George that you wouldn't be much
interested in so paltry an affair, and that it was far more likely you
would rather detach yourself from us altogether, than have him
added to the rest of us.'
'That was a mistake, dear Lavvy,' said Bella.
'It turns out to be,' replied Miss Lavinia; 'but circumstances have
changed, you know, my dear. George is in a new situation, and his
prospects are very good indeed. I shouldn't have had the courage
to tell you so yesterday, when you would have thought his
prospects poor, and not worth notice; but I feel quite bold tonight.'
'When did you begin to feel timid, Lavvy? inquired Bella, with a
smile.
'I didn't say that I ever felt timid, Bella,' replied the Irrepressible.
'But perhaps I might have said, if I had not been restrained by
delicacy towards a sister's feelings, that I have for some time felt
independent; too independent, my dear, to subject myself to have
my intended match (you'll prick yourself again, George) looked
down upon. It is not that I could have blamed you for looking
down upon it, when you were looking up to a rich and great match,
Bella; it is only that I was independent.'
Whether the Irrepressible felt slighted by Bella's declaration that
she would not quarrel, or whether her spitefulness was evoked by
Bella's return to the sphere of Mr George Sampson's courtship, or
whether it was a necessary fillip to her spirits that she should come
into collision with somebody on the present occasion,--anyhow she
made a dash at her stately parent now, with the greatest
impetuosity.
'Ma, pray don't sit staring at me in that intensely aggravating
manner! If you see a black on my nose, tell me so; if you don't,
leave me alone.'
'Do you address Me in those words?' said Mrs Wilfer. 'Do you
presume?'
'Don't talk about presuming, Ma, for goodness' sake. A girl who is
old enough to be engaged, is quite old enough to object to be stared
at as if she was a Clock.'
'Audacious one!' said Mrs Wilfer. 'Your grandmamma, if so
addressed by one of her daughters, at any age, would have insisted
on her retiring to a dark apartment.'
'My grandmamma,' returned Lavvy, folding her arms and leaning
back in her chair, 'wouldn't have sat staring people out of
countenance, I think.'
'She would!' said Mrs Wilfer.
'Then it's a pity she didn't know better,' said Lavvy. 'And if my
grandmamma wasn't in her dotage when she took to insisting on
people's retiring to dark apartments, she ought to have been. A
pretty exhibition my grandmamma must have made of herself! I
wonder whether she ever insisted on people's retiring into the ball
of St Paul's; and if she did, how she got them there!'
'Silence!' proclaimed Mrs Wilfer. 'I command silence!'
'I have not the slightest intention of being silent, Ma,' returned
Lavinia coolly, 'but quite the contrary. I am not going to be eyed as
if I had come from the Boffins, and sit silent under it. I am not
going to have George Sampson eyed as if HE had come from the
Boffins, and sit silent under it. If Pa thinks proper to be eyed as if
HE had come from the Boffins also, well and good. I don't choose
to. And I won't!'
Lavinia's engineering having made this crooked opening at Bella,
Mrs Wilfer strode into it.
'You rebellious spirit! You mutinous child! Tell me this, Lavinia.
If in violation of your mother's sentiments, you had condescended
to allow yourself to be patronized by the Boffins, and if you had
come from those halls of slavery--'
'That's mere nonsense, Ma,' said Lavinia.
'How!' exclaimed Mrs Wilfer, with sublime severity.
'Halls of slavery, Ma, is mere stuff and nonsense,' returned the
unmoved Irrepressible.
'I say, presumptuous child, if you had come from the
neighbourhood of Portland Place, bending under the yoke of
patronage and attended by its domestics in glittering garb to visit
me, do you think my deep-seated feelings could have been
expressed in looks?'
'All I think about it, is,' returned Lavinia, 'that I should wish them
expressed to the right person.'
'And if,' pursued her mother, 'if making light of my warnings that
the face of Mrs Boffin alone was a face teeming with evil, you had
clung to Mrs Boffin instead of to me, and had after all come home
rejected by Mrs Boffin, trampled under foot by Mrs Boffin, and
cast out by Mrs Boffin, do you think my feelings could have been
expressed in looks?'
Lavinia was about replying to her honoured parent that she might
as well have dispensed with her looks altogether then, when Bella
rose and said, 'Good night, dear Ma. I have had a tiring day, and
I'll go to bed.' This broke up the agreeable party. Mr George
Sampson shortly afterwards took his leave, accompanied by Miss
Lavinia with a candle as far as the hall, and without a candle as far
as the garden gate; Mrs Wilfer, washing her hands of the Boffins,
went to bed after the manner of Lady Macbeth; and R. W. was left
alone among the dilapidations of the supper table, in a melancholy
attitude.
But, a light footstep roused him from his meditations, and it was
Bella's. Her pretty hair was hanging all about her, and she had
tripped down softly, brush in hand, and barefoot, to say good-night
to him.
'My dear, you most unquestionably ARE a lovely woman,' said the
cherub, taking up a tress in his hand.
'Look here, sir,' said Bella; 'when your lovely woman marries, you
shall have that piece if you like, and she'll make you a chain of it.
Would you prize that remembrance of the dear creature?'
'Yes, my precious.'
'Then you shall have it if you're good, sir. I am very, very sorry,
dearest Pa, to have brought home all this trouble.'
'My pet,' returned her father, in the simplest good faith, 'don't
make yourself uneasy about that. It really is not worth mentioning,
because things at home would have taken pretty much the same
turn any way. If your mother and sister don't find one subject to
get at times a little wearing on, they find another. We're never out
of a wearing subject, my dear, I assure you. I am afraid you find
your old room with Lavvy, dreadfully inconvenient, Bella?'
'No I don't, Pa; I don't mind. Why don't I mind, do you think, Pa?'
'Well, my child, you used to complain of it when it wasn't such a
contrast as it must be now. Upon my word, I can only answer,
because you are so much improved.'
'No, Pa. Because I am so thankful and so happy!'
Here she choked him until her long hair made him sneeze, and
then she laughed until she made him laugh, and then she choked
him again that they might not be overheard.
'Listen, sir,' said Bella. 'Your lovely woman was told her fortune
to night on her way home. It won't be a large fortune, because if
the lovely woman's Intended gets a certain appointment that he
hopes to get soon, she will marry on a hundred and fifty pounds a
year. But that's at first, and even if it should never be more, the
lovely woman will make it quite enough. But that's not all, sir. In
the fortune there's a certain fair man--a little man, the fortune-teller
said--who, it seems, will always find himself near the lovely
woman, and will always have kept, expressly for him, such a
peaceful corner in the lovely woman's little house as never was.
Tell me the name of that man, sir.'
'Is he a Knave in the pack of cards?' inquired the cherub, with a
twinkle in his eyes.
'Yes!' cried Bella, in high glee, choking him again. 'He's the
Knave of Wilfers! Dear Pa, the lovely woman means to look
forward to this fortune that has been told for her, so delightfully,
and to cause it to make her a much better lovely woman than she
ever has been yet. What the little fair man is expected to do, sir, is
to look forward to it also, by saying to himself when he is in
danger of being over-worried, "I see land at last!"
'I see land at last!' repeated her father.
'There's a dear Knave of Wilfers!' exclaimed Bella; then putting out
her small white bare foot, 'That's the mark, sir. Come to the mark.
Put your boot against it. We keep to it together, mind! Now, sir,
you may kiss the lovely woman before she runs away, so thankful
and so happy. O yes, fair little man, so thankful and so happy!'
Chapter 17
A SOCIAL CHORUS
Amazement sits enthroned upon the countenances of Mr and Mrs
Alfred Lammle's circle of acquaintance, when the disposal of their
first-class furniture and effects (including a Billiard Table in
capital letters), 'by auction, under a bill of sale,' is publicly
announced on a waving hearthrug in Sackville Street. But, nobody
is half so much amazed as Hamilton Veneering, Esquire, M.P. for
Pocket-Breaches, who instantly begins to find out that the
Lammles are the only people ever entered on his soul's register,
who are NOT the oldest and dearest friends he has in the world.
Mrs Veneering, W.M.P. for Pocket-Breaches, like a faithful wife
shares her husband's discovery and inexpressible astonishment.
Perhaps the Veneerings twain may deem the last unutterable
feeling particularly due to their reputation, by reason that once
upon a time some of the longer heads in the City are whispered to
have shaken themselves, when Veneering's extensive dealings and
great wealth were mentioned. But, it is certain that neither Mr nor
Mrs Veneering can find words to wonder in, and it becomes
necessary that they give to the oldest and dearest friends they have
in the world, a wondering dinner.
For, it is by this time noticeable that, whatever befals, the
Veneerings must give a dinner upon it. Lady Tippins lives in a
chronic state of invitation to dine with the Veneerings, and in a
chronic state of inflammation arising from the dinners. Boots and
Brewer go about in cabs, with no other intelligible business on
earth than to beat up people to come and dine with the Veneerings.
Veneering pervades the legislative lobbies, intent upon entrapping
his fellow-legislators to dinner. Mrs Veneering dined with fiveand-
twenty bran-new faces over night; calls upon them all to day;
sends them every one a dinner-card to-morrow, for the week after
next; before that dinner is digested, calls upon their brothers and
sisters, their sons and daughters, their nephews and nieces, their
aunts and uncles and cousins, and invites them all to dinner. And
still, as at first, howsoever, the dining circle widens, it is to be
observed that all the diners are consistent in appearing to go to the
Veneerings, not to dine with Mr and Mrs Veneering (which would
seem to be the last thing in their minds), but to dine with one
another.
Perhaps, after all,--who knows?--Veneering may find this dining,
though expensive, remunerative, in the sense that it makes
champions. Mr Podsnap, as a representative man, is not alone in
caring very particularly for his own dignity, if not for that of his
acquaintances, and therefore in angrily supporting the
acquaintances who have taken out his Permit, lest, in their being
lessened, he should be. The gold and silver camels, and the icepails,
and the rest of the Veneering table decorations, make a
brilliant show, and when I, Podsnap, casually remark elsewhere
that I dined last Monday with a gorgeous caravan of camels, I find
it personally offensive to have it hinted to me that they are brokenkneed
camels, or camels labouring under suspicion of any sort. 'I
don't display camels myself, I am above them: I am a more solid
man; but these camels have basked in the light of my countenance,
and how dare you, sir, insinuate to me that I have irradiated any
but unimpeachable camels?'
The camels are polishing up in the Analytical's pantry for the
dinner of wonderment on the occasion of the Lammles going to
pieces, and Mr Twemlow feels a little queer on the sofa at his
lodgings over the stable yard in Duke Street, Saint James's, in
consequence of having taken two advertised pills at about mid-day,
on the faith of the printed representation accompanying the box
(price one and a penny halfpenny, government stamp included),
that the same 'will be found highly salutary as a precautionary
measure in connection with the pleasures of the table.' To whom,
while sickly with the fancy of an insoluble pill sticking in his
gullet, and also with the sensation of a deposit of warm gum
languidly wandering within him a little lower down, a servant
enters with the announcement that a lady wishes to speak with
him.
'A lady!' says Twemlow, pluming his ruffled feathers. 'Ask the
favour of the lady's name.'
The lady's name is Lammle. The lady will not detain Mr
Twemlow longer than a very few minutes. The lady is sure that
Mr Twemlow will do her the kindness to see her, on being told that
she particularly desires a short interview. The lady has no doubt
whatever of Mr Twemlow's compliance when he hears her name.
Has begged the servant to be particular not to mistake her name.
Would have sent in a card, but has none.
'Show the lady in.' Lady shown in, comes in.
Mr Twemlow's little rooms are modestly furnished, in an oldfashioned
manner (rather like the housekeeper's room at
Snigsworthy Park), and would be bare of mere ornament, were it
not for a full-length engraving of the sublime Snigsworth over the
chimneypiece, snorting at a Corinthian column, with an enormous
roll of paper at his feet, and a heavy curtain going to tumble down
on his head; those accessories being understood to represent the
noble lord as somehow in the act of saving his country.
'Pray take a seat, Mrs Lammle.' Mrs Lammle takes a seat and
opens the conversation.
'I have no doubt, Mr Twemlow, that you have heard of a reverse of
fortune having befallen us. Of course you have heard of it, for no
kind of news travels so fast--among one's friends especially.'
Mindful of the wondering dinner, Twemlow, with a little twinge,
admits the imputation.
'Probably it will not,' says Mrs Lammle, with a certain hardened
manner upon her, that makes Twemlow shrink, 'have surprised you
so much as some others, after what passed between us at the house
which is now turned out at windows. I have taken the liberty of
calling upon you, Mr Twemlow, to add a sort of postscript to what
I said that day.'
Mr Twemlow's dry and hollow cheeks become more dry and
hollow at the prospect of some new complication.
'Really,' says the uneasy little gentleman, 'really, Mrs Lammle, I
should take it as a favour if you could excuse me from any further
confidence. It has ever been one of the objects of my life--which,
unfortunately, has not had many objects--to be inoffensive, and to
keep out of cabals and interferences.'
Mrs Lammle, by far the more observant of the two, scarcely finds it
necessary to look at Twemlow while he speaks, so easily does she
read him.
'My postscript--to retain the term I have used'--says Mrs Lammle,
fixing her eyes on his face, to enforce what she says herself--
'coincides exactly with what you say, Mr Twemlow. So far from
troubling you with any new confidence, I merely wish to remind
you what the old one was. So far from asking you for interference,
I merely wish to claim your strict neutrality.'
Twemlow going on to reply, she rests her eyes again, knowing her
ears to be quite enough for the contents of so weak a vessel.
'I can, I suppose,' says Twemlow, nervously, 'offer no reasonable
objection to hearing anything that you do me the honour to wish to
say to me under those heads. But if I may, with all possible
delicacy and politeness, entreat you not to range beyond them, I--I
beg to do so.'
'Sir,' says Mrs Lammle, raising her eyes to his face again, and
quite daunting him with her hardened manner, 'I imparted to you a
certain piece of knowledge, to be imparted again, as you thought
best, to a certain person.'
'Which I did,' says Twemlow.
'And for doing which, I thank you; though, indeed, I scarcely know
why I turned traitress to my husband in the matter, for the girl is a
poor little fool. I was a poor little fool once myself; I can find no
better reason.' Seeing the effect she produces on him by her
indifferent laugh and cold look, she keeps her eyes upon him as
she proceeds. 'Mr Twemlow, if you should chance to see my
husband, or to see me, or to see both of us, in the favour or
confidence of any one else--whether of our common acquaintance
or not, is of no consequence--you have no right to use against us
the knowledge I intrusted you with, for one special purpose which
has been accomplished. This is what I came to say. It is not a
stipulation; to a gentleman it is simply a reminder.'
Twemlow sits murmuring to himself with his hand to his forehead.
'It is so plain a case,' Mrs Lammle goes on, 'as between me (from
the first relying on your honour) and you, that I will not waste
another word upon it.' She looks steadily at Mr Twemlow, until,
with a shrug, he makes her a little one-sided bow, as though saying
'Yes, I think you have a right to rely upon me,' and then she
moistens her lips, and shows a sense of relief.
'I trust I have kept the promise I made through your servant, that I
would detain you a very few minutes. I need trouble you no
longer, Mr Twemlow.'
'Stay!' says Twemlow, rising as she rises. 'Pardon me a moment. I
should never have sought you out, madam, to say what I am going
to say, but since you have sought me out and are here, I will throw
it off my mind. Was it quite consistent, in candour, with our
taking that resolution against Mr Fledgeby, that you should
afterwards address Mr Fledgeby as your dear and confidential
friend, and entreat a favour of Mr Fledgeby? Always supposing
that you did; I assert no knowledge of my own on the subject; it
has been represented to me that you did.'
'Then he told you?' retorts Mrs Lammle, who again has saved her
eyes while listening, and uses them with strong effect while
speaking.
'Yes.'
'It is strange that he should have told you the truth,' says Mrs
Lammle, seriously pondering. 'Pray where did a circumstance so
very extraordinary happen?'
Twemlow hesitates. He is shorter than the lady as well as weaker,
and, as she stands above him with her hardened manner and her
well-used eyes, he finds himself at such a disadvantage that he
would like to be of the opposite sex.
'May I ask where it happened, Mr Twemlow? In strict
confidence?'
'I must confess,' says the mild little gentleman, coming to his
answer by degrees, 'that I felt some compunctions when Mr
Fledgeby mentioned it. I must admit that I could not regard myself
in an agreeable light. More particularly, as Mr Fledgeby did, with
great civility, which I could not feel that I deserved from him,
render me the same service that you had entreated him to render
you.
It is a part of the true nobility of the poor gentleman's soul to say
this last sentence. 'Otherwise,' he has reffected, 'I shall assume the
superior position of having no difficulties of my own, while I know
of hers. Which would be mean, very mean.
'Was Mr Fledgeby's advocacy as effectual in your case as in ours?'
Mrs Lammle demands.
'As ineffectual.'
'Can you make up your mind to tell me where you saw Mr
Fledgeby, Mr Twemlow?'
'I beg your pardon. I fully intended to have done so. The
reservation was not intentional. I encountered Mr Fledgeby, quite
by accident, on the spot.--By the expression, on the spot, I mean at
Mr Riah's in Saint Mary Axe.'
'Have you the misfortune to be in Mr Riah's hands then?'
'Unfortunately, madam,' returns Twemlow, 'the one money
obligation to which I stand committed, the one debt of my life (but
it is a just debt; pray observe that I don't dispute it), has fallen into
Mr Riah's hands.'
'Mr Twemlow,' says Mrs Lammle, fixing his eyes with hers: which
he would prevent her doing if he could, but he can't; 'it has fallen
into Mr Fledgeby's hands. Mr Riah is his mask. It has fallen into
Mr Fledgeby's hands. Let me tell you that, for your guidance. The
information may be of use to you, if only to prevent your credulity,
in judging another man's truthfulness by your own, from being
imposed upon.'
'Impossible!' cries Twemlow, standing aghast. 'How do you
know it?'
'I scarcely know how I know it. The whole train of circumstances
seemed to take fire at once, and show it to me.'
'Oh! Then you have no proof.'
'It is very strange,' says Mrs Lammle, coldly and boldly, and with
some disdain, 'how like men are to one another in some things,
though their characters are as different as can be! No two men can
have less affinity between them, one would say, than Mr Twemlow
and my husband. Yet my husband replies to me "You have no
proof," and Mr Twemlow replies to me with the very same words!'
'But why, madam?' Twemlow ventures gently to argue. 'Consider
why the very same words? Because they state the fact. Because
you HAVE no proof.'
'Men are very wise in their way,' quoth Mrs Lammle, glancing
haughtily at the Snigsworth portrait, and shaking out her dress
before departing; 'but they have wisdom to learn. My husband,
who is not over-confiding, ingenuous, or inexperienced, sees this
plain thing no more than Mr Twemlow does--because there is no
proof! Yet I believe five women out of six, in my place, would see
it as clearly as I do. However, I will never rest (if only in
remembrance of Mr Fledgeby's having kissed my hand) until my
husband does see it. And you will do well for yourself to see it
from this time forth, Mr Twemlow, though I CAN give you no
proof.'
As she moves towards the door, Mr Twemlow, attending on her,
expresses his soothing hope that the condition of Mr Lammle's
affairs is not irretrievable.
'I don't know,' Mrs Lammle answers, stopping, and sketching out
the pattern of the paper on the wall with the point of her parasol; 'it
depends. There may be an opening for him dawning now, or there
may be none. We shall soon find out. If none, we are bankrupt
here, and must go abroad, I suppose.'
Mr Twemlow, in his good-natured desire to make the best of it,
remarks that there are pleasant lives abroad.
'Yes,' returns Mrs Lammle, still sketching on the wall; 'but I doubt
whether billiard-playing, card-playing, and so forth, for the means
to live under suspicion at a dirty table-d'hote, is one of them.'
It is much for Mr Lammle, Twemlow politely intimates (though
greatly shocked), to have one always beside him who is attached to
him in all his fortunes, and whose restraining influence will
prevent him from courses that would be discreditable and ruinous.
As he says it, Mrs Lammle leaves off sketching, and looks at him.
'Restraining influence, Mr Twemlow? We must eat and drink, and
dress, and have a roof over our heads. Always beside him and
attached in all his fortunes? Not much to boast of in that; what can
a woman at my age do? My husband and I deceived one another
when we married; we must bear the consequences of the
deception--that is to say, bear one another, and bear the burden of
scheming together for to-day's dinner and to-morrow's breakfast--
till death divorces us.'
With those words, she walks out into Duke Street, Saint James's.
Mr Twemlow returning to his sofa, lays down his aching head on
its slippery little horsehair bolster, with a strong internal conviction
that a painful interview is not the kind of thing to be taken after the
dinner pills which are so highly salutary in connexion with the
pleasures of the table.
But, six o'clock in the evening finds the worthy little gentleman
getting better, and also getting himself into his obsolete little silk
stockings and pumps, for the wondering dinner at the Veneerings.
And seven o'clock in the evening finds him trotting out into Duke
Street, to trot to the corner and save a sixpence in coach-hire.
Tippins the divine has dined herself into such a condition by this
time, that a morbid mind might desire her, for a blessed change, to
sup at last, and turn into bed. Such a mind has Mr Eugene
Wrayburn, whom Twemlow finds contemplating Tippins with the
moodiest of visages, while that playful creature rallies him on
being so long overdue at the woolsack. Skittish is Tippins with
Mortimer Lightwood too, and has raps to give him with her fan for
having been best man at the nuptials of these deceiving what'stheir-
names who have gone to pieces. Though, indeed, the fan is
generally lively, and taps away at the men in all directions, with
something of a grisly sound suggestive of the clattering of Lady
Tippins's bones.
A new race of intimate friends has sprung up at Veneering's since
he went into Parliament for the public good, to whom Mrs
Veneering is very attentive. These friends, like astronomical
distances, are only to be spoken of in the very largest figures.
Boots says that one of them is a Contractor who (it has been
calculated) gives employment, directly and indirectly, to five
hundred thousand men. Brewer says that another of them is a
Chairman, in such request at so many Boards, so far apart, that he
never travels less by railway than three thousand miles a week.
Buffer says that another of them hadn't a sixpence eighteen months
ago, and, through the brilliancy of his genius in getting those
shares issued at eighty-five, and buying them all up with no money
and selling them at par for cash, has now three hundred and
seventy-five thousand pounds--Buffer particularly insisting on the
odd seventy-five, and declining to take a farthing less. With
Buffer, Boots, and Brewer, Lady Tippins is eminently facetious on
the subject of these Fathers of the Scrip-Church: surveying them
through her eyeglass, and inquiring whether Boots and Brewer and
Buffer think they will make her fortune if she makes love to them?
with other pleasantries of that nature. Veneering, in his different
way, is much occupied with the Fathers too, piously retiring with
them into the conservatory, from which retreat the word
'Committee' is occasionally heard, and where the Fathers instruct
Veneering how he must leave the valley of the piano on his left,
take the level of the mantelpiece, cross by an open cutting at the
candelabra, seize the carrying-traffic at the console, and cut up the
opposition root and branch at the window curtains.
Mr and Mrs Podsnap are of the company, and the Fathers descry in
Mrs Podsnap a fine woman. She is consigned to a Father--Boots's
Father, who employs five hundred thousand men--and is brought
to anchor on Veneering's left; thus affording opportunity to the
sportive Tippins on his right (he, as usual, being mere vacant
space), to entreat to be told something about those loves of
Navvies, and whether they really do live on raw beefsteaks, and
drink porter out of their barrows. But, in spite of such little
skirmishes it is felt that this was to be a wondering dinner, and that
the wondering must not be neglected. Accordingly, Brewer, as the
man who has the greatest reputation to sustain, becomes the
interpreter of the general instinct.
'I took,' says Brewer in a favourable pause, 'a cab this morning,
and I rattled off to that Sale.'
Boots (devoured by envy) says, 'So did I.'
Buffer says, 'So did I'; but can find nobody to care whether he did
or not.
'And what was it like?' inquires Veneering.
'I assure you,' replies Brewer, looking about for anybody else to
address his answer to, and giving the preference to Lightwood; 'I
assure you, the things were going for a song. Handsome things
enough, but fetching nothing.'
'So I heard this afternoon,' says Lightwood.
Brewer begs to know now, would it be fair to ask a professional
man how--on--earth--these--people--ever--did--come--TO--such--
A--total smash? (Brewer's divisions being for emphasis.)
Lightwood replies that he was consulted certainly, but could give
no opinion which would pay off the Bill of Sale, and therefore
violates no confidence in supposing that it came of their living
beyond their means.
'But how,' says Veneering, 'CAN people do that!'
Hah! That is felt on all hands to be a shot in the bull's eye. How
CAN people do that! The Analytical Chemist going round with
champagne, looks very much as if HE could give them a pretty
good idea how people did that, if he had a mind.
'How,' says Mrs Veneering, laying down her fork to press her
aquiline hands together at the tips of the fingers, and addressing
the Father who travels the three thousand miles per week: 'how a
mother can look at her baby, and know that she lives beyond her
husband's means, I cannot imagine.'
Eugene suggests that Mrs Lammle, not being a mother, had no
baby to look at.
'True,' says Mrs Veneering, 'but the principle is the same.'
Boots is clear that the principle is the same. So is Buffer. It is the
unfortunate destiny of Buffer to damage a cause by espousing it.
The rest of the company have meekly yielded to the proposition
that the principle is the same, until Buffer says it is; when instantly
a general murmur arises that the principle is not the same.
'But I don't understand,' says the Father of the three hundred and
seventy-five thousand pounds, '--if these people spoken of,
occupied the position of being in society--they were in society?'
Veneering is bound to confess that they dined here, and were even
married from here.
'Then I don't understand,' pursues the Father, 'how even their living
beyond their means could bring them to what has been termed a
total smash. Because, there is always such a thing as an
adjustment of affairs, in the case of people of any standing at all.'
Eugene (who would seem to be in a gloomy state of
suggestiveness), suggests, 'Suppose you have no means and live
beyond them?'
This is too insolvent a state of things for the Father to entertain. It
is too insolvent a state of things for any one with any self-respect to
entertain, and is universally scouted. But, it is so amazing how
any people can have come to a total smash, that everybody feels
bound to account for it specially. One of the Fathers says, 'Gaming
table.' Another of the Fathers says, 'Speculated without knowing
that speculation is a science.' Boots says 'Horses.' Lady Tippins
says to her fan, 'Two establishments.' Mr Podsnap, saying
nothing, is referred to for his opinion; which he delivers as follows;
much flushed and extremely angry:
'Don't ask me. I desire to take no part in the discussion of these
people's affairs. I abhor the subject. It is an odious subject, an
offensive subject, a subject that makes me sick, and I--' And with
his favourite right-arm flourish which sweeps away everything and
settles it for ever, Mr Podsnap sweeps these inconveniently
unexplainable wretches who have lived beyond their means and
gone to total smash, off the face of the universe.
Eugene, leaning back in his chair, is observing Mr Podsnap with
an irreverent face, and may be about to offer a new suggestion,
when the Analytical is beheld in collision with the Coachman; the
Coachman manifesting a purpose of coming at the company with a
silver salver, as though intent upon making a collection for his wife
and family; the Analytical cutting him off at the sideboard. The
superior stateliness, if not the superior generalship, of the
Analytical prevails over a man who is as nothing off the box; and
the Coachman, yielding up his salver, retires defeated.
Then, the Analytical, perusing a scrap of paper lying on the salver,
with the air of a literary Censor, adjusts it, takes his time about
going to the table with it, and presents it to Mr Eugene Wrayburn.
Whereupon the pleasant Tippins says aloud, 'The Lord Chancellor
has resigned!'
With distracting coolness and slowness--for he knows the curiosity
of the Charmer to be always devouring--Eugene makes a pretence
of getting out an eyeglass, polishing it, and reading the paper with
difficulty, long after he has seen what is written on it. What is
written on it in wet ink, is:
'Young Blight.'
'Waiting?' says Eugene over his shoulder, in confidence, with the
Analytical.
'Waiting,' returns the Analytical in responsive confidence.
Eugene looks 'Excuse me,' towards Mrs Veneering, goes out, and
finds Young Blight, Mortimer's clerk, at the hall-door.
'You told me to bring him, sir, to wherever you was, if he come
while you was out and I was in,' says that discreet young
gentleman, standing on tiptoe to whisper; 'and I've brought him.'
'Sharp boy. Where is he?' asks Eugene.
'He's in a cab, sir, at the door. I thought it best not to show him,
you see, if it could be helped; for he's a-shaking all over, like--
Blight's simile is perhaps inspired by the surrounding dishes of
sweets--'like Glue Monge.'
'Sharp boy again,' returns Eugene. 'I'll go to him.'
Goes out straightway, and, leisurely leaning his arms on the open
window of a cab in waiting, looks in at Mr Dolls: who has brought
his own atmosphere with him, and would seem from its odour to
have brought it, for convenience of carriage, in a rum-cask.
'Now Dolls, wake up!'
'Mist Wrayburn? Drection! Fifteen shillings!'
After carefully reading the dingy scrap of paper handed to him, and
as carefully tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, Eugene tells out
the money; beginning incautiously by telling the first shilling into
Mr Dolls's hand, which instantly jerks it out of window; and
ending by telling the fifteen shillings on the seat.
'Give him a ride back to Charing Cross, sharp boy, and there get
rid of him.'
Returning to the dining-room, and pausing for an instant behind
the screen at the door, Eugene overhears, above the hum and
clatter, the fair Tippins saying: 'I am dying to ask him what he
was called out for!'
'Are you?' mutters Eugene, 'then perhaps if you can't ask him,
you'll die. So I'll be a benefactor to society, and go. A stroll and a
cigar, and I can think this over. Think this over.' Thus, with a
thoughtful face, he finds his hat and cloak, unseen of the
Analytical, and goes his way.
BOOK THE FOURTH
A TURNING
Chapter 1
SETTING TRAPS
Plashwater Weir Mill Lock looked tranquil and pretty on an
evening in the summer time. A soft air stirred the leaves of the
fresh green trees, and passed like a smooth shadow over the river,
and like a smoother shadow over the yielding grass. The voice of
the falling water, like the voices of the sea and the wind, were as
an outer memory to a contemplative listener; but not particularly so
to Mr Riderhood, who sat on one of the blunt wooden levers of his
lock-gates, dozing. Wine must be got into a butt by some agency
before it can be drawn out; and the wine of sentiment never having
been got into Mr Riderhood by any agency, nothing in nature
tapped him.
As the Rogue sat, ever and again nodding himself off his balance,
his recovery was always attended by an angry stare and growl, as
if, in the absence of any one else, he had aggressive inclinations
towards himself. In one of these starts the cry of 'Lock, ho! Lock!'
prevented his relapse into a doze. Shaking himself as he got up
like the surly brute he was, he gave his growl a responsive twist at
the end, and turned his face down-stream to see who hailed.
It was an amateur-sculler, well up to his work though taking it
easily, in so light a boat that the Rogue remarked: 'A little less on
you, and you'd a'most ha' been a Wagerbut'; then went to work at
his windlass handles and sluices, to let the sculler in. As the latter
stood in his boat, holding on by the boat-hook to the woodwork at
the lock side, waiting for the gates to open, Rogue Riderhood
recognized his 'T'other governor,' Mr Eugene Wrayburn; who was,
however, too indifferent or too much engaged to recognize him.
The creaking lock-gates opened slowly, and the light boat passed
in as soon as there was room enough, and the creaking lock-gates
closed upon it, and it floated low down in the dock between the
two sets of gates, until the water should rise and the second gates
should open and let it out. When Riderhood had run to his second
windlass and turned it, and while he leaned against the lever of
that gate to help it to swing open presently, he noticed, lying to rest
under the green hedge by the towing-path astern of the Lock, a
Bargeman.
The water rose and rose as the sluice poured in, dispersing the
scum which had formed behind the lumbering gates, and sending
the boat up, so that the sculler gradually rose like an apparition
against the light from the bargeman's point of view. Riderhood
observed that the bargeman rose too, leaning on his arm, and
seemed to have his eyes fastened on the rising figure.
But, there was the toll to be taken, as the gates were now
complaining and opening. The T'other governor tossed it ashore,
twisted in a piece of paper, and as he did so, knew his man.
'Ay, ay? It's you, is it, honest friend?' said Eugene, seating himself
preparatory to resuming his sculls. 'You got the place, then?'
'I got the place, and no thanks to you for it, nor yet none to Lawyer
Lightwood,' gruffly answered Riderhood.
'We saved our recommendation, honest fellow,' said Eugene, 'for
the next candidate--the one who will offer himself when you are
transported or hanged. Don't be long about it; will you be so
good?'
So imperturbable was the air with which he gravely bent to his
work that Riderhood remained staring at him, without having
found a retort, until he had rowed past a line of wooden objects by
the weir, which showed like huge teetotums standing at rest in the
water, and was almost hidden by the drooping boughs on the left
bank, as he rowed away, keeping out of the opposing current. It
being then too late to retort with any effect--if that could ever have
been done--the honest man confined himself to cursing and
growling in a grim under-tone. Having then got his gates shut, he
crossed back by his plank lock-bridge to the towing-path side of
the river.
If, in so doing, he took another glance at the bargeman, he did it by
stealth. He cast himself on the grass by the Lock side, in an
indolent way, with his back in that direction, and, having gathered
a few blades, fell to chewing them. The dip of Eugene Wrayburn's
sculls had become hardly audible in his ears when the bargeman
passed him, putting the utmost width that he could between them,
and keeping under the hedge. Then, Riderhood sat up and took a
long look at his figure, and then cried: 'Hi--I--i! Lock, ho! Lock!
Plashwater Weir Mill Lock!'
The bargeman stopped, and looked back.
'Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, T'otherest gov--er--nor--or--or--or!'
cried Mr Riderhood, with his hands to his mouth.
The bargeman turned back. Approaching nearer and nearer, the
bargeman became Bradley Headstone, in rough water-side secondhand
clothing.
'Wish I may die,' said Riderhood, smiting his right leg, and
laughing, as he sat on the grass, 'if you ain't ha' been a imitating
me, T'otherest governor! Never thought myself so good-looking
afore!'
Truly, Bradley Headstone had taken careful note of the honest
man's dress in the course of that night-walk they had had together.
He must have committed it to memory, and slowly got it by heart.
It was exactly reproduced in the dress he now wore. And whereas,
in his own schoolmaster clothes, he usually looked as if they were
the clothes of some other man, he now looked, in the clothes of
some other man or men, as if they were his own.
'THIS your Lock?' said Bradley, whose surprise had a genuine air;
'they told me, where I last inquired, it was the third I should come
to. This is only the second.'
'It's my belief, governor,' returned Riderhood, with a wink and
shake of his head, 'that you've dropped one in your counting. It
ain't Locks as YOU'VE been giving your mind to. No, no!'
As he expressively jerked his pointing finger in the direction the
boat had taken, a flush of impatience mounted into Bradley's face,
and he looked anxiously up the river.
'It ain't Locks as YOU'VE been a reckoning up,' said Riderhood,
when the schoolmaster's eyes came back again. 'No, no!'
'What other calculations do you suppose I have been occupied
with? Mathematics?'
'I never heerd it called that. It's a long word for it. Hows'ever,
p'raps you call it so,' said Riderhood, stubbornly chewing his grass.
'It. What?'
'I'll say them, instead of it, if you like,' was the coolly growled
reply. 'It's safer talk too.'
'What do you mean that I should understand by them?'
'Spites, affronts, offences giv' and took, deadly aggrawations, such
like,' answered Riderhood.
Do what Bradley Headstone would, he could not keep that former
flush of impatience out of his face, or so master his eyes as to
prevent their again looking anxiously up the river.
'Ha ha! Don't be afeerd, T'otherest,' said Riderhood. 'The T'other's
got to make way agin the stream, and he takes it easy. You can
soon come up with him. But wot's the good of saying that to you!
YOU know how fur you could have outwalked him betwixt
anywheres about where he lost the tide--say Richmond--and this, if
you had a mind to it.'
'You think I have been following him?' said Bradley.
'I KNOW you have,' said Riderhood.
'Well! I have, I have,' Bradley admitted. 'But,' with another
anxious look up the river, 'he may land.'
'Easy you! He won't be lost if he does land,' said Riderhood. 'He
must leave his boat behind him. He can't make a bundle or a
parcel on it, and carry it ashore with him under his arm.'
'He was speaking to you just now,' said Bradley, kneeling on one
knee on the grass beside the Lock-keeper. 'What did he say?'
'Cheek,' said Riderhood.
'What?'
'Cheek,' repeated Riderhood, with an angry oath; 'cheek is what he
said. He can't say nothing but cheek. I'd ha' liked to plump down
aboard of him, neck and crop, with a heavy jump, and sunk him.'
Bradley turned away his haggard face for a few moments, and then
said, tearing up a tuft of grass:
'Damn him!'
'Hooroar!' cried Riderhood. 'Does you credit! Hooroar! I cry
chorus to the T'otherest.'
'What turn,' said Bradley, with an effort at self-repression that
forced him to wipe his face, 'did his insolence take to-day?'
'It took the turn,' answered Riderhood, with sullen ferocity, 'of
hoping as I was getting ready to be hanged.'
'Let him look to that,' cried Bradley. 'Let him look to that! It will
be bad for him when men he has injured, and at whom he has
jeered, are thinking of getting hanged. Let HIM get ready for HIS
fate, when that comes about. There was more meaning in what he
said than he knew of, or he wouldn't have had brains enough to say
it. Let him look to it; let him look to it! When men he has
wronged, and on whom he has bestowed his insolence, are getting
ready to be hanged, there is a death-bell ringing. And not for
them.'
Riderhood, looking fixedly at him, gradually arose from his
recumbent posture while the schoolmaster said these words with
the utmost concentration of rage and hatred. So, when the words
were all spoken, he too kneeled on one knee on the grass, and the
two men looked at one another.
'Oh!' said Riderhood, very deliberately spitting out the grass he had
been chewing. 'Then, I make out, T'otherest, as he is a-going to
her?'
'He left London,' answered Bradley, 'yesterday. I have hardly a
doubt, this time, that at last he is going to her.'
'You ain't sure, then?'
'I am as sure here,' said Bradley, with a clutch at the breast of his
coarse shirt, 'as if it was written there;' with a blow or a stab at the
sky.
'Ah! But judging from the looks on you,' retorted Riderhood,
completely ridding himself of his grass, and drawing his sleeve
across his mouth, 'you've made ekally sure afore, and have got
disapinted. It has told upon you.'
'Listen,' said Bradley, in a low voice, bending forward to lay his
hand upon the Lock-keeper's shoulder. 'These are my holidays.'
'Are they, by George!' muttered Riderhood, with his eyes on the
passion-wasted face. 'Your working days must be stiff 'uns, if
these is your holidays.'
'And I have never left him,' pursued Bradley, waving the
interruption aside with an impatient hand, 'since they began. And
I never will leave him now, till I have seen him with her.'
'And when you have seen him with her?' said Riderhood.
'--I'll come back to you.'
Riderhood stiffened the knee on which he had been resting, got up,
and looked gloomily at his new friend. After a few moments they
walked side by side in the direction the boat had taken, as if by
tacit consent; Bradley pressing forward, and Riderhood holding
back; Bradley getting out his neat prim purse into his hand (a
present made him by penny subscription among his pupils); and
Riderhood, unfolding his arms to smear his coat-cuff across his
mouth with a thoughtful air.
'I have a pound for you,' said Bradley.
'You've two,' said Riderhood.
Bradley held a sovereign between his fingers. Slouching at his
side with his eyes upon the towing-path, Riderhood held his left
hand open, with a certain slight drawing action towards himself.
Bradley dipped in his purse for another sovereign, and two chinked
in Riderhood's hand, the drawing action of which, promptly
strengthening, drew them home to his pocket.
'Now, I must follow him,' said Bradley Headstone. 'He takes this
river-road--the fool!--to confuse observation, or divert attention, if
not solely to baffle me. But he must have the power of making
himself invisible before he can shake Me off.'
Riderhood stopped. 'If you don't get disapinted agin, T'otherest,
maybe you'll put up at the Lock-house when you come back?'
'I will.'
Riderhood nodded, and the figure of the bargeman went its way
along the soft turf by the side of the towing-path, keeping near the
hedge and moving quickly. They had turned a point from which a
long stretch of river was visible. A stranger to the scene might
have been certain that here and there along the line of hedge a
figure stood, watching the bargeman, and waiting for him to come
up. So he himself had often believed at first, until his eyes became
used to the posts, bearing the dagger that slew Wat Tyler, in the
City of London shield.
Within Mr Riderhood's knowledge all daggers were as one. Even
to Bradley Headstone, who could have told to the letter without
book all about Wat Tyler, Lord Mayor Walworth, and the King,
that it is dutiful for youth to know, there was but one subject living
in the world for every sharp destructive instrument that summer
evening. So, Riderhood looking after him as he went, and he with
his furtive hand laid upon the dagger as he passed it, and his eyes
upon the boat, were much upon a par.
The boat went on, under the arching trees, and over their tranquil
shadows in the water. The bargeman skulking on the opposite
bank of the stream, went on after it. Sparkles of light showed
Riderhood when and where the rower dipped his blades, until,
even as he stood idly watching, the sun went down and the
landscape was dyed red. And then the red had the appearance of
fading out of it and mounting up to Heaven, as we say that blood,
guiltily shed, does.
Turning back towards his Lock (he had not gone out of view of it),
the Rogue pondered as deeply as it was within the contracted
power of such a fellow to do. 'Why did he copy my clothes? He
could have looked like what he wanted to look like, without that.'
This was the subject-matter in his thoughts; in which, too, there
came lumbering up, by times, like any half floating and half
sinking rubbish in the river, the question, Was it done by accident?
The setting of a trap for finding out whether it was accidentally
done, soon superseded, as a practical piece of cunning, the
abstruser inquiry why otherwise it was done. And he devised a
means.
Rogue Riderhood went into his Lock-house, and brought forth, into
the now sober grey light, his chest of clothes. Sitting on the grass
beside it, he turned out, one by one, the articles it contained, until
he came to a conspicuous bright red neckerchief stained black here
and there by wear. It arrested his attention, and he sat pausing
over it, until he took off the rusty colourless wisp that he wore
round his throat, and substituted the red neckerchief, leaving the
long ends flowing. 'Now,' said the Rogue, 'if arter he sees me in
this neckhankecher, I see him in a sim'lar neckhankecher, it won't
be accident!' Elated by his device, he carried his chest in again and
went to supper.
'Lock ho! Lock!' It was a light night, and a barge coming down
summoned him out of a long doze. In due course he had let the
barge through and was alone again, looking to the closing of his
gates, when Bradley Headstone appeared before him, standing on
the brink of the Lock.
'Halloa!' said Riderhood. 'Back a' ready, T'otherest?'
'He has put up for the night, at an Angler's Inn,' was the fatigued
and hoarse reply. 'He goes on, up the river, at six in the morning. I
have come back for a couple of hours' rest.'
'You want 'em,' said Riderhood, making towards the schoolmaster
by his plank bridge.
'I don't want them,' returned Bradley, irritably, 'because I would
rather not have them, but would much prefer to follow him all
night. However, if he won't lead, I can't follow. I have been
waiting about, until I could discover, for a certainty, at what time
he starts; if I couldn't have made sure of it, I should have stayed
there.--This would be a bad pit for a man to be flung into with his
hands tied. These slippery smooth walls would give him no
chance. And I suppose those gates would suck him down?'
'Suck him down, or swaller him up, he wouldn't get out,' said
Riderhood. 'Not even, if his hands warn't tied, he wouldn't. Shut
him in at both ends, and I'd give him a pint o' old ale ever to come
up to me standing here.'
Bradley looked down with a ghastly relish. 'You run about the
brink, and run across it, in this uncertain light, on a few inches
width of rotten wood,' said he. 'I wonder you have no thought of
being drowned.'
'I can't be!' said Riderhood.
'You can't be drowned?'
'No!' said Riderhood, shaking his head with an air of thorough
conviction, 'it's well known. I've been brought out o' drowning,
and I can't be drowned. I wouldn't have that there busted
B'lowbridger aware on it, or her people might make it tell agin' the
damages I mean to get. But it's well known to water-side
characters like myself, that him as has been brought out o
drowning, can never be drowned.'
Bradley smiled sourly at the ignorance he would have corrected in
one of his pupils, and continued to look down into the water, as if
the place had a gloomy fascination for him.
'You seem to like it,' said Riderhood.
He took no notice, but stood looking down, as if he had not heard
the words. There was a very dark expression on his face; an
expression that the Rogue found it hard to understand. It was
fierce, and full of purpose; but the purpose might have been as
much against himself as against another. If he had stepped back
for a spring, taken a leap, and thrown himself in, it would have
been no surprising sequel to the look. Perhaps his troubled soul,
set upon some violence, did hover for the moment between that
violence and another.
'Didn't you say,' asked Riderhood, after watching him for a while
with a sidelong glance, 'as you had come back for a couple o'
hours' rest?' But, even then he had to jog him with his elbow
before he answered.
'Eh? Yes.'
'Hadn't you better come in and take your couple o' hours' rest?'
'Thank you. Yes.'
With the look of one just awakened, he followed Riderhood into
the Lock-house, where the latter produced from a cupboard some
cold salt beef and half a loaf, some gin in a bottle, and some water
in a jug. The last he brought in, cool and dripping, from the river.
'There, T'otherest,' said Riderhood, stooping over him to put it on
the table. 'You'd better take a bite and a sup, afore you takes your
snooze.' The draggling ends of the red neckerchief caught the
schoolmaster's eyes. Riderhood saw him look at it.
'Oh!' thought that worthy. 'You're a-taking notice, are you?
Come! You shall have a good squint at it then.' With which
reflection he sat down on the other side of the table, threw open his
vest, and made a pretence of re-tying the neckerchief with much
deliberation.
Bradley ate and drank. As he sat at his platter and mug,
Riderhood saw him, again and yet again, steal a look at the
neckerchief, as if he were correcting his slow observation and
prompting his sluggish memory. 'When you're ready for your
snooze,' said that honest creature, 'chuck yourself on my bed in
the corner, T'otherest. It'll be broad day afore three. I'll call you
early.'
'I shall require no calling,' answered Bradley. And soon
afterwards, divesting himself only of his shoes and coat, laid
himself down.
Riderhood, leaning back in his wooden arm-chair with his arms
folded on his breast, looked at him lying with his right hand
clenched in his sleep and his teeth set, until a film came over his
own sight, and he slept too. He awoke to find that it was daylight,
and that his visitor was already astir, and going out to the riverside
to cool his head:--'Though I'm blest,' muttered Riderhood at
the Lock-house door, looking after him, 'if I think there's water
enough in all the Thames to do THAT for you!' Within five
minutes he had taken his departure, and was passing on into the
calm distance as he had passed yesterday. Riderhood knew when
a fish leaped, by his starting and glancing round.
'Lock ho! Lock!' at intervals all day, and 'Lock ho! Lock!' thrice in
the ensuing night, but no return of Bradley. The second day was
sultry and oppressive. In the afternoon, a thunderstorm came up,
and had but newly broken into a furious sweep of rain when he
rushed in at the door, like the storm itself.
'You've seen him with her!' exclaimed Riderhood, starting up.
'I have.'
'Where?'
'At his journey's end. His boat's hauled up for three days. I heard
him give the order. Then, I saw him wait for her and meet her. I
saw them'--he stopped as though he were suffocating, and began
again--'I saw them walking side by side, last night.'
'What did you do?'
'Nothing.'
'What are you going to do?'
He dropped into a chair, and laughed. Immediately afterwards, a
great spirt of blood burst from his nose.
'How does that happen?' asked Riderhood.
'I don't know. I can't keep it back. It has happened twice--three
times--four times--I don't know how many times--since last night.
I taste it, smell it, see it, it chokes me, and then it breaks out like
this.'
He went into the pelting rain again with his head bare, and,
bending low over the river, and scooping up the water with his two
hands, washed the blood away. All beyond his figure, as
Riderhood looked from the door, was a vast dark curtain in solemn
movement towards one quarter of the heavens. He raised his head
and came back, wet from head to foot, but with the lower parts of
his sleeves, where he had dipped into the river, streaming water.
'Your face is like a ghost's,' said Riderhood.
'Did you ever see a ghost?' was the sullen retort.
'I mean to say, you're quite wore out.'
'That may well be. I have had no rest since I left here. I don't
remember that I have so much as sat down since I left here.'
'Lie down now, then,' said Riderhood.
'I will, if you'll give me something to quench my thirst first.'
The bottle and jug were again produced, and he mixed a weak
draught, and another, and drank both in quick succession. 'You
asked me something,' he said then.
'No, I didn't,' replied Riderhood.
'I tell you,' retorted Bradley, turning upon him in a wild and
desperate manner, 'you asked me something, before I went out to
wash my face in the river.
'Oh! Then?' said Riderhood, backing a little. 'I asked you wot you
wos a-going to do.'
'How can a man in this state know?' he answered, protesting with
both his tremulous hands, with an action so vigorously angry that
he shook the water from his sleeves upon the floor, as if he had
wrung them. 'How can I plan anything, if I haven't sleep?'
'Why, that's what I as good as said,' returned the other. 'Didn't I
say lie down?'
'Well, perhaps you did.'
'Well! Anyways I says it again. Sleep where you slept last; the
sounder and longer you can sleep, the better you'll know arterwards
what you're up to.'
His pointing to the truckle bed in the corner, seemed gradually to
bring that poor couch to Bradley's wandering remembrance. He
slipped off his worn down-trodden shoes, and cast himself heavily,
all wet as he was, upon the bed.
Riderhood sat down in his wooden arm-chair, and looked through
the window at the lightning, and listened to the thunder. But, his
thoughts were far from being absorbed by the thunder and the
lightning, for again and again and again he looked very curiously
at the exhausted man upon the bed. The man had turned up the
collar of the rough coat he wore, to shelter himself from the storm,
and had buttoned it about his neck. Unconscious of that, and of
most things, he had left the coat so, both when he had laved his
face in the river, and when he had cast himself upon the bed;
though it would have been much easier to him if he had
unloosened it.
The thunder rolled heavily, and the forked lightning seemed to
make jagged rents in every part of the vast curtain without, as
Riderhood sat by the window, glancing at the bed. Sometimes, he
saw the man upon the bed, by a red light; sometimes, by a blue;
sometimes, he scarcely saw him in the darkness of the storm;
sometimes he saw nothing of him in the blinding glare of
palpitating white fire. Anon, the rain would come again with a
tremendous rush, and the river would seem to rise to meet it, and a
blast of wind, bursting upon the door, would flutter the hair and
dress of the man, as if invisible messengers were come around the
bed to carry him away. From all these phases of the storm,
Riderhood would turn, as if they were interruptions--rather striking
interruptions possibly, but interruptions still--of his scrutiny of the
sleeper.
'He sleeps sound,' he said within himself; 'yet he's that up to me
and that noticing of me that my getting out of my chair may wake
him, when a rattling peal won't; let alone my touching of him.'
He very cautiously rose to his feet. 'T'otherest,' he said, in a low,
calm voice, 'are you a lying easy? There's a chill in the air,
governor. Shall I put a coat over you?'
No answer.
'That's about what it is a'ready, you see,' muttered Riderhood in a
lower and a different voice; 'a coat over you, a coat over you!'
The sleeper moving an arm, he sat down again in his chair, and
feigned to watch the storm from the window. It was a grand
spectacle, but not so grand as to keep his eyes, for half a minute
together, from stealing a look at the man upon the bed.
It was at the concealed throat of the sleeper that Riderhood so often
looked so curiously, until the sleep seemed to deepen into the
stupor of the dead-tired in mind and body. Then, Riderhood came
from the window cautiously, and stood by the bed.
'Poor man!' he murmured in a low tone, with a crafty face, and a
very watchful eye and ready foot, lest he should start up; 'this here
coat of his must make him uneasy in his sleep. Shall I loosen it for
him, and make him more comfortable? Ah! I think I ought to do
it, poor man. I think I will.'
He touched the first button with a very cautious hand, and a step
backward. But, the sleeper remaining in profound
unconsciousness, he touched the other buttons with a more assured
hand, and perhaps the more lightly on that account. Softly and
slowly, he opened the coat and drew it back.
The draggling ends of a bright-red neckerchief were then disclosed,
and he had even been at the pains of dipping parts of it in some
liquid, to give it the appearance of having become stained by wear.
With a much-perplexed face, Riderhood looked from it to the
sleeper, and from the sleeper to it, and finally crept back to his
chair, and there, with his hand to his chin, sat long in a brown
study, looking at both.
Chapter 2
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN RISES A LITTLE
Mr and Mrs Lammle had come to breakfast with Mr and Mrs
Boffin. They were not absolutely uninvited, but had pressed
themselves with so much urgency on the golden couple, that
evasion of the honour and pleasure of their company would have
been difficult, if desired. They were in a charming state of mind,
were Mr and Mrs Lammle, and almost as fond of Mr and Mrs
Boffin as of one another.
'My dear Mrs Boffin,' said Mrs Lammle, 'it imparts new life to me,
to see my Alfred in confidential communication with Mr Boffin.
The two were formed to become intimate. So much simplicity
combined with so much force of character, such natural sagacity
united to such amiability and gentleness--these are the
distinguishing characteristics of both.'
This being said aloud, gave Mr Lammle an opportunity, as he
came with Mr Boffin from the window to the breakfast table, of
taking up his dear and honoured wife.
'My Sophronia,' said that gentleman, 'your too partial estimate of
your husband's character--'
'No! Not too partial, Alfred,' urged the lady, tenderly moved;
'never say that.'
'My child, your favourable opinion, then, of your husband--you
don't object to that phrase, darling?'
'How can I, Alfred?'
'Your favourable opinion then, my Precious, does less than justice
to Mr Boffin, and more than justice to me.'
'To the first charge, Alfred, I plead guilty. But to the second, oh
no, no!'
'Less than justice to Mr Boffin, Sophronia,' said Mr Lammle,
soaring into a tone of moral grandeur, 'because it represents Mr
Boffin as on my lower level; more than justice to me, Sophronia,
because it represents me as on Mr Boffin's higher level. Mr Boffin
bears and forbears far more than I could.'
'Far more than you could for yourself, Alfred?'
'My love, that is not the question.'
'Not the question, Lawyer?' said Mrs Lammle, archly.
'No, dear Sophronia. From my lower level, I regard Mr Boffin as
too generous, as possessed of too much clemency, as being too
good to persons who are unworthy of him and ungrateful to him.
To those noble qualities I can lay no claim. On the contrary, they
rouse my indignation when I see them in action.'
'Alfred!'
'They rouse my indignation, my dear, against the unworthy
persons, and give me a combative desire to stand between Mr
Boffin and all such persons. Why? Because, in my lower nature I
am more worldly and less delicate. Not being so magnanimous as
Mr Boffin, I feel his injuries more than he does himself, and feel
more capable of opposing his injurers.'
It struck Mrs Lammle that it appeared rather difficult this morning
to bring Mr and Mrs Boffin into agreeable conversation. Here had
been several lures thrown out, and neither of them had uttered a
word. Here were she, Mrs Lammle, and her husband discoursing
at once affectingly and effectively, but discoursing alone.
Assuming that the dear old creatures were impressed by what they
heard, still one would like to be sure of it, the more so, as at least
one of the dear old creatures was somewhat pointedly referred to.
If the dear old creatures were too bashful or too dull to assume
their required places in the discussion, why then it would seem
desirable that the dear old creatures should be taken by their heads
and shoulders and brought into it.
'But is not my husband saying in effect,' asked Mrs Lammie,
therefore, with an innocent air, of Mr and Mrs Boffin, 'that he
becomes unmindful of his own temporary misfortunes in his
admiration of another whom he is burning to serve? And is not
that making an admission that his nature is a generous one? I am
wretched in argument, but surely this is so, dear Mr and Mrs
Boffin?'
Still, neither Mr and Mrs Boffin said a word. He sat with his eyes
on his plate, eating his muffins and ham, and she sat shyly looking
at the teapot. Mrs Lammle's innocent appeal was merely thrown
into the air, to mingle with the steam of the urn. Glancing towards
Mr and Mrs Boffin, she very slightly raised her eyebrows, as
though inquiring of her husband: 'Do I notice anything wrong
here?'
Mr Lammle, who had found his chest effective on a variety of
occasions, manoeuvred his capacious shirt front into the largest
demonstration possible, and then smiling retorted on his wife,
thus:
'Sophronia, darling, Mr and Mrs Boffin will remind you of the old
adage, that self-praise is no recommendation.'
'Self-praise, Alfred? Do you mean because we are one and the
same?'
'No, my dear child. I mean that you cannot fail to remember, if you
reflect for a single moment, that what you are pleased to
compliment me upon feeling in the case of Mr Boffin, you have
yourself confided to me as your own feeling in the case of Mrs
Boffin.'
('I shall be beaten by this Lawyer,' Mrs Lammle gaily whispered to
Mrs Boffin. 'I am afraid I must admit it, if he presses me, for it's
damagingly true.')
Several white dints began to come and go about Mr Lammle's
nose, as he observed that Mrs Boffin merely looked up from the
teapot for a moment with an embarrassed smile, which was no
smile, and then looked down again.
'Do you admit the charge, Sophronia?' inquired Alfred, in a
rallying tone.
'Really, I think,' said Mrs Lammle, still gaily, 'I must throw myself
on the protection of the Court. Am I bound to answer that
question, my Lord?' To Mr Boffin.
'You needn't, if you don't like, ma'am,' was his answer. 'It's not of
the least consequence.'
Both husband and wife glanced at him, very doubtfully. His
manner was grave, but not coarse, and derived some dignity from a
certain repressed dislike of the tone of the conversation.
Again Mrs Lammle raised her eyebrows for instruction from her
husband. He replied in a slight nod, 'Try 'em again.'
'To protect myself against the suspicion of covert self-laudation,
my dear Mrs Boffin,' said the airy Mrs Lammle therefore, 'I must
tell you how it was.'
'No. Pray don't,' Mr Boffin interposed.
Mrs Lammie turned to him laughingly. 'The Court objects?'
'Ma'am,' said Mr Boffin, 'the Court (if I am the Court) does object.
The Court objects for two reasons. First, because the Court don't
think it fair. Secondly, because the dear old lady, Mrs Court (if I
am Mr) gets distressed by it.'
A very remarkable wavering between two bearings--between her
propitiatory bearing there, and her defiant bearing at Mr
Twemlow's--was observable on the part of Mrs Lammle as she
said:
'What does the Court not consider fair?'
'Letting you go on,' replied Mr Boffin, nodding his head
soothingly, as who should say, We won't be harder on you than we
can help; we'll make the best of it. 'It's not above-board and it's not
fair. When the old lady is uncomfortable, there's sure to be good
reason for it. I see she is uncomfortable, and I plainly see this is
the good reason wherefore. HAVE you breakfasted, ma'am.'
Mrs Lammle, settling into her defiant manner, pushed her plate
away, looked at her husband, and laughed; but by no means gaily.
'Have YOU breakfasted, sir?' inquired Mr Boffin.
'Thank you,' replied Alfred, showing all his teeth. 'If Mrs Boffin
will oblige me, I'll take another cup of tea.'
He spilled a little of it over the chest which ought to have been so
effective, and which had done so little; but on the whole drank it
with something of an air, though the coming and going dints got
almost as large, the while, as if they had been made by pressure of
the teaspoon. 'A thousand thanks,' he then observed. 'I have
breakfasted.'
'Now, which,' said Mr Boffin softly, taking out a pocket-book,
'which of you two is Cashier?'
'Sophronia, my dear,' remarked her husband, as he leaned back in
his chair, waving his right hand towards her, while he hung his left
hand by the thumb in the arm-hole of his waistcoat: 'it shall be
your department.'
'I would rather,' said Mr Boffin, 'that it was your husband's,
ma'am, because--but never mind, because. I would rather have to
do with him. However, what I have to say, I will say with as little
offence as possible; if I can say it without any, I shall be heartily
glad. You two have done me a service, a very great service, in
doing what you did (my old lady knows what it was), and I have
put into this envelope a bank note for a hundred pound. I consider
the service well worth a hundred pound, and I am well pleased to
pay the money. Would you do me the favour to take it, and
likewise to accept my thanks?'
With a haughty action, and without looking towards him, Mrs
Lammle held out her left hand, and into it Mr Boffin put the little
packet. When she had conveyed it to her bosom, Mr Lammle had
the appearance of feeling relieved, and breathing more freely, as
not having been quite certain that the hundred pounds were his,
until the note had been safely transferred out of Mr Boffin's
keeping into his own Sophronia's.
'It is not impossible,' said Mr Boffin, addressing Alfred, 'that you
have had some general idea, sir, of replacing Rokesmith, in course
of time?'
'It is not,' assented Alfred, with a glittering smile and a great deal
of nose, 'not impossible.'
'And perhaps, ma'am,' pursued Mr Boffin, addressing Sophronia,
'you have been so kind as to take up my old lady in your own mind,
and to do her the honour of turning the question over whether you
mightn't one of these days have her in charge, like? Whether you
mightn't be a sort of Miss Bella Wilfer to her, and something
more?'
'I should hope,' returned Mrs Lammle, with a scornful look and in
a loud voice, 'that if I were anything to your wife, sir, I could
hardly fail to be something more than Miss Bella Wilfer, as you
call her.'
'What do YOU call her, ma'am?' asked Mr Boffin.
Mrs Lammle disdained to reply, and sat defiantly beating one foot
on the ground.
'Again I think I may say, that's not impossible. Is it, sir?' asked Mr
Boffin, turning to Alfred.
'It is not,' said Alfred, smiling assent as before, 'not impossible.'
'Now,' said Mr Boffin, gently, 'it won't do. I don't wish to say a
single word that might be afrerwards remembered as unpleasant;
but it won't do.'
'Sophronia, my love,' her husband repeated in a bantering manner,
'you hear? It won't do.'
'No,' said Mr Boffin, with his voice still dropped, 'it really won't.
You positively must excuse us. If you'll go your way, we'll go
ours, and so I hope this affair ends to the satisfaction of all parties.'
Mrs Lammle gave him the look of a decidedly dissatisfied party
demanding exemption from the category; but said nothing.
'The best thing we can make of the affair,' said Mr Boffin, 'is a
matter of business, and as a matter of business it's brought to a
conclusion. You have done me a great service, a very great
service, and I have paid for it. Is there any objection to the price?'
Mr and Mrs Lammle looked at one another across the table, but
neither could say that there was. Mr Lammle shrugged his
shoulders, and Mrs Lammle sat rigid.
'Very good,' said Mr Boffin. 'We hope (my old lady and me) that
you'll give us credit for taking the plainest and honestest short-cut
that could be taken under the circumstances. We have talked it
over with a deal of care (my old lady and me), and we have felt
that at all to lead you on, or even at all to let you go on of your own
selves, wouldn't be the right thing. So, I have openly given you to
understand that--' Mr Boffin sought for a new turn of speech, but
could find none so expressive as his former one, repeated in a
confidential tone, '--that it won't do. If I could have put the case
more pleasantly I would; but I hope I haven't put it very
unpleasantly; at all events I haven't meant to. So,' said Mr Boffin,
by way of peroration, 'wishing you well in the way you go, we now
conclude with the observation that perhaps you'll go it.'
Mr Lammle rose with an impudent laugh on his side of the table,
and Mrs Lammle rose with a disdainful frown on hers. At this
moment a hasty foot was heard on the staircase, and Georgiana
Podsnap broke into the room, unannounced and in tears.
'Oh, my dear Sophronia,' cried Georgiana, wringing her hands as
she ran up to embrace her, 'to think that you and Alfred should be
ruined! Oh, my poor dear Sophronia, to think that you should have
had a Sale at your house after all your kindness to me! Oh, Mr and
Mrs Boffin, pray forgive me for this intrusion, but you don't know
how fond I was of Sophronia when Pa wouldn't let me go there any
more, or what I have felt for Sophronia since I heard from Ma of
her having been brought low in the world. You don't, you can't,
you never can, think, how I have lain awake at night and cried for
my good Sophronia, my first and only friend!'
Mrs Lammle's manner changed under the poor silly girl's
embraces, and she turned extremely pale: directing one appealing
look, first to Mrs Boffin, and then to Mr Boffin. Both understood
her instantly, with a more delicate subtlety than much better
educated people, whose perception came less directly from the
heart, could have brought to bear upon the case.
'I haven't a minute,' said poor little Georgiana, 'to stay. I am out
shopping early with Ma, and I said I had a headache and got Ma to
leave me outside in the phaeton, in Piccadilly, and ran round to
Sackville Street, and heard that Sophronia was here, and then Ma
came to see, oh such a dreadful old stony woman from the country
in a turban in Portland Place, and I said I wouldn't go up with Ma
but would drive round and leave cards for the Boffins, which is
taking a liberty with the name; but oh my goodness I am
distracted, and the phaeton's at the door, and what would Pa say if
he knew it!'
'Don't ye be timid, my dear,' said Mrs Boffin. 'You came in to see
us.'
'Oh, no, I didn't,' cried Georgiana. 'It's very impolite, I know, but I
came to see my poor Sophronia, my only friend. Oh! how I felt the
separation, my dear Sophronia, before I knew you were brought
low in the world, and how much more I feel it now!'
There were actually tears in the bold woman's eyes, as the softheaded
and soft-hearted girl twined her arms about her neck.
'But I've come on business,' said Georgiana, sobbing and drying
her face, and then searching in a little reticule, 'and if I don't
despatch it I shall have come for nothing, and oh good gracious!
what would Pa say if he knew of Sackville Street, and what would
Ma say if she was kept waiting on the doorsteps of that dreadful
turban, and there never were such pawing horses as ours unsettling
my mind every moment more and more when I want more mind
than I have got, by pawing up Mr Boffin's street where they have
no business to be. Oh! where is, where is it? Oh! I can't find it!'
All this time sobbing, and searching in the little reticule.
'What do you miss, my dear?' asked Mr Boffin, stepping forward.
'Oh! it's little enough,' replied Georgiana, 'because Ma always
treats me as if I was in the nursery (I am sure I wish I was!), but I
hardly ever spend it and it has mounted up to fifteen pounds,
Sophronia, and I hope three five-pound notes are better than
nothing, though so little, so little! And now I have found that--oh,
my goodness! there's the other gone next! Oh no, it isn't, here it is!'
With that, always sobbing and searching in the reticule, Georgiana
produced a necklace.
'Ma says chits and jewels have no business together,' pursued
Georgiana, 'and that's the reason why I have no trinkets except this,
but I suppose my aunt Hawkinson was of a different opinion,
because she left me this, though I used to think she might just as
well have buried it, for it's always kept in jewellers' cotton.
However, here it is, I am thankful to say, and of use at last, and
you'll sell it, dear Sophronia, and buy things with it.'
'Give it to me,' said Mr Boffin, gently taking it. 'I'll see that it's
properly disposed of.'
'Oh! are you such a friend of Sophronia's, Mr Boffin?' cried
Georgiana. 'Oh, how good of you! Oh, my gracious! there was
something else, and it's gone out of my head! Oh no, it isn't, I
remember what it was. My grandmamma's property, that'll come
to me when I am of age, Mr Boffin, will be all my own, and neither
Pa nor Ma nor anybody else will have any control over it, and what
I wish to do it so make some of it over somehow to Sophronia and
Alfred, by signing something somewhere that'll prevail on
somebody to advance them something. I want them to have
something handsome to bring them up in the world again. Oh, my
goodness me! Being such a friend of my dear Sophronia's, you
won't refuse me, will you?'
'No, no,' said Mr Boffin, 'it shall be seen to.'
'Oh, thank you, thank you!' cried Georgiana. 'If my maid had a
little note and half a crown, I could run round to the pastrycook's
to sign something, or I could sign something in the Square if
somebody would come and cough for me to let 'em in with the key,
and would bring a pen and ink with 'em and a bit of blotting-paper.
Oh, my gracious! I must tear myself away, or Pa and Ma will both
find out! Dear, dear Sophronia, good, good-bye!'
The credulous little creature again embraced Mrs Lammle most
affectionately, and then held out her hand to Mr Lammle.
'Good-bye, dear Mr Lammle--I mean Alfred. You won't think after
to-day that I have deserted you and Sophronia because you have
been brought low in the world, will you? Oh me! oh me! I have
been crying my eyes out of my head, and Ma will he sure to ask me
what's the matter. Oh, take me down, somebody, please, please,
please!'
Mr Boffin took her down, and saw her driven away, with her poor
little red eyes and weak chin peering over the great apron of the
custard-coloured phaeton, as if she had been ordered to expiate
some childish misdemeanour by going to bed in the daylight, and
were peeping over the counterpane in a miserable flutter of
repentance and low spirits. Returning to the breakfast-room, he
found Mrs Lammle still standing on her side of the table, and Mr
Lammle on his.
'I'll take care,' said Mr Boffin, showing the money and the
necklace, 'that these are soon given back.'
Mrs Lammle had taken up her parasol from a side table, and stood
sketching with it on the pattern of the damask cloth, as she had
sketched on the pattern of Mr Twemlow's papered wall.
'You will not undeceive her I hope, Mr Boffin?' she said, turning
her head towards him, but not her eyes.
'No,' said Mr Boffin.
'I mean, as to the worth and value of her friend,' Mrs Lammle
explained, in a measured voice, and with an emphasis on her last
word.
'No,' he returned. 'I may try to give a hint at her home that she is in
want of kind and careful protection, but I shall say no more than
that to her parents, and I shall say nothing to the young lady
herself.'
'Mr and Mrs Boffin,' said Mrs Lammle, still sketching, and
seeming to bestow great pains upon it, 'there are not many people,
I think, who, under the circumstances, would have been so
considerate and sparing as you have been to me just now. Do you
care to be thanked?'
'Thanks are always worth having,' said Mrs Boffin, in her ready
good nature.
'Then thank you both.'
'Sophronia,' asked her husband, mockingly, 'are you sentimental?'
'Well, well, my good sir,' Mr Boffin interposed, 'it's a very good
thing to think well of another person, and it's a very good thing to
be thought well of BY another person. Mrs Lammle will be none
the worse for it, if she is.'
'Much obliged. But I asked Mrs Lammle if she was.'
She stood sketching on the table-cloth, with her face clouded and
set, and was silent.
'Because,' said Alfred, 'I am disposed to be sentimental myself,
on your appropriation of the jewels and the money, Mr Boffin. As
our little Georgiana said, three five-pound notes are better than
nothing, and if you sell a necklace you can buy things with the
produce.'
'IF you sell it,' was Mr Boffin's comment, as he put it in his pocket.
Alfred followed it with his looks, and also greedily pursued the
notes until they vanished into Mr Boffin's waistcoat pocket. Then
he directed a look, half exasperated and half jeering, at his wife.
She still stood sketching; but, as she sketched, there was a struggle
within her, which found expression in the depth of the few last
lines the parasol point indented into the table-cloth, and then some
tears fell from her eyes.
'Why, confound the woman,' exclaimed Lammle, 'she IS
sentimental!
She walked to the window, flinching under his angry stare, looked
out for a moment, and turned round quite coldly.
'You have had no former cause of complaint on the sentimental
score, Alfred, and you will have none in future. It is not worth
your noticing. We go abroad soon, with the money we have earned
here?'
'You know we do; you know we must.'
'There is no fear of my taking any sentiment with me. I should
soon be eased of it, if I did. But it will be all left behind. It IS all
left behind. Are you ready, Alfred?'
'What the deuce have I been waiting for but you, Sophronia?'
'Let us go then. I am sorry I have delayed our dignified departure.'
She passed out and he followed her. Mr and Mrs Boffin had the
curiosity softly to raise a window and look after them as they went
down the long street. They walked arm-in-arm, showily enough,
but without appearing to interchange a syllable. It might have
been fanciful to suppose that under their outer bearing there was
something of the shamed air of two cheats who were linked
together by concealed handcuffs; but, not so, to suppose that they
were haggardly weary of one another, of themselves, and of all this
world. In turning the street corner they might have turned out of
this world, for anything Mr and Mrs Boffin ever saw of them to the
contrary; for, they set eyes on the Lammles never more.
Chapter 3
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN SINKS AGAIN
The evening of that day being one of the reading evenings at the
Bower, Mr Boffin kissed Mrs Boffin after a five o'clock dinner,
and trotted out, nursing his big stick in both arms, so that, as of
old, it seemed to be whispering in his ear. He carried so very
attentive an expression on his countenance that it appeared as if the
confidential discourse of the big stick required to be followed
closely. Mr Boffin's face was like the face of a thoughtful listener
to an intricate communication, and, in trotting along, he
occasionally glanced at that companion with the look of a man
who was interposing the remark: 'You don't mean it!'
Mr Boffin and his stick went on alone together, until they arrived
at certain cross-ways where they would be likely to fall in with any
one coming, at about the same time, from Clerkenwell to the
Bower. Here they stopped, and Mr Boffin consulted his watch.
'It wants five minutes, good, to Venus's appointment,' said he. 'I'm
rather early.'
But Venus was a punctual man, and, even as Mr Boffin replaced
his watch in its pocket, was to be descried coming towards him.
He quickened his pace on seeing Mr Boffin already at the place of
meeting, and was soon at his side.
'Thank'ee, Venus,' said Mr Boffin. 'Thank'ee, thank'ee, thank'ee!'
It would not have been very evident why he thanked the anatomist,
but for his furnishing the explanation in what he went on to say.
'All right, Venus, all right. Now, that you've been to see me, and
have consented to keep up the appearance before Wegg of
remaining in it for a time, I have got a sort of a backer. All right,
Venus. Thank'ee, Venus. Thank'ee, thank'ee, thank'ee!'
Mr Venus shook the proffered hand with a modest air, and they
pursued the direction of the Bower.
'Do you think Wegg is likely to drop down upon me to-night,
Venus?' inquired Mr Boffin, wistfully, as they went along.
'I think he is, sir.'
'Have you any particular reason for thinking so, Venus?'
'Well, sir,' returned that personage, 'the fact is, he has given me
another look-in, to make sure of what he calls our stock-in-trade
being correct, and he has mentioned his intention that he was not
to be put off beginning with you the very next time you should
come. And this,' hinted Mr Venus, delicately, 'being the very next
time, you know, sir--'
--'Why, therefore you suppose he'll turn to at the grindstone, eh,
Wegg?' said Mr Boffin.
'Just so, sir.'
Mr Boffin took his nose in his hand, as if it were already
excoriated, and the sparks were beginning to fly out of that feature.
'He's a terrible fellow, Venus; he's an awful fellow. I don't know
how ever I shall go through with it. You must stand by me, Venus
like a good man and true. You'll do all you can to stand by me,
Venus; won't you?'
Mr Venus replied with the assurance that he would; and Mr
Boffin, looking anxious and dispirited, pursued the way in silence
until they rang at the Bower gate. The stumping approach of
Wegg was soon heard behind it, and as it turned upon its hinges he
became visible with his hand on the lock.
'Mr Boffin, sir?' he remarked. 'You're quite a stranger!'
'Yes. I've been otherwise occupied, Wegg.'
'Have you indeed, sir?' returned the literary gentleman, with a
threatening sneer. 'Hah! I've been looking for you, sir, rather what
I may call specially.'
'You don't say so, Wegg?'
'Yes, I do say so, sir. And if you hadn't come round to me tonight,
dash my wig if I wouldn't have come round to you tomorrow.
Now! I tell you!'
'Nothing wrong, I hope, Wegg?'
'Oh no, Mr Boffin,' was the ironical answer. 'Nothing wrong!
What should be wrong in Boffinses Bower! Step in, sir.'
'"If you'll come to the Bower I've shaded for you,
Your bed shan't be roses all spangled with doo:
Will you, will you, will you, will you, come to the Bower?
Oh, won't you, won't you, won't you, won't you, come to the Bower?"'
An unholy glare of contradiction and offence shone in the eyes of
Mr Wegg, as he turned the key on his patron, after ushering him
into the yard with this vocal quotation. Mr Boffin's air was
crestfallen and submissive. Whispered Wegg to Venus, as they
crossed the yard behind him: 'Look at the worm and minion; he's
down in the mouth already.' Whispered Venus to Wegg: 'That's
because I've told him. I've prepared the way for you.'
Mr Boffin, entering the usual chamber, laid his stick upon the
settle usually reserved for him, thrust his hands into his pockets,
and, with his shoulders raised and his hat drooping back upon
them, looking disconsolately at Wegg. 'My friend and partner, Mr
Venus, gives me to understand,' remarked that man of might,
addressing him, 'that you are aware of our power over you. Now,
when you have took your hat off, we'll go into that pint.'
Mr Boffin shook it off with one shake, so that it dropped on the
floor behind him, and remained in his former attitude with his
former rueful look upon him.
'First of all, I'm a-going to call you Boffin, for short,' said Wegg.
'If you don't like it, it's open to you to lump it.'
'I don't mind it, Wegg,' Mr Boffin replied.
'That's lucky for you, Boffin. Now, do you want to be read to?'
'I don't particularly care about it to-night, Wegg.'
'Because if you did want to,' pursued Mr Wegg, the brilliancy of
whose point was dimmed by his having been unexpectedly
answered: 'you wouldn't be. I've been your slave long enough. I'm
not to be trampled under-foot by a dustman any more. With the
single exception of the salary, I renounce the whole and total
sitiwation.'
'Since you say it is to be so, Wegg,' returned Mr Boffin, with
folded hands, 'I suppose it must be.'
'I suppose it must be,' Wegg retorted. 'Next (to clear the ground
before coming to business), you've placed in this yard a skulking, a
sneaking, and a sniffing, menial.'
'He hadn't a cold in his head when I sent him here,' said Mr Boffin.
'Boffin!' retorted Wegg, 'I warn you not to attempt a joke with me!'
Here Mr Venus interposed, and remarked that he conceived Mr
Boffin to have taken the description literally; the rather, forasmuch
as he, Mr Venus, had himself supposed the menial to have
contracted an affliction or a habit of the nose, involving a serious
drawback on the pleasures of social intercourse, until he had
discovered that Mr Wegg's description of him was to be accepted
as merely figurative.
'Anyhow, and every how,' said Wegg, 'he has been planted here,
and he is here. Now, I won't have him here. So I call upon Boffin,
before I say another word, to fetch him in and send him packing to
the right-about.'
The unsuspecting Sloppy was at that moment airing his many
buttons within view of the window. Mr Boffin, after a short
interval of impassive discomfiture, opened the window and
beckoned him to come in.
'I call upon Boffin,' said Wegg, with one arm a-kimbo and his
head on one side, like a bullying counsel pausing for an answer
from a witness, 'to inform that menial that I am Master here!'
In humble obedience, when the button-gleaming Sloppy entered
Mr Boffin said to him: 'Sloppy, my fine fellow, Mr Wegg is Master
here. He doesn't want you, and you are to go from here.'
'For good!' Mr Wegg severely stipulated.
'For good,' said Mr Boffin.
Sloppy stared, with both his eyes and all his buttons, and his
mouth wide open; but was without loss of time escorted forth by
Silas Wegg, pushed out at the yard gate by the shoulders, and
locked out.
'The atomspear,' said Wegg, stumping back into the room again, a
little reddened by his late exertion, 'is now freer for the purposes of
respiration. Mr Venus, sir, take a chair. Boffin, you may sit
down.'
Mr Boffin, still with his hands ruefully stuck in his pockets, sat on
the edge of the settle, shrunk into a small compass, and eyed the
potent Silas with conciliatory looks.
'This gentleman,' said Silas Wegg, pointing out Venus, 'this
gentleman, Boffin, is more milk and watery with you than I'll be.
But he hasn't borne the Roman yoke as I have, nor yet he hasn't
been required to pander to your depraved appetite for miserly
characters.'
'I never meant, my dear Wegg--' Mr Boffin was beginning, when
Silas stopped him.
'Hold your tongue, Boffin! Answer when you're called upon to
answer. You'll find you've got quite enough to do. Now, you're
aware--are you--that you're in possession of property to which
you've no right at all? Are you aware of that?'
'Venus tells me so,' said Mr Boffin, glancing towards him for any
support he could give.
'I tell you so,' returned Silas. 'Now, here's my hat, Boffin, and
here's my walking-stick. Trifle with me, and instead of making a
bargain with you, I'll put on my hat and take up my walking-stick,
and go out, and make a bargain with the rightful owner. Now,
what do you say?'
'I say,' returned Mr Boffin, leaning forward in alarmed appeal,
with his hands on his knees, 'that I am sure I don't want to trifle.
Wegg. I have said so to Venus.'
'You certainly have, sir,' said Venus.
'You're too milk and watery with our friend, you are indeed,'
remonstrated Silas, with a disapproving shake of his wooden head.
Then at once you confess yourself desirous to come to terms, do
you Boffin? Before you answer, keep this hat well in your mind
and also this walking-stick.'
'I am willing, Wegg, to come to terms.'
'Willing won't do, Boffin. I won't take willing. Are you desirous
to come to terms? Do you ask to be allowed as a favour to come to
terms?' Mr Wegg again planted his arm, and put his head on one
side.
'Yes.'
'Yes what?' said the inexorable Wegg: 'I won't take yes. I'll have it
out of you in full, Boffin.'
'Dear me!' cried that unfortunate gentleman. 'I am so worrited! I
ask to be allowed to come to terms, supposing your document is all
correct.'
'Don't you be afraid of that,' said Silas, poking his head at him.
'You shall be satisfied by seeing it. Mr Venus will show it you,
and I'll hold you the while. Then you want to know what the terms
are. Is that about the sum and substance of it? Will you or won't
you answer, Boffin?' For he had paused a moment.
'Dear me!' cried that unfortunate gentleman again, 'I am worrited
to that degree that I'm almost off my head. You hurry me so. Be
so good as name the terms, Wegg.'
'Now, mark, Boffin,' returned Silas: 'Mark 'em well, because
they're the lowest terms and the only terms. You'll throw your
Mound (the little Mound as comes to you any way) into the general
estate, and then you'll divide the whole property into three parts,
and you'll keep one and hand over the others.'
Mr Venus's mouth screwed itself up, as Mr Boffin's face
lengthened itself, Mr Venus not having been prepared for such a
rapacious demand.
'Now, wait a bit, Boffin,' Wegg proceeded, 'there's something
more. You've been a squandering this property--laying some of it
out on yourself. THAT won't do. You've bought a house. You'll
be charged for it.'
'I shall be ruined, Wegg!' Mr Boffin faintly protested.
'Now, wait a bit, Boffin; there's something more. You'll leave me
in sole custody of these Mounds till they're all laid low. If any
waluables should be found in 'em, I'll take care of such waluables.
You'll produce your contract for the sale of the Mounds, that we
may know to a penny what they're worth, and you'll make out
likewise an exact list of all the other property. When the Mounds
is cleared away to the last shovel-full, the final diwision will come
off.'
'Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! I shall die in a workhouse!' cried the
Golden Dustman, with his hands to his head.
'Now, wait a bit, Boffin; there's something more. You've been
unlawfully ferreting about this yard. You've been seen in the act of
ferreting about this yard. Two pair of eyes at the present moment
brought to bear upon you, have seen you dig up a Dutch bottle.'
'It was mine, Wegg,' protested Mr Boffin. 'I put it there myself.'
'What was in it, Boffin?' inquired Silas.
'Not gold, not silver, not bank notes, not jewels, nothing that you
could turn into money, Wegg; upon my soul!'
'Prepared, Mr Venus,' said Wegg, turning to his partner with a
knowing and superior air, 'for an ewasive answer on the part of our
dusty friend here, I have hit out a little idea which I think will meet
your views. We charge that bottle against our dusty friend at a
thousand pound.'
Mr Boffin drew a deep groan.
'Now, wait a bit, Boffin; there's something more. In your
employment is an under-handed sneak, named Rokesmith. It
won't answer to have HIM about, while this business of ours is
about. He must be discharged.'
'Rokesmith is already discharged,' said Mr Boffin, speaking in a
muffled voice, with his hands before his face, as he rocked himself
on the settle.
'Already discharged, is he?' returned Wegg, surprised. 'Oh! Then,
Boffin, I believe there's nothing more at present.'
The unlucky gentleman continuing to rock himself to and fro, and
to utter an occasional moan, Mr Venus besought him to bear up
against his reverses, and to take time to accustom himself to the
thought of his new position. But, his taking time was exactly the
thing of all others that Silas Wegg could not be induced to hear of.
'Yes or no, and no half measures!' was the motto which that
obdurate person many times repeated; shaking his fist at Mr
Boffin, and pegging his motto into the floor with his wooden leg,
in a threatening and alarming manner.
At length, Mr Boffin entreated to be allowed a quarter of an hour's
grace, and a cooling walk of that duration in the yard. With some
difficulty Mr Wegg granted this great favour, but only on condition
that he accompanied Mr Boffin in his walk, as not knowing what
he might fraudulently unearth if he were left to himself. A more
absurd sight than Mr Boffin in his mental irritation trotting very
nimbly, and Mr Wegg hopping after him with great exertion, eager
to watch the slightest turn of an eyelash, lest it should indicate a
spot rich with some secret, assuredly had never been seen in the
shadow of the Mounds. Mr Wegg was much distressed when the
quarter of an hour expired, and came hopping in, a very bad
second.
'I can't help myself!' cried Mr Boffin, flouncing on the settle in a
forlorn manner, with his hands deep in his pockets, as if his
pockets had sunk. 'What's the good of my pretending to stand out,
when I can't help myself? I must give in to the terms. But I should
like to see the document.'
Wegg, who was all for clinching the nail he had so strongly driven
home, announced that Boffin should see it without an hour's delay.
Taking him into custody for that purpose, or overshadowing him as
if he really were his Evil Genius in visible form, Mr Wegg clapped
Mr Boffin's hat upon the back of his head, and walked him out by
the arm, asserting a proprietorship over his soul and body that was
at once more grim and more ridiculous than anything in Mr
Venus's rare collection. That light-haired gentleman followed
close upon their heels, at least backing up Mr Boffin in a literal
sense, if he had not had recent opportunities of doing so spiritually;
while Mr Boffin, trotting on as hard as he could trot, involved Silas
Wegg in frequent collisions with the public, much as a preoccupied
blind man's dog may be seen to involve his master.
Thus they reached Mr Venus's establishment, somewhat heated by
the nature of their progress thither. Mr Wegg, especially, was in a
flaming glow, and stood in the little shop, panting and mopping
his head with his pocket-handkerchief, speechless for several
minutes.
Meanwhile, Mr Venus, who had left the duelling frogs to fight it
out in his absence by candlelight for the public delectation, put the
shutters up. When all was snug, and the shop-door fastened, he
said to the perspiring Silas: 'I suppose, Mr Wegg, we may now
produce the paper?'
'Hold on a minute, sir,' replied that discreet character; 'hold on a
minute. Will you obligingly shove that box--which you mentioned
on a former occasion as containing miscellanies--towards me in the
midst of the shop here?'
Mr Venus did as he was asked.
'Very good,' said Silas, looking about: 've--ry good. Will you
hand me that chair, sir, to put a-top of it?'
Venus handed him the chair.
'Now, Boffin,' said Wegg, 'mount up here and take your seat, will
you?'
Mr Boffin, as if he were about to have his portrait painted, or to be
electrified, or to be made a Freemason, or to be placed at any other
solitary disadvantage, ascended the rostrum prepared for him.
'Now, Mr Venus,' said Silas, taking off his coat, 'when I catches
our friend here round the arms and body, and pins him tight to the
back of the chair, you may show him what he wants to see. If
you'll open it and hold it well up in one hand, sir, and a candle in
the other, he can read it charming.'
Mr Boffin seemed rather inclined to object to these precautionary
arrangements, but, being immediately embraced by Wegg,
resigned himself. Venus then produced the document, and Mr
Boffin slowly spelt it out aloud: so very slowly, that Wegg, who
was holding him in the chair with the grip of a wrestler, became
again exceedingly the worse for his exertions. 'Say when you've
put it safe back, Mr Venus,' he uttered with difficulty, 'for the
strain of this is terrimenjious.'
At length the document was restored to its place; and Wegg,
whose uncomfortable attitude had been that of a very persevering
man unsuccessfully attempting to stand upon his head, took a seat
to recover himself. Mr Boffin, for his part, made no attempt to
come down, but remained aloft disconsolate.
'Well, Boffin!' said Wegg, as soon as he was in a condidon to
speak. 'Now, you know.'
'Yes, Wegg,' said Mr Boffin, meekly. 'Now, I know.'
'You have no doubts about it, Boffin.'
'No, Wegg. No, Wegg. None,' was the slow and sad reply.
'Then, take care, you,' said Wegg, 'that you stick to your conditions.
Mr Venus, if on this auspicious occasion, you should happen to
have a drop of anything not quite so mild as tea in the 'ouse, I think
I'd take the friendly liberty of asking you for a specimen of it.'
Mr Venus, reminded of the duties of hospitality, produced some
rum. In answer to the inquiry, 'Will you mix it, Mr Wegg?' that
gentleman pleasantly rejoined, 'I think not, sir. On so auspicious
an occasion, I prefer to take it in the form of a Gum-Tickler.'
Mr Boffin, declining rum, being still elevated on his pedestal, was
in a convenient position to be addressed. Wegg having eyed him
with an impudent air at leisure, addressed him, therefore, while
refreshing himself with his dram.
'Bof--fin!'
'Yes, Wegg,' he answered, coming out of a fit of abstraction, with a
sigh.
'I haven't mentioned one thing, because it's a detail that comes of
course. You must be followed up, you know. You must be kept
under inspection.'
'I don't quite understand,' said Mr Boffin.
'Don't you?' sneered Wegg. 'Where's your wits, Boffin? Till the
Mounds is down and this business completed, you're accountable
for all the property, recollect. Consider yourself accountable to me.
Mr Venus here being too milk and watery with you, I am the boy
for you.'
'I've been a-thinking,' said Mr Boffin, in a tone of despondency,
'that I must keep the knowledge from my old lady.'
'The knowledge of the diwision, d'ye mean?' inquired Wegg,
helping himself to a third Gum-Tickler--for he had already taken a
second.
'Yes. If she was to die first of us two she might then think all her
life, poor thing, that I had got the rest of the fortune still, and was
saving it.'
'I suspect, Boffin,' returned Wegg, shaking his head sagaciously,
and bestowing a wooden wink upon him, 'that you've found out
some account of some old chap, supposed to be a Miser, who got
himself the credit of having much more money than he had.
However, I don't mind.'
'Don't you see, Wegg?' Mr Boffin feelingly represented to him:
'don't you see? My old lady has got so used to the property. It
would be such a hard surprise.'
'I don't see it at all,' blustered Wegg. 'You'll have as much as I
shall. And who are you?'
'But then, again,' Mr Boffin gently represented; 'my old lady has
very upright principles.'
'Who's your old lady,' returned Wegg, 'to set herself up for having
uprighter principles than mine?'
Mr Boffin seemed a little less patient at this point than at any other
of the negotiations. But he commanded himself, and said tamely
enough: 'I think it must be kept from my old lady, Wegg.'
'Well,' said Wegg, contemptuously, though, perhaps, perceiving
some hint of danger otherwise, 'keep it from your old lady. I ain't
going to tell her. I can have you under close inspection without
that. I'm as good a man as you, and better. Ask me to dinner.
Give me the run of your 'ouse. I was good enough for you and your
old lady once, when I helped you out with your weal and hammers.
Was there no Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane, and
Uncle Parker, before YOU two?'
'Gently, Mr Wegg, gently,' Venus urged.
'Milk and water-erily you mean, sir,' he returned, with some little
thickness of speech, in consequence of the Gum-Ticklers having
tickled it. 'I've got him under inspection, and I'll inspect him.
"Along the line the signal ran
England expects as this present man
Will keep Boffin to his duty."
--Boffin, I'll see you home.'
Mr Boffin descended with an air of resignation, and gave himself
up, after taking friendly leave of Mr Venus. Once more, Inspector
and Inspected went through the streets together, and so arrived at
Mr Boffin's door.
But even there, when Mr Boffin had given his keeper good-night,
and had let himself in with his key, and had softly closed the door,
even there and then, the all-powerful Silas must needs claim
another assertion of his newly-asserted power.
'Bof--fin!' he called through the keyhole.
'Yes, Wegg,' was the reply through the same channel.
'Come out. Show yourself again. Let's have another look at you!'
Mr Boffin--ah, how fallen from the high estate of his honest
simplicity!--opened the door and obeyed.
'Go in. You may get to bed now,' said Wegg, with a grin.
The door was hardly closed, when he again called through the
keyhole: 'Bof--fin!'
'Yes, Wegg.'
This time Silas made no reply, but laboured with a will at turning
an imaginary grindstone outside the keyhole, while Mr Boffin
stooped at it within; he then laughed silently, and stumped home.
Chapter 4
A RUNAWAY MATCH
Cherubic Pa arose with as little noise as possible from beside
majestic Ma, one morning early, having a holiday before him. Pa
and the lovely woman had a rather particular appointment to keep.
Yet Pa and the lovely woman were not going out together. Bella
was up before four, but had no bonnet on. She was waiting at the
foot of the stairs--was sitting on the bottom stair, in fact--to receive
Pa when he came down, but her only object seemed to be to get Pa
well out of the house.
'Your breakfast is ready, sir,' whispered Bella, after greeting him
with a hug, 'and all you have to do, is, to eat it up and drink it up,
and escape. How do you feel, Pa?'
'To the best of my judgement, like a housebreaker new to the
business, my dear, who can't make himself quite comfortable till
he is off the premises.'
Bella tucked her arm in his with a merry noiseless laugh, and they
went down to the kitchen on tiptoe; she stopping on every separate
stair to put the tip of her forefinger on her rosy lips, and then lay it
on his lips, according to her favourite petting way of kissing Pa.
'How do YOU feel, my love?' asked R. W., as she gave him his
breakfast.
'I feel as if the Fortune-teller was coming true, dear Pa, and the fair
little man was turning out as was predicted.'
'Ho! Only the fair little man?' said her father.
Bella put another of those finger-seals upon his lips, and then said,
kneeling down by him as he sat at table: 'Now, look here, sir. If
you keep well up to the mark this day, what do you think you
deserve? What did I promise you should have, if you were good,
upon a certain occasion?'
'Upon my word I don't remember, Precious. Yes, I do, though.
Wasn't it one of these beau--tiful tresses?' with his caressing hand
upon her hair.
'Wasn't it, too!' returned Bella, pretending to pout. 'Upon my word!
Do you know, sir, that the Fortune-teller would give five thousand
guineas (if it was quite convenient to him, which it isn't) for the
lovely piece I have cut off for you? You can form no idea, sir, of
the number of times he kissed quite a scrubby little piece--in
comparison--that I cut off for HIM. And he wears it, too, round his
neck, I can tell you! Near his heart!' said Bella, nodding. 'Ah! very
near his heart! However, you have been a good, good boy, and you
are the best of all the dearest boys that ever were, this morning,
and here's the chain I have made of it, Pa, and you must let me put
it round your neck with my own loving hands.'
As Pa bent his head, she cried over him a little, and then said (after
having stopped to dry her eyes on his white waistcoat, the
discovery of which incongruous circumstance made her laugh):
'Now, darling Pa, give me your hands that I may fold them
together, and do you say after me:--My little Bella.'
'My little Bella,' repeated Pa.
'I am very fond of you.'
'I am very fond of you, my darling,' said Pa.
'You mustn't say anything not dictated to you, sir. You daren't do
it in your responses at Church, and you mustn't do it in your
responses out of Church.'
'I withdraw the darling,' said Pa.
'That's a pious boy! Now again:--You were always--'
'You were always,' repeated Pa.
'A vexatious--'
'No you weren't,' said Pa.
'A vexatious (do you hear, sir?), a vexatious, capricious, thankless,
troublesome, Animal; but I hope you'll do better in the time to
come, and I bless you and forgive you!' Here, she quite forgot that
it was Pa's turn to make the responses, and clung to his neck.
'Dear Pa, if you knew how much I think this morning of what you
told me once, about the first time of our seeing old Mr Harmon,
when I stamped and screamed and beat you with my detestable
little bonnet! I feel as if I had been stamping and screaming and
beating you with my hateful little bonnet, ever since I was born,
darling!'
'Nonsense, my love. And as to your bonnets, they have always
been nice bonnets, for they have always become you--or you have
become them; perhaps it was that--at every age.'
'Did I hurt you much, poor little Pa?' asked Bella, laughing
(notwithstanding her repentance), with fantastic pleasure in the
picture, 'when I beat you with my bonnet?'
'No, my child. Wouldn't have hurt a fly!'
'Ay, but I am afraid I shouldn't have beat you at all, unless I had
meant to hurt you,' said Bella. 'Did I pinch your legs, Pa?'
'Not much, my dear; but I think it's almost time I--'
'Oh, yes!' cried Bella. 'If I go on chattering, you'll be taken alive.
Fly, Pa, fly!'
So, they went softly up the kitchen stairs on tiptoe, and Bella with
her light hand softly removed the fastenings of the house door, and
Pa, having received a parting hug, made off. When he had gone a
little way, he looked back. Upon which, Bella set another of those
finger seals upon the air, and thrust out her little foot expressive of
the mark. Pa, in appropriate action, expressed fidelity to the mark,
and made off as fast as he could go.
Bella walked thoughtfully in the garden for an hour and more, and
then, returning to the bedroom where Lavvy the Irrepressible still
slumbered, put on a little bonnet of quiet, but on the whole of sly
appearance, which she had yesterday made. 'I am going for a
walk, Lavvy,' she said, as she stooped down and kissed her. The
Irrepressible, with a bounce in the bed, and a remark that it wasn't
time to get up yet, relapsed into unconsciousness, if she had come
out of it.
Behold Bella tripping along the streets, the dearest girl afoot under
the summer sun! Behold Pa waiting for Bella behind a pump, at
least three miles from the parental roof-tree. Behold Bella and Pa
aboard an early steamboat for Greenwich.
Were they expected at Greenwich? Probably. At least, Mr John
Rokesmith was on the pier looking out, about a couple of hours
before the coaly (but to him gold-dusty) little steamboat got her
steam up in London. Probably. At least, Mr John Rokesmith
seemed perfectly satisfied when he descried them on board.
Probably. At least, Bella no sooner stepped ashore than she took
Mr John Rokesmith's arm, without evincing surprise, and the two
walked away together with an ethereal air of happiness which, as it
were, wafted up from the earth and drew after them a gruff and
glum old pensioner to see it out. Two wooden legs had this gruff
and glum old pensioner, and, a minute before Bella stepped out of
the boat, and drew that confiding little arm of hers through
Rokesmith's, he had had no object in life but tobacco, and not
enough of that. Stranded was Gruff and Glum in a harbour of
everlasting mud, when all in an instant Bella floated him, and
away he went.
Say, cherubic parent taking the lead, in what direction do we steer
first? With some such inquiry in his thoughts, Gruff and Glum,
stricken by so sudden an interest that he perked his neck and
looked over the intervening people, as if he were trying to stand on
tiptoe with his two wooden legs, took an observation of R. W.
There was no 'first' in the case, Gruff and Glum made out; the
cherubic parent was bearing down and crowding on direct for
Greenwich church, to see his relations.
For, Gruff and Glum, though most events acted on him simply as
tobacco-stoppers, pressing down and condensing the quids within
him, might be imagined to trace a family resemblance between the
cherubs in the church architecture, and the cherub in the white
waistcoat. Some remembrance of old Valentines, wherein a
cherub, less appropriately attired for a proverbially uncertain
climate, had been seen conducting lovers to the altar, might have
been fancied to inflame the ardour of his timber toes. Be it as it
might, he gave his moorings the slip, and followed in chase.
The cherub went before, all beaming smiles; Bella and John
Rokesmith followed; Gruff and Glum stuck to them like wax. For
years, the wings of his mind had gone to look after the legs of his
body; but Bella had brought them back for him per steamer, and
they were spread again.
He was a slow sailer on a wind of happiness, but he took a cross
cut for the rendezvous, and pegged away as if he were scoring
furiously at cribbage. When the shadow of the church-porch
swallowed them up, victorious Gruff and Glum likewise presented
himself to be swallowed up. And by this time the cherubic parent
was so fearful of surprise, that, but for the two wooden legs on
which Gruff and Glum was reassuringly mounted, his conscience
might have introduced, in the person of that pensioner, his own
stately lady disguised, arrived at Greenwich in a car and griffins,
like the spiteful Fairy at the christenings of the Princesses, to do
something dreadful to the marriage service. And truly he had a
momentary reason to be pale of face, and to whisper to Bella, 'You
don't think that can be your Ma; do you, my dear?' on account of a
mysterious rustling and a stealthy movement somewhere in the
remote neighbourhood of the organ, though it was gone directly
and was heard no more. Albeit it was heard of afterwards, as will
afterwards be read in this veracious register of marriage.
Who taketh? I, John, and so do I, Bella. Who giveth? I, R. W.
Forasmuch, Gruff and Glum, as John and Bella have consented
together in holy wedlock, you may (in short) consider it done, and
withdraw your two wooden legs from this temple. To the
foregoing purport, the Minister speaking, as directed by the
Rubric, to the People, selectly represented in the present instance
by G. and G. above mentioned.
And now, the church-porch having swallowed up Bella Wilfer for
ever and ever, had it not in its power to relinquish that young
woman, but slid into the happy sunlight, Mrs John Rokesmith
instead. And long on the bright steps stood Gruff and Glum,
looking after the pretty bride, with a narcotic consciousness of
having dreamed a dream.
After which, Bella took out from her pocket a little letter, and read
it aloud to Pa and John; this being a true copy of the same.
'DEAREST MA,
I hope you won't be angry, but I am most happily married to Mr
John Rokesmith, who loves me better than I can ever deserve,
except by loving him with all my heart. I thought it best not to
mention it beforehand, in case it should cause any little difference
at home. Please tell darling Pa. With love to Lavvy,
Ever dearest Ma,
Your affectionate daughter,
BELLA
(P.S.--Rokesmith).'
Then, John Rokesmith put the queen's countenance on the letter--
when had Her Gracious Majesty looked so benign as on that
blessed morning!--and then Bella popped it into the post-office,
and said merrily, 'Now, dearest Pa, you are safe, and will never be
taken alive!'
Pa was, at first, in the stirred depths of his conscience, so far from
sure of being safe yet, that he made out majestic matrons lurking in
ambush among the harmless trees of Greenwich Park, and seemed
to see a stately countenance tied up in a well-known pockethandkerchief
glooming down at him from a window of the
Observatory, where the Familiars of the Astronomer Royal nightly
outwatch the winking stars. But, the minutes passing on and no
Mrs Wilfer in the flesh appearing, he became more confident, and
so repaired with good heart and appetite to Mr and Mrs John
Rokesmith's cottage on Blackheath, where breakfast was ready.
A modest little cottage but a bright and a fresh, and on the snowy
tablecloth the prettiest of little breakfasts. In waiting, too, like an
attendant summer breeze, a fluttering young damsel, all pink and
ribbons, blushing as if she had been married instead of Bella, and
yet asserting the triumph of her sex over both John and Pa, in an
exulting and exalted flurry: as who should say, 'This is what you
must all come to, gentlemen, when we choose to bring you to
book.' This same young damsel was Bella's serving-maid, and
unto her did deliver a bunch of keys, commanding treasures in the
way of dry-saltery, groceries, jams and pickles, the investigation of
which made pastime after breakfast, when Bella declared that 'Pa
must taste everything, John dear, or it will never be lucky,' and
when Pa had all sorts of things poked into his mouth, and didn't
quite know what to do with them when they were put there.
Then they, all three, out for a charming ride, and for a charming
stroll among heath in bloom, and there behold the identical Gruff
and Glum with his wooden legs horizontally disposed before him,
apparently sitting meditating on the vicissitudes of life! To whom
said Bella, in her light-hearted surprise: 'Oh! How do you do
again? What a dear old pensioner you are!' To which Gruff and
Glum responded that he see her married this morning, my Beauty,
and that if it warn't a liberty he wished her ji and the fairest of fair
wind and weather; further, in a general way requesting to know
what cheer? and scrambling up on his two wooden legs to salute,
hat in hand, ship-shape, with the gallantry of a man-of-warsman
and a heart of oak.
It was a pleasant sight, in the midst of the golden bloom, to see
this salt old Gruff and Glum, waving his shovel hat at Bella, while
his thin white hair flowed free, as if she had once more launched
him into blue water again. 'You are a charming old pensioner,'
said Bella, 'and I am so happy that I wish I could make you happy,
too.' Answered Gruff and Glum, 'Give me leave to kiss your hand,
my Lovely, and it's done!' So it was done to the general
contentment; and if Gruff and Glum didn't in the course of the
afternoon splice the main brace, it was not for want of the means of
inflicting that outrage on the feelings of the Infant Bands of Hope.
But, the marriage dinner was the crowning success, for what had
bride and bridegroom plotted to do, but to have and to hold that
dinner in the very room of the very hotel where Pa and the lovely
woman had once dined together! Bella sat between Pa and John,
and divided her attentions pretty equally, but felt it necessary (in
the waiter's absence before dinner) to remind Pa that she was HIS
lovely woman no longer.
'I am well aware of it, my dear,' returned the cherub, 'and I resign
you willingly.'
'Willingly, sir? You ought to be brokenhearted.'
'So I should be, my dear, if I thought that I was going to lose you.'
'But you know you are not; don't you, poor dear Pa? You know
that you have only made a new relation who will be as fond of you
and as thankful to you--for my sake and your own sake both--as I
am; don't you, dear little Pa? Look here, Pa!' Bella put her finger
on her own lip, and then on Pa's, and then on her own lip again,
and then on her husband's. 'Now, we are a partnership of three,
dear Pa.'
The appearance of dinner here cut Bella short in one of her
disappearances: the more effectually, because it was put on under
the auspices of a solemn gentleman in black clothes and a white
cravat, who looked much more like a clergyman than THE
clergyman, and seemed to have mounted a great deal higher in the
church: not to say, scaled the steeple. This dignitary, conferring in
secrecy with John Rokesmith on the subject of punch and wines,
bent his head as though stooping to the Papistical practice of
receiving auricular confession. Likewise, on John's offering a
suggestion which didn't meet his views, his face became overcast
and reproachful, as enjoining penance.
What a dinner! Specimens of all the fishes that swim in the sea,
surely had swum their way to it, and if samples of the fishes of
divers colours that made a speech in the Arabian Nights (quite a
ministerial explanation in respect of cloudiness), and then jumped
out of the frying-pan, were not to be recognized, it was only
because they had all become of one hue by being cooked in batter
among the whitebait. And the dishes being seasoned with Bliss--
an article which they are sometimes out of, at Greenwich--were of
perfect flavour, and the golden drinks had been bottled in the
golden age and hoarding up their sparkles ever since.
The best of it was, that Bella and John and the cherub had made a
covenant that they would not reveal to mortal eyes any appearance
whatever of being a wedding party. Now, the supervising
dignitary, the Archbishop of Greenwich, knew this as well as if he
had performed the nuptial ceremony. And the loftiness with which
his Grace entered into their confidence without being invited, and
insisted on a show of keeping the waiters out of it, was the
crowning glory of the entertainment.
There was an innocent young waiter of a slender form and with
weakish legs, as yet unversed in the wiles of waiterhood, and but
too evidently of a romantic temperament, and deeply (it were not
too much to add hopelessly) in love with some young female not
aware of his merit. This guileless youth, descrying the position of
affairs, which even his innocence could not mistake, limited his
waiting to languishing admiringly against the sideboard when
Bella didn't want anything, and swooping at her when she did.
Him, his Grace the Archbishop perpetually obstructed, cutting him
out with his elbow in the moment of success, despatching him in
degrading quest of melted butter, and, when by any chance he got
hold of any dish worth having, bereaving him of it, and ordering
him to stand back.
'Pray excuse him, madam,' said the Archbishop in a low stately
voice; 'he is a very young man on liking, and we DON'T like him.'
This induced John Rokesmith to observe--by way of making the
thing more natural--'Bella, my love, this is so much more
successful than any of our past anniversaries, that I think we must
keep our future anniversaries here.'
Whereunto Bella replied, with probably the least successful
attempt at looking matronly that ever was seen: 'Indeed, I think so,
John, dear.'
Here the Archbishop of Greenwich coughed a stately cough to
attract the attention of three of his ministers present, and staring at
them, seemed to say: 'I call upon you by your fealty to believe this!'
With his own hands he afterwards put on the dessert, as remarking
to the three guests, 'The period has now arrived at which we can
dispense with the assistance of those fellows who are not in our
confidence,' and would have retired with complete dignity but for a
daring action issuing from the misguided brain of the young man
on liking. He finding, by ill-fortune, a piece of orange flower
somewhere in the lobbies now approached undetected with the
same in a finger-glass, and placed it on Bella's right hand. The
Archbishop instantly ejected and excommunicated him; but the
thing was done.
'I trust, madam,' said his Grace, returning alone, 'that you will have
the kindness to overlook it, in consideration of its being the act of a
very young man who is merely here on liking, and who will never
answer.'
With that, he solemnly bowed and retired, and they all burst into
laughter, long and merry. 'Disguise is of no use,' said Bella; 'they
all find me out; I think it must be, Pa and John dear, because I look
so happy!'
Her husband feeling it necessary at this point to demand one of
those mysterious disappearances on Bella's part, she dutifully
obeyed; saying in a softened voice from her place of concealment:
'You remember how we talked about the ships that day, Pa?'
'Yes, my dear.'
'Isn't it strange, now, to think that there was no John in all the
ships, Pa?'
'Not at all, my dear.'
'Oh, Pa! Not at all?'
'No, my dear. How can we tell what coming people are aboard the
ships that may be sailing to us now from the unknown seas!'
Bella remaining invisible and silent, her father remained at his
dessert and wine, until he remembered it was time for him to get
home to Holloway. 'Though I positively cannot tear myself away,'
he cherubically added, '--it would be a sin--without drinking to
many, many happy returns of this most happy day.'
'Here! ten thousand times!' cried John. 'I fill my glass and my
precious wife's.'
'Gentlemen,' said the cherub, inaudibly addressing, in his Anglo-
Saxon tendency to throw his feelings into the form of a speech, the
boys down below, who were bidding against each other to put their
heads in the mud for sixpence: 'Gentlemen--and Bella and John--
you will readily suppose that it is not my intention to trouble you
with many observations on the present occasion. You will also at
once infer the nature and even the terms of the toast I am about to
propose on the present occasion. Gentlemen--and Bella and John--
the present occasion is an occasion fraught with feelings that I
cannot trust myself to express. But gentlemen--and Bella and
John--for the part I have had in it, for the confidence you have
placed in me, and for the affectionate good-nature and kindness
with which you have determined not to find me in the way, when I
am well aware that I cannot be otherwise than in it more or less, I
do most heartily thank you. Gentlemen--and Bella and John--my
love to you, and may we meet, as on the present occasion, on many
future occasions; that is to say, gentlemen--and Bella and John--on
many happy returns of the present happy occasion.'
Having thus concluded his address, the amiable cherub embraced
his daughter, and took his flight to the steamboat which was to
convey him to London, and was then lying at the floating pier,
doing its best to bump the same to bits. But, the happy couple
were not going to part with him in that way, and before he had
been on board two minutes, there they were, looking down at him
from the wharf above.
'Pa, dear!' cried Bella, beckoning him with her parasol to approach
the side, and bending gracefully to whisper.
'Yes, my darling.'
'Did I beat you much with that horrid little bonnet, Pa?'
'Nothing to speak of; my dear.'
'Did I pinch your legs, Pa?'
'Only nicely, my pet.'
'You are sure you quite forgive me, Pa? Please, Pa, please, forgive
me quite!' Half laughing at him and half crying to him, Bella
besought him in the prettiest manner; in a manner so engaging and
so playful and so natural, that her cherubic parent made a coaxing
face as if she had never grown up, and said, 'What a silly little
Mouse it is!'
'But you do forgive me that, and everything else; don't you, Pa?'
'Yes, my dearest.'
'And you don't feel solitary or neglected, going away by yourself;
do you, Pa?'
'Lord bless you! No, my Life!'
'Good-bye, dearest Pa. Good-bye!'
'Good-bye, my darling! Take her away, my dear John. Take her home!'
So, she leaning on her husband's arm, they turned homeward by a
rosy path which the gracious sun struck out for them in its setting.
And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death. And
O what a bright old song it is, that O 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love
that makes the world go round!
Chapter 5
CONCERNING THE MENDICANT'S BRIDE
The impressive gloom with which Mrs Wilfer received her
husband on his return from the wedding, knocked so hard at the
door of the cherubic conscience, and likewise so impaired the
firmness of the cherubic legs, that the culprit's tottering condition
of mind and body might have roused suspicion in less occupied
persons that the grimly heroic lady, Miss Lavinia, and that
esteemed friend of the family, Mr George Sampson. But, the
attention of all three being fully possessed by the main fact of the
marriage, they had happily none to bestow on the guilty
conspirator; to which fortunate circumstance he owed the escape
for which he was in nowise indebted to himself.
'You do not, R. W.' said Mrs Wilfer from her stately corner,
'inquire for your daughter Bella.'
'To be sure, my dear,' he returned, with a most flagrant assumption
of unconsciousness, 'I did omit it. How--or perhaps I should
rather say where--IS Bella?'
'Not here,' Mrs Wilfer proclaimed, with folded arms.
The cherub faintly muttered something to the abortive effect of 'Oh,
indeed, my dear!'
'Not here,' repeated Mrs Wilfer, in a stern sonorous voice. 'In a
word, R. W., you have no daughter Bella.'
'No daughter Bella, my dear?'
'No. Your daughter Bella,' said Mrs Wilfer, with a lofty air of
never having had the least copartnership in that young lady: of
whom she now made reproachful mention as an article of luxury
which her husband had set up entirely on his own account, and in
direct opposition to her advice: '--your daughter Bella has
bestowed herself upon a Mendicant.'
'Good gracious, my dear!'
'Show your father his daughter Bella's letter, Lavinia,' said Mrs
Wilfer, in her monotonous Act of Parliament tone, and waving her
hand. 'I think your father will admit it to be documentary proof of
what I tell him. I believe your father is acquainted with his
daughter Bella's writing. But I do not know. He may tell you he is
not. Nothing will surprise me.'
'Posted at Greenwich, and dated this morning,' said the
Irrepressible, flouncing at her father in handing him the evidence.
'Hopes Ma won't be angry, but is happily married to Mr John
Rokesmith, and didn't mention it beforehand to avoid words, and
please tell darling you, and love to me, and I should like to know
what you'd have said if any other unmarried member of the family
had done it!'
He read the letter, and faintly exclaimed 'Dear me!'
'You may well say Dear me!' rejoined Mrs Wilfer, in a deep tone.
Upon which encouragement he said it again, though scarcely with
the success he had expected; for the scornful lady then remarked,
with extreme bitterness: 'You said that before.'
'It's very surprising. But I suppose, my dear,' hinted the cherub, as
he folded the letter after a disconcerting silence, 'that we must
make the best of it? Would you object to my pointing out, my
dear, that Mr John Rokesmith is not (so far as I am acquainted
with him), strictly speaking, a Mendicant.'
'Indeed?' returned Mrs Wilfer, with an awful air of politeness.
'Truly so? I was not aware that Mr John Rokesmith was a
gentleman of landed property. But I am much relieved to hear it.'
'I doubt if you HAVE heard it, my dear,' the cherub submitted with
hesitation.
'Thank you,' said Mrs Wilfer. 'I make false statements, it appears?
So be it. If my daughter flies in my face, surely my husband may.
The one thing is not more unnatural than the other. There seems a
fitness in the arrangement. By all means!' Assuming, with a
shiver of resignation, a deadly cheerfulness.
But, here the Irrepressible skirmished into the conflict, dragging
the reluctant form of Mr Sampson after her.
'Ma,' interposed the young lady, 'I must say I think it would be
much better if you would keep to the point, and not hold forth
about people's flying into people's faces, which is nothing more nor
less than impossible nonsense.'
'How!' exclaimed Mrs Wilfer, knitting her dark brows.
'Just im-possible nonsense, Ma,' returned Lavvy, 'and George
Sampson knows it is, as well as I do.'
Mrs Wilfer suddenly becoming petrified, fixed her indignant eyes
upon the wretched George: who, divided between the support due
from him to his love, and the support due from him to his love's
mamma, supported nobody, not even himself.
'The true point is,' pursued Lavinia, 'that Bella has behaved in a
most unsisterly way to me, and might have severely compromised
me with George and with George's family, by making off and
getting married in this very low and disreputable manner--with
some pew-opener or other, I suppose, for a bridesmaid--when she
ought to have confided in me, and ought to have said, "If, Lavvy,
you consider it due to your engagement with George, that you
should countenance the occasion by being present, then Lavvy, I
beg you to BE present, keeping my secret from Ma and Pa." As of
course I should have done.'
'As of course you would have done? Ingrate!' exclaimed Mrs
Wilfer. 'Viper!'
'I say! You know ma'am. Upon my honour you mustn't,' Mr
Sampson remonstrated, shaking his head seriously, 'With the
highest respect for you, ma'am, upon my life you mustn't. No
really, you know. When a man with the feelings of a gentleman
finds himself engaged to a young lady, and it comes (even on the
part of a member of the family) to vipers, you know!--I would
merely put it to your own good feeling, you know,' said Mr
Sampson, in rather lame conclusion.
Mrs Wilfer's baleful stare at the young gentleman in
acknowledgment of his obliging interference was of such a nature
that Miss Lavinia burst into tears, and caught him round the neck
for his protection.
'My own unnatural mother,' screamed the young lady, 'wants to
annihilate George! But you shan't be annihilated, George. I'll die
first!'
Mr Sampson, in the arms of his mistress, still struggled to shake
his head at Mrs Wilfer, and to remark: 'With every sentiment of
respect for you, you know, ma'am--vipers really doesn't do you
credit.'
'You shall not be annihilated, George!' cried Miss Lavinia. 'Ma
shall destroy me first, and then she'll be contented. Oh, oh, oh!
Have I lured George from his happy home to expose him to this!
George, dear, be free! Leave me, ever dearest George, to Ma and to
my fate. Give my love to your aunt, George dear, and implore her
not to curse the viper that has crossed your path and blighted your
existence. Oh, oh, oh!' The young lady who, hysterically speaking,
was only just come of age, and had never gone off yet, here fell into
a highly creditable crisis, which, regarded as a first performance,
was very successful; Mr Sampson, bending over the body
meanwhile, in a state of distraction, which induced him to address
Mrs Wilfer in the inconsistent expressions: 'Demon--with the
highest respect for you--behold your work!'
The cherub stood helplessly rubbing his chin and looking on, but
on the whole was inclined to welcome this diversion as one in
which, by reason of the absorbent properties of hysterics, the
previous question would become absorbed. And so, indeed, it
proved, for the Irrepressible gradually coming to herself; and
asking with wild emotion, 'George dear, are you safe?' and further,
'George love, what has happened? Where is Ma?' Mr Sampson,
with words of comfort, raised her prostrate form, and handed her to
Mrs Wilfer as if the young lady were something in the nature of
refreshments. Mrs Wilfer with dignity partaking of the
refreshments, by kissing her once on the brow (as if accepting an
oyster), Miss Lavvy, tottering, returned to the protection of Mr
Sampson; to whom she said, 'George dear, I am afraid I have been
foolish; but I am still a little weak and giddy; don't let go my hand,
George!' And whom she afterwards greatly agitated at intervals,
by giving utterance, when least expected, to a sound between a sob
and a bottle of soda water, that seemed to rend the bosom of her
frock.
Among the most remarkable effects of this crisis may be
mentioned its having, when peace was restored, an inexplicable
moral influence, of an elevating kind, on Miss Lavinia, Mrs
Wilfer, and Mr George Sampson, from which R. W. was
altogether excluded, as an outsider and non-sympathizer. Miss
Lavinia assumed a modest air of having distinguished herself; Mrs
Wilfer, a serene air of forgiveness and resignation; Mr Sampson,
an air of having been improved and chastened. The influence
pervaded the spirit in which they returned to the previous question.
'George dear,' said Lavvy, with a melancholy smile, 'after what has
passed, I am sure Ma will tell Pa that he may tell Bella we shall all
be glad to see her and her husband.'
Mr Sampson said he was sure of it too; murmuring how eminently
he respected Mrs Wilfer, and ever must, and ever would. Never
more eminently, he added, than after what had passed.
'Far be it from me,' said Mrs Wilfer, making deep proclamation
from her corner, 'to run counter to the feelings of a child of mine,
and of a Youth,' Mr Sampson hardly seemed to like that word,
'who is the object of her maiden preference. I may feel--nay,
know--that I have been deluded and deceived. I may feel--nay,
know--that I have been set aside and passed over. I may feel--nay,
know--that after having so far overcome my repugnance towards
Mr and Mrs Boffin as to receive them under this roof, and to
consent to your daughter Bella's,' here turning to her husband,
'residing under theirs, it were well if your daughter Bella,' again
turning to her husband, 'had profited in a worldly point of view by
a connection so distasteful, so disreputable. I may feel--nay,
know--that in uniting herself to Mr Rokesmith she has united
herself to one who is, in spite of shallow sophistry, a Mendicant.
And I may feel well assured that your daughter Bella,' again
turning to her husband, 'does not exalt her family by becoming a
Mendicant's bride. But I suppress what I feel, and say nothing of
it.'
Mr Sampson murmured that this was the sort of thing you might
expect from one who had ever in her own family been an example
and never an outrage. And ever more so (Mr Sampson added, with
some degree of obscurity,) and never more so, than in and through
what had passed. He must take the liberty of adding, that what
was true of the mother was true of the youngest daughter, and that
he could never forget the touching feelings that the conduct of both
had awakened within him. In conclusion, he did hope that there
wasn't a man with a beating heart who was capable of something
that remained undescribed, in consequence of Miss Lavinia's
stopping him as he reeled in his speech.
'Therefore, R. W.' said Mrs Wilfer, resuming her discourse and
turning to her lord again, 'let your daughter Bella come when she
will, and she will be received. So,' after a short pause, and an air
of having taken medicine in it, 'so will her husband.'
'And I beg, Pa,' said Lavinia, 'that you will not tell Bella what I
have undergone. It can do no good, and it might cause her to
reproach herself.'
'My dearest girl,' urged Mr Sampson, 'she ought to know it.'
'No, George,' said Lavinia, in a tone of resolute self-denial. 'No,
dearest George, let it be buried in oblivion.'
Mr Sampson considered that, 'too noble.'
'Nothing is too noble, dearest George,' returned Lavinia. 'And Pa, I
hope you will be careful not to refer before Bella, if you can help it,
to my engagement to George. It might seem like reminding her of
her having cast herself away. And I hope, Pa, that you will think it
equally right to avoid mentioning George's rising prospects, when
Bella is present. It might seem like taunting her with her own poor
fortunes. Let me ever remember that I am her younger sister, and
ever spare her painful contrasts, which could not but wound her
sharply.'
Mr Sampson expressed his belief that such was the demeanour of
Angels. Miss Lavvy replied with solemnity, 'No, dearest George, I
am but too well aware that I am merely human.'
Mrs Wilfer, for her part, still further improved the occasion by
sitting with her eyes fastened on her husband, like two great black
notes of interrogation, severely inquiring, Are you looking into
your breast? Do you deserve your blessings? Can you lay your
hand upon your heart and say that you are worthy of so hysterical a
daughter? I do not ask you if you are worthy of such a wife--put
Me out of the question--but are you sufficiently conscious of, and
thankful for, the pervading moral grandeur of the family spectacle
on which you are gazing? These inquiries proved very harassing to
R. W. who, besides being a little disturbed by wine, was in
perpetual terror of committing himself by the utterance of stray
words that would betray his guilty foreknowledge. However, the
scene being over, and--all things considered--well over, he sought
refuge in a doze; which gave his lady immense offence.
'Can you think of your daughter Bella, and sleep?' she disdainfully
inquired.
To which he mildly answered, 'Yes, I think I can, my dear.'
'Then,' said Mrs Wilfer, with solemn indignation, 'I would
recommend you, if you have a human feeling, to retire to bed.'
'Thank you, my dear,' he replied; 'I think it IS the best place for
me.' And with these unsympathetic words very gladly withdrew.
Within a few weeks afterwards, the Mendicant's bride (arm-in-arm
with the Mendicant) came to tea, in fulfilment of an engagement
made through her father. And the way in which the Mendicant's
bride dashed at the unassailable position so considerately to be
held by Miss Lavy, and scattered the whole of the works in all
directions in a moment, was triumphant.
'Dearest Ma,' cried Bella, running into the room with a radiant
face, 'how do you do, dearest Ma?' And then embraced her,
joyously. 'And Lavvy darling, how do YOU do, and how's George
Sampson, and how is he getting on, and when are you going to be
married, and how rich are you going to grow? You must tell me
all about it, Lavvy dear, immediately. John, love, kiss Ma and
Lavvy, and then we shall all be at home and comfortable.'
Mrs Wilfer stared, but was helpless. Miss Lavinia stared, but was
helpless. Apparently with no compunction, and assuredly with no
ceremony, Bella tossed her bonnet away, and sat down to make the
tea.
'Dearest Ma and Lavvy, you both take sugar, I know. And Pa (you
good little Pa), you don't take milk. John does. I didn't before I
was married; but I do now, because John does. John dear, did you
kiss Ma and Lavvy? Oh, you did! Quite correct, John dear; but I
didn't see you do it, so I asked. Cut some bread and butter, John;
that's a love. Ma likes it doubled. And now you must tell me,
dearest Ma and Lavvy, upon your words and honours! Didn't you
for a moment--just a moment--think I was a dreadful little wretch
when I wrote to say I had run away?'
Before Mrs Wilfer could wave her gloves, the Mendicant's bride in
her merriest affectionate manner went on again.
'I think it must have made you rather cross, dear Ma and Lavvy,
and I know I deserved that you should be very cross. But you see I
had been such a heedless, heartless creature, and had led you so to
expect that I should marry for money, and so to make sure that I
was incapable of marrying for love, that I thought you couldn't
believe me. Because, you see, you didn't know how much of Good,
Good, Good, I had learnt from John. Well! So I was sly about it,
and ashamed of what you supposed me to be, and fearful that we
couldn't understand one another and might come to words, which
we should all be sorry for afterwards, and so I said to John that if
he liked to take me without any fuss, he might. And as he did like,
I let him. And we were married at Greenwich church in the
presence of nobody--except an unknown individual who dropped
in,' here her eyes sparkled more brightly, 'and half a pensioner.
And now, isn't it nice, dearest Ma and Lavvy, to know that no
words have been said which any of us can be sorry for, and that we
are all the best of friends at the pleasantest of teas!'
Having got up and kissed them again, she slipped back to her chair
(after a loop on the road to squeeze her husband round the neck)
and again went on.
'And now you will naturally want to know, dearest Ma and Lavvy,
how we live, and what we have got to live upon. Well! And so we
live on Blackheath, in the charm--ingest of dolls' houses, de--
lightfully furnished, and we have a clever little servant who is de--
cidedly pretty, and we are economical and orderly, and do
everything by clockwork, and we have a hundred and fifty pounds
a year, and we have all we want, and more. And lastly, if you
would like to know in confidence, as perhaps you may, what is my
opinion of my husband, my opinion is--that I almost love him!'
'And if you would like to know in confidence, as perhaps you may,'
said her husband, smiling, as he stood by her side, without her
having detected his approach, 'my opinion of my wife, my opinion
is--.' But Bella started up, and put her hand upon his lips.
'Stop, Sir! No, John, dear! Seriously! Please not yet a while! I
want to be something so much worthier than the doll in the doll's
house.'
'My darling, are you not?'
'Not half, not a quarter, so much worthier as I hope you may some
day find me! Try me through some reverse, John--try me through
some trial--and tell them after THAT, what you think of me.'
'I will, my Life,' said John. 'I promise it.'
'That's my dear John. And you won't speak a word now; will you?'
'And I won't,' said John, with a very expressive look of admiration
around him, 'speak a word now!'
She laid her laughing cheek upon his breast to thank him, and said,
looking at the rest of them sideways out of her bright eyes: 'I'll go
further, Pa and Ma and Lavvy. John don't suspect it--he has no
idea of it--but I quite love him!'
Even Mrs Wilfer relaxed under the influence of her married
daughter, and seemed in a majestic manner to imply remotely that
if R. W. had been a more deserving object, she too might have
condescended to come down from her pedestal for his beguilement.
Miss Lavinia, on the other hand, had strong doubts of the policy of
the course of treatment, and whether it might not spoil Mr
Sampson, if experimented on in the case of that young gentleman.
R. W. himself was for his part convinced that he was father of one
of the most charming of girls, and that Rokesmith was the most
favoured of men; which opinion, if propounded to him, Rokesmith
would probably not have contested.
The newly-married pair left early, so that they might walk at
leisure to their starting-place from London, for Greenwich. At
first they were very cheerful and talked much; but after a while,
Bella fancied that her husband was turning somewhat thoughtful.
So she asked him:
'John dear, what's the matter?'
'Matter, my love?'
'Won't you tell me,' said Bella, looking up into his face, 'what you
are thinking of?'
'There's not much in the thought, my soul. I was thinking
whether you wouldn't like me to be rich?'
'You rich, John?' repeated Bella, shrinking a little.
'I mean, really rich. Say, as rich as Mr Boffin. You would like
that?'
'I should be almost afraid to try, John dear. Was he much the
better for his wealth? Was I much the better for the little part I
once had in it?'
'But all people are not the worse for riches, my own.'
'Most people?' Bella musingly suggested with raised eyebrows.
'Nor even most people, it may be hoped. If you were rich, for
instance, you would have a great power of doing good to others.'
'Yes, sir, for instance,' Bella playfully rejoined; 'but should I
exercise the power, for instance? And again, sir, for instance;
should I, at the same time, have a great power of doing harm to
myself?'
Laughing and pressing her arm, he retorted: 'But still, again for
instance; would you exercise that power?'
'I don't know,' said Bella, thoughtfully shaking her head. 'I hope
not. I think not. But it's so easy to hope not and think not, without
the riches.'
'Why don't you say, my darling--instead of that phrase--being
poor?' he asked, looking earnestly at her.
'Why don't I say, being poor! Because I am not poor. Dear John,
it's not possible that you suppose I think we are poor?'
'I do, my love.'
'Oh John!'
'Understand me, sweetheart. I know that I am rich beyond all
wealth in having you; but I think OF you, and think FOR you. In
such a dress as you are wearing now, you first charmed me, and in
no dress could you ever look, to my thinking, more graceful or
more beautiful. But you have admired many finer dresses this very
day; and is it not natural that I wish I could give them to you?'
'It's very nice that you should wish it, John. It brings these tears of
grateful pleasure into my eyes, to hear you say so with such
tenderness. But I don't want them.'
'Again,' he pursued, 'we are now walking through the muddy
streets. I love those pretty feet so dearly, that I feel as if I could not
bear the dirt to soil the sole of your shoe. Is it not natural that I
wish you could ride in a carriage?'
'It's very nice,' said Bella, glancing downward at the feet in
question, 'to know that you admire them so much, John dear, and
since you do, I am sorry that these shoes are a full size too large.
But I don't want a carriage, believe me.'
'You would like one if you could have one, Bella?'
'I shouldn't like it for its own sake, half so well as such a wish for
it. Dear John, your wishes are as real to me as the wishes in the
Fairy story, that were all fulfilled as soon as spoken. Wish me
everything that you can wish for the woman you dearly love, and I
have as good as got it, John. I have better than got it, John!'
They were not the less happy for such talk, and home was not the
less home for coming after it. Bella was fast developing a perfect
genius for home. All the loves and graces seemed (her husband
thought) to have taken domestic service with her, and to help her to
make home engaging.
Her married life glided happily on. She was alone all day, for,
after an early breakfast her husband repaired every morning to the
City, and did not return until their late dinner hour. He was 'in a
China house,' he explained to Bella: which she found quite
satisfactory, without pursuing the China house into minuter details
than a wholesale vision of tea, rice, odd-smelling silks, carved
boxes, and tight-eyed people in more than double-soled shoes, with
their pigtails pulling their heads of hair off, painted on transparent
porcelain. She always walked with her husband to the railroad,
and was always there again to meet him; her old coquettish ways a
little sobered down (but not much), and her dress as daintily
managed as if she managed nothing else. But, John gone to
business and Bella returned home, the dress would be laid aside,
trim little wrappers and aprons would be substituted, and Bella,
putting back her hair with both hands, as if she were making the
most business-like arrangements for going dramatically distracted,
would enter on the household affairs of the day. Such weighing
and mixing and chopping and grating, such dusting and washing
and polishing, such snipping and weeding and trowelling and
other small gardening, such making and mending and folding and
airing, such diverse arrangements, and above all such severe study!
For Mrs J. R., who had never been wont to do too much at home as
Miss B. W., was under the constant necessity of referring for
advice and support to a sage volume entitled The Complete British
Family Housewife, which she would sit consulting, with her
elbows on the table and her temples on her hands, like some
perplexed enchantress poring over the Black Art. This, principally
because the Complete British Housewife, however sound a Briton
at heart, was by no means an expert Briton at expressing herself
with clearness in the British tongue, and sometimes might have
issued her directions to equal purpose in the Kamskatchan
language. In any crisis of this nature, Bella would suddenly
exclaim aloud, 'Oh you ridiculous old thing, what do you mean by
that? You must have been drinking!' And having made this
marginal note, would try the Housewife again, with all her dimples
screwed into an expression of profound research.
There was likewise a coolness on the part of the British Housewife,
which Mrs John Rokesmith found highly exasperating. She would
say, 'Take a salamander,' as if a general should command a private
to catch a Tartar. Or, she would casually issue the order, 'Throw in
a handful--' of something entirely unattainable. In these, the
Housewife's most glaring moments of unreason, Bella would shut
her up and knock her on the table, apostrophising her with the
compliment, 'O you ARE a stupid old Donkey! Where am I to get
it, do you think?'
Another branch of study claimed the attention of Mrs John
Rokesmith for a regular period every day. This was the mastering
of the newspaper, so that she might be close up with John on
general topics when John came home. In her desire to be in all
things his companion, she would have set herself with equal zeal
to master Algebra, or Euclid, if he had divided his soul between
her and either. Wonderful was the way in which she would store
up the City Intelligence, and beamingly shed it upon John in the
course of the evening; incidentally mentioning the commodities
that were looking up in the markets, and how much gold had been
taken to the Bank, and trying to look wise and serious over it until
she would laugh at herself most charmingly and would say, kissing
him: 'It all comes of my love, John dear.'
For a City man, John certainly did appear to care as little as might
be for the looking up or looking down of things, as well as for the
gold that got taken to the Bank. But he cared, beyond all
expression, for his wife, as a most precious and sweet commodity
that was always looking up, and that never was worth less than all
the gold in the world. And she, being inspired by her affection,
and having a quick wit and a fine ready instinct, made amazing
progress in her domestic efficiency, though, as an endearing
creature, she made no progress at all. This was her husband's
verdict, and he justified it by telling her that she had begun her
married life as the most endearing creature that could possibly be.
'And you have such a cheerful spirit!' he said, fondly. 'You are like
a bright light in the house.'
'Am I truly, John?'
'Are you truly? Yes, indeed. Only much more, and much better.'
'Do you know, John dear,' said Bella, taking him by a button of his
coat, 'that I sometimes, at odd moments--don't laugh, John,
please.'
Nothing should induce John to do it, when she asked him not to do
it.
'--That I sometimes think, John, I feel a little serious.'
'Are you too much alone, my darling?'
'O dear, no, John! The time is so short that I have not a moment
too much in the week.'
'Why serious, my life, then? When serious?'
'When I laugh, I think,' said Bella, laughing as she laid her head
upon his shoulder. 'You wouldn't believe, sir, that I feel serious
now? But I do.' And she laughed again, and something glistened
in her eyes.
'Would you like to be rich, pet?' he asked her coaxingly.
'Rich, John! How CAN you ask such goose's questions?'
'Do you regret anything, my love?'
'Regret anything? No!' Bella confidently answered. But then,
suddenly changing, she said, between laughing and glistening:
'Oh yes, I do though. I regret Mrs Boffin.'
'I, too, regret that separation very much. But perhaps it is only
temporary. Perhaps things may so fall out, as that you may
sometimes see her again--as that we may sometimes see her again.'
Bella might be very anxious on the subject, but she scarcely
seemed so at the moment. With an absent air, she was
investigating that button on her husband's coat, when Pa came in
to spend the evening.
Pa had his special chair and his special corner reserved for him on
all occasions, and--without disparagement of his domestic joys--
was far happier there, than anywhere. It was always pleasantly
droll to see Pa and Bella together; but on this present evening her
husband thought her more than usually fantastic with him.
'You are a very good little boy,' said Bella, 'to come unexpectedly,
as soon as you could get out of school. And how have they used
you at school to-day, you dear?'
'Well, my pet,' replied the cherub, smiling and rubbing his hands
as she sat him down in his chair, 'I attend two schools. There's the
Mincing Lane establishment, and there's your mother's Academy.
Which might you mean, my dear?'
'Both,' said Bella.
'Both, eh? Why, to say the truth, both have taken a little out of me
to-day, my dear, but that was to be expected. There's no royal road
to learning; and what is life but learning!'
'And what do you do with yourself when you have got your
learning by heart, you silly child?'
'Why then, my dear,' said the cherub, after a little consideration, 'I
suppose I die.'
'You are a very bad boy,' retorted Bella, 'to talk about dismal things
and be out of spirits.'
'My Bella,' rejoined her father, 'I am not out of spirits. I am as gay
as a lark.' Which his face confirmed.
'Then if you are sure and certain it's not you, I suppose it must be
I,' said Bella; 'so I won't do so any more. John dear, we must give
this little fellow his supper, you know.'
'Of course we must, my darling.'
'He has been grubbing and grubbing at school,' said Bella, looking
at her father's hand and lightly slapping it, 'till he's not fit to be
seen. O what a grubby child!'
'Indeed, my dear,' said her father, 'I was going to ask to be allowed
to wash my hands, only you find me out so soon.'
'Come here, sir!' cried Bella, taking him by the front of his coat,
'come here and be washed directly. You are not to be trusted to do
it for yourself. Come here, sir!'
The cherub, to his genial amusement, was accordingly conducted
to a little washing-room, where Bella soaped his face and rubbed
his face, and soaped his hands and rubbed his hands, and splashed
him and rinsed him and towelled him, until he was as red as beetroot,
even to his very ears: 'Now you must be brushed and combed,
sir,' said Bella, busily. 'Hold the light, John. Shut your eyes, sir,
and let me take hold of your chin. Be good directly, and do as you
are told!'
Her father being more than willing to obey, she dressed his hair in
her most elaborate manner, brushing it out straight, parting it,
winding it over her fingers, sticking it up on end, and constantly
falling back on John to get a good look at the effect of it. Who
always received her on his disengaged arm, and detained her,
while the patient cherub stood waiting to be finished.
'There!' said Bella, when she had at last completed the final
touches. 'Now, you are something like a genteel boy! Put your
jacket on, and come and have your supper.'
The cherub investing himself with his coat was led back to his
corner--where, but for having no egotism in his pleasant nature, he
would have answered well enough for that radiant though selfsufficient
boy, Jack Horner--Bella with her own hands laid a cloth
for him, and brought him his supper on a tray. 'Stop a moment,'
said she, 'we must keep his little clothes clean;' and tied a napkin
under his chin, in a very methodical manner.
While he took his supper, Bella sat by him, sometimes
admonishing him to hold his fork by the handle, like a polite child,
and at other times carving for him, or pouring out his drink.
Fantastic as it all was, and accustomed as she ever had been to
make a plaything of her good father, ever delighted that she should
put him to that account, still there was an occasional something on
Bella's part that was new. It could not be said that she was less
playful, whimsical, or natural, than she always had been; but it
seemed, her husband thought, as if there were some rather graver
reason than he had supposed for what she had so lately said, and
as if throughout all this, there were glimpses of an underlying
seriousness.
It was a circumstance in support of this view of the case, that when
she had lighted her father's pipe, and mixed him his glass of grog,
she sat down on a stool between her father and her husband,
leaning her arm upon the latter, and was very quiet. So quiet, that
when her father rose to take his leave, she looked round with a
start, as if she had forgotten his being there.
'You go a little way with Pa, John?'
'Yes, my dear. Do you?'
'I have not written to Lizzie Hexam since I wrote and told her that
I really had a lover--a whole one. I have often thought I would like
to tell her how right she was when she pretended to read in the live
coals that I would go through fire and water for him. I am in the
humour to tell her so to-night, John, and I'll stay at home and do it.'
'You are tired.'
'Not at all tired, John dear, but in the humour to write to Lizzie.
Good night, dear Pa. Good night, you dear, good, gentle Pa!'
Left to herself she sat down to write, and wrote Lizzie a long letter.
She had but completed it and read it over, when her husband came
back. 'You are just in time, sir,' said Bella; 'I am going to give you
your first curtain lecture. It shall be a parlour-curtain lecture. You
shall take this chair of mine when I have folded my letter, and I
will take the stool (though you ought to take it, I can tell you, sir, if
it's the stool of repentance), and you'll soon find yourself taken to
task soundly.'
Her letter folded, sealed, and directed, and her pen wiped, and her
middle finger wiped, and her desk locked up and put away, and
these transactions performed with an air of severe business
sedateness, which the Complete British Housewife might have
assumed, and certainly would not have rounded off and broken
down in with a musical laugh, as Bella did: she placed her
husband in his chair, and placed herself upon her stool.
'Now, sir! To begin at the beginning. What is your name?'
A question more decidedly rushing at the secret he was keeping
from her, could not have astounded him. But he kept his
countenance and his secret, and answered, 'John Rokesmith, my
dear.'
'Good boy! Who gave you that name?'
With a returning suspicion that something might have betrayed
him to her, he answered, interrogatively, 'My godfathers and my
godmothers, dear love?'
'Pretty good!' said Bella. 'Not goodest good, because you hesitate
about it. However, as you know your Catechism fairly, so far, I'll
let you off the rest. Now, I am going to examine you out of my
own head. John dear, why did you go back, this evening, to the
question you once asked me before--would I like to be rich?'
Again, his secret! He looked down at her as she looked up at him,
with her hands folded on his knee, and it was as nearly told as
ever secret was.
Having no reply ready, he could do no better than embrace her.
'In short, dear John,' said Bella, 'this is the topic of my lecture: I
want nothing on earth, and I want you to believe it.'
'If that's all, the lecture may be considered over, for I do.'
'It's not all, John dear,' Bella hesitated. 'It's only Firstly. There's a
dreadful Secondly, and a dreadful Thirdly to come--as I used to say
to myself in sermon-time when I was a very small-sized sinner at
church.'
'Let them come, my dearest.'
'Are you sure, John dear; are you absolutely certain in your
innermost heart of hearts--?'
'Which is not in my keeping,' he rejoined.
'No, John, but the key is.--Are you absolutely certain that down at
the bottom of that heart of hearts, which you have given to me as I
have given mine to you, there is no remembrance that I was once
very mercenary?'
'Why, if there were no remembrance in me of the time you speak
of,' he softly asked her with his lips to hers, 'could I love you quite
as well as I do; could I have in the Calendar of my life the brightest
of its days; could I whenever I look at your dear face, or hear your
dear voice, see and hear my noble champion? It can never have
been that which made you serious, darling?'
'No John, it wasn't that, and still less was it Mrs Boffin, though I
love her. Wait a moment, and I'll go on with the lecture. Give me
a moment, because I like to cry for joy. It's so delicious, John dear,
to cry for joy.'
She did so on his neck, and, still clinging there, laughed a little
when she said, 'I think I am ready now for Thirdly, John.'
'I am ready for Thirdly,' said John, 'whatever it is.'
'I believe, John,' pursued Bella, 'that you believe that I believe--'
'My dear child,' cried her husband gaily, 'what a quantity of
believing!'
'Isn't there?' said Bella, with another laugh. 'I never knew such a
quantity! It's like verbs in an exercise. But I can't get on with less
believing. I'll try again. I believe, dear John, that you believe that
I believe that we have as much money as we require, and that we
want for nothing.'
'It is strictly true, Bella.'
'But if our money should by any means be rendered not so much--if
we had to stint ourselves a little in purchases that we can afford to
make now--would you still have the same confidence in my being
quite contented, John?'
'Precisely the same confidence, my soul.'
'Thank you, John dear, thousands upon thousands of times. And I
may take it for granted, no doubt,' with a little faltering, 'that you
would be quite as contented yourself John? But, yes, I know I
may. For, knowing that I should be so, how surely I may know
that you would be so; you who are so much stronger, and firmer,
and more reasonable and more generous, than I am.'
'Hush!' said her husband, 'I must not hear that. You are all wrong
there, though otherwise as right as can be. And now I am brought
to a little piece of news, my dearest, that I might have told you
earlier in the evening. I have strong reason for confidently
believing that we shall never be in the receipt of a smaller income
than our present income.'
She might have shown herself more interested in the intelligence;
but she had returned to the investigation of the coat-button that had
engaged her attention a few hours before, and scarcely seemed to
heed what he said.
'And now we have got to the bottom of it at last,' cried her
husband, rallying her, 'and this is the thing that made you serious?'
'No dear,' said Bella, twisting the button and shaking her head, 'it
wasn't this.'
'Why then, Lord bless this little wife of mine, there's a Fourthly!'
exclaimed John.
'This worried me a little, and so did Secondly,' said Bella, occupied
with the button, 'but it was quite another sort of seriousness--a
much deeper and quieter sort of seriousness--that I spoke of John
dear.'
As he bent his face to hers, she raised hers to meet it, and laid her
little right hand on his eyes, and kept it there.
'Do you remember, John, on the day we were married, Pa's
speaking of the ships that might be sailing towards us from the
unknown seas?'
'Perfectly, my darling!'
'I think...among them...there is a ship upon the
ocean...bringing...to you and me...a little baby, John.'
Chapter 6
A CRY FOR HELP
The Paper Mill had stopped work for the night, and the paths and
roads in its neighbourhood were sprinkled with clusters of people
going home from their day's labour in it. There were men, women,
and children in the groups, and there was no want of lively colour
to flutter in the gentle evening wind. The mingling of various
voices and the sound of laughter made a cheerful impression upon
the ear, analogous to that of the fluttering colours upon the eye.
Into the sheet of water reflecting the flushed sky in the foreground
of the living picture, a knot of urchins were casting stones, and
watching the expansion of the rippling circles. So, in the rosy
evening, one might watch the ever-widening beauty of the
landscape--beyond the newly-released workers wending home--
beyond the silver river--beyond the deep green fields of corn, so
prospering, that the loiterers in their narrow threads of pathway
seemed to float immersed breast-high--beyond the hedgerows and
the clumps of trees--beyond the windmills on the ridge--away to
where the sky appeared to meet the earth, as if there were no
immensity of space between mankind and Heaven.
It was a Saturday evening, and at such a time the village dogs,
always much more interested in the doings of humanity than in the
affairs of their own species, were particularly active. At the
general shop, at the butcher's and at the public-house, they evinced
an inquiring spirit never to he satiated. Their especial interest in
the public-house would seem to imply some latent rakishness in
the canine character; for little was eaten there, and they, having no
taste for beer or tobacco (Mrs Hubbard's dog is said to have
smoked, but proof is wanting), could only have been attracted by
sympathy with loose convivial habits. Moreover, a most wretched
fiddle played within; a fiddle so unutterably vile, that one lean
long-bodied cur, with a better ear than the rest, found himself
under compulsion at intervals to go round the corner and howl.
Yet, even he returned to the public-house on each occasion with
the tenacity of a confirmed drunkard.
Fearful to relate, there was even a sort of little Fair in the village.
Some despairing gingerbread that had been vainly trying to dispose
of itself all over the country, and had cast a quantity of dust upon
its head in its mortification, again appealed to the public from an
infirm booth. So did a heap of nuts, long, long exiled from
Barcelona, and yet speaking English so indifferently as to call
fourteen of themselves a pint. A Peep-show which had originally
started with the Battle of Waterloo, and had since made it every
other battle of later date by altering the Duke of Wellington's nose,
tempted the student of illustrated history. A Fat Lady, perhaps in
part sustained upon postponed pork, her professional associate
being a Learned Pig, displayed her life-size picture in a low dress
as she appeared when presented at Court, several yards round.
All this was a vicious spectacle as any poor idea of amusement on
the part of the rougher hewers of wood and drawers of water in this
land of England ever is and shall be. They MUST NOT vary the
rheumatism with amusement. They may vary it with fever and
ague, or with as many rheumatic variations as they have joints; but
positively not with entertainment after their own manner.
The various sounds arising from this scene of depravity, and
floating away into the still evening air, made the evening, at any
point which they just reached fitfully, mellowed by the distance,
more still by contrast. Such was the stillness of the evening to
Eugene Wrayburn, as he walked by the river with his hands behind
him.
He walked slowly, and with the measured step and preoccupied air
of one who was waiting. He walked between the two points, an
osier-bed at this end and some floating lilies at that, and at each
point stopped and looked expectantly in one direction.
'It is very quiet,' said he.
It was very quiet. Some sheep were grazing on the grass by the
river-side, and it seemed to him that he had never before heard the
crisp tearing sound with which they cropped it. He stopped idly,
and looked at them.
'You are stupid enough, I suppose. But if you are clever enough to
get through life tolerably to your satisfaction, you have got the
better of me, Man as I am, and Mutton as you are!'
A rustle in a field beyond the hedge attracted his attention. 'What's
here to do?' he asked himself leisurely going towards the gate and
looking over. 'No jealous paper-miller? No pleasures of the chase
in this part of the country? Mostly fishing hereabouts!'
The field had been newly mown, and there were yet the marks of
the scythe on the yellow-green ground, and the track of wheels
where the hay had been carried. Following the tracks with his
eyes, the view closed with the new hayrick in a corner.
Now, if he had gone on to the hayrick, and gone round it? But, say
that the event was to be, as the event fell out, and how idle are such
suppositions! Besides, if he had gone; what is there of warning in
a Bargeman lying on his face?
'A bird flying to the hedge,' was all he thought about it; and came
back, and resumed his walk.
'If I had not a reliance on her being truthful,' said Eugene, after
taking some half-dozen turns, 'I should begin to think she had
given me the slip for the second time. But she promised, and she
is a girl of her word.'
Turning again at the water-lilies, he saw her coming, and advanced
to meet her.
'I was saying to myself, Lizzie, that you were sure to come, though
you were late.'
'I had to linger through the village as if I had no object before me,
and I had to speak to several people in passing along, Mr
Wrayburn.'
'Are the lads of the village--and the ladies--such scandal-mongers?'
he asked, as he took her hand and drew it through his arm.
She submitted to walk slowly on, with downcast eyes. He put her
hand to his lips, and she quietly drew it away.
'Will you walk beside me, Mr Wrayburn, and not touch me?' For,
his arm was already stealing round her waist.
She stopped again, and gave him an earnest supplicating look.
'Well, Lizzie, well!' said he, in an easy way though ill at ease with
himself 'don't be unhappy, don't be reproachful.'
'I cannot help being unhappy, but I do not mean to be reproachful.
Mr Wrayburn, I implore you to go away from this neighbourhood,
to-morrow morning.'
'Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!' he remonstrated. 'As well be reproachful as
wholly unreasonable. I can't go away.'
'Why not?'
'Faith!' said Eugene in his airily candid manner. 'Because you
won't let me. Mind! I don't mean to be reproachful either. I don't
complain that you design to keep me here. But you do it, you do
it.'
'Will you walk beside me, and not touch me;' for, his arm was
coming about her again; 'while I speak to you very seriously, Mr
Wrayburn?'
'I will do anything within the limits of possibility, for you, Lizzie,'
he answered with pleasant gaiety as he folded his arms. 'See here!
Napoleon Buonaparte at St Helena.'
'When you spoke to me as I came from the Mill the night before
last,' said Lizzie, fixing her eyes upon him with the look of
supplication which troubled his better nature, 'you told me that you
were much surprised to see me, and that you were on a solitary
fishing excursion. Was it true?'
'It was not,' replied Eugene composedly, 'in the least true. I came
here, because I had information that I should find you here.'
'Can you imagine why I left London, Mr Wrayburn?'
'I am afraid, Lizzie,' he openly answered, 'that you left London to
get rid of me. It is not flattering to my self-love, but I am afraid
you did.'
'I did.'
'How could you be so cruel?'
'O Mr Wrayburn,' she answered, suddenly breaking into tears, 'is
the cruelty on my side! O Mr Wrayburn, Mr Wrayburn, is there no
cruelty in your being here to-night!'
'In the name of all that's good--and that is not conjuring you in my
own name, for Heaven knows I am not good'--said Eugene, 'don't
be distressed!'
'What else can I be, when I know the distance and the difference
between us? What else can I be, when to tell me why you came
here, is to put me to shame!' said Lizzie, covering her face.
He looked at her with a real sentiment of remorseful tenderness
and pity. It was not strong enough to impell him to sacrifice
himself and spare her, but it was a strong emotion.
'Lizzie! I never thought before, that there was a woman in the
world who could affect me so much by saying so little. But don't
be hard in your construction of me. You don't know what my state
of mind towards you is. You don't know how you haunt me and
bewilder me. You don't know how the cursed carelessness that is
over-officious in helping me at every other turning of my life,
WON'T help me here. You have struck it dead, I think, and I
sometimes almost wish you had struck me dead along with it.'
She had not been prepared for such passionate expressions, and
they awakened some natural sparks of feminine pride and joy in
her breast. To consider, wrong as he was, that he could care so
much for her, and that she had the power to move him so!
'It grieves you to see me distressed, Mr Wrayburn; it grieves me to
see you distressed. I don't reproach you. Indeed I don't reproach
you. You have not felt this as I feel it, being so different from me,
and beginning from another point of view. You have not thought.
But I entreat you to think now, think now!'
'What am I to think of?' asked Eugene, bitterly.
'Think of me.'
'Tell me how NOT to think of you, Lizzie, and you'll change me
altogether.'
'I don't mean in that way. Think of me, as belonging to another
station, and quite cut off from you in honour. Remember that I
have no protector near me, unless I have one in your noble heart.
Respect my good name. If you feel towards me, in one particular,
as you might if I was a lady, give me the full claims of a lady upon
your generous behaviour. I am removed from you and your family
by being a working girl. How true a gentleman to be as
considerate of me as if I was removed by being a Queen!'
He would have been base indeed to have stood untouched by her
appeal. His face expressed contrition and indecision as he asked:
'Have I injured you so much, Lizzie?'
'No, no. You may set me quite right. I don't speak of the past, Mr
Wrayburn, but of the present and the future. Are we not here now,
because through two days you have followed me so closely where
there are so many eyes to see you, that I consented to this
appointment as an escape?'
'Again, not very flattering to my self-love,' said Eugene, moodily;
'but yes. Yes. Yes.'
'Then I beseech you, Mr Wrayburn, I beg and pray you, leave this
neighbourhood. If you do not, consider to what you will drive me.'
He did consider within himself for a moment or two, and then
retorted, 'Drive you? To what shall I drive you, Lizzie?'
'You will drive me away. I live here peacefully and respected, and
I am well employed here. You will force me to quit this place as I
quitted London, and--by following me again--will force me to quit
the next place in which I may find refuge, as I quitted this.'
'Are you so determined, Lizzie--forgive the word I am going to use,
for its literal truth--to fly from a lover?'
'I am so determined,' she answered resolutely, though trembling, 'to
fly from such a lover. There was a poor woman died here but a
little while ago, scores of years older than I am, whom I found by
chance, lying on the wet earth. You may have heard some account
of her?'
'I think I have,' he answered, 'if her name was Higden.'
'Her name was Higden. Though she was so weak and old, she
kept true to one purpose to the very last. Even at the very last, she
made me promise that her purpose should be kept to, after she was
dead, so settled was her determination. What she did, I can do.
Mr Wrayburn, if I believed--but I do not believe--that you could be
so cruel to me as to drive me from place to place to wear me out,
you should drive me to death and not do it.'
He looked full at her handsome face, and in his own handsome
face there was a light of blended admiration, anger, and reproach,
which she--who loved him so in secret whose heart had long been
so full, and he the cause of its overflowing--drooped before. She
tried hard to retain her firmness, but he saw it melting away under
his eyes. In the moment of its dissolution, and of his first full
knowledge of his influence upon her, she dropped, and he caught
her on his arm.
'Lizzie! Rest so a moment. Answer what I ask you. If I had not
been what you call removed from you and cut off from you, would
you have made this appeal to me to leave you?'
'I don't know, I don't know. Don't ask me, Mr Wrayburn. Let me
go back.'
'I swear to you, Lizzie, you shall go directly. I swear to you, you
shall go alone. I'll not accompany you, I'll not follow you, if you
will reply.'
'How can I, Mr Wrayburn? How can I tell you what I should have
done, if you had not been what you are?'
'If I had not been what you make me out to be,' he struck in,
skilfully changing the form of words, 'would you still have hated
me?'
'O Mr Wrayburn,' she replied appealingly, and weeping, 'you
know me better than to think I do!'
'If I had not been what you make me out to be, Lizzie, would you
still have been indifferent to me?'
'O Mr Wrayburn,' she answered as before, 'you know me better
than that too!'
There was something in the attitude of her whole figure as he
supported it, and she hung her head, which besought him to be
merciful and not force her to disclose her heart. He was not
merciful with her, and he made her do it.
'If I know you better than quite to believe (unfortunate dog though I
am!) that you hate me, or even that you are wholly indifferent to
me, Lizzie, let me know so much more from yourself before we
separate. Let me know how you would have dealt with me if you
had regarded me as being what you would have considered on
equal terms with you.'
'It is impossible, Mr Wrayburn. How can I think of you as being
on equal terms with me? If my mind could put you on equal terms
with me, you could not be yourself. How could I remember, then,
the night when I first saw you, and when I went out of the room
because you looked at me so attentively? Or, the night that passed
into the morning when you broke to me that my father was dead?
Or, the nights when you used to come to see me at my next home?
Or, your having known how uninstructed I was, and having caused
me to be taught better? Or, my having so looked up to you and
wondered at you, and at first thought you so good to be at all
mindful of me?'
'Only "at first" thought me so good, Lizzie? What did you think
me after "at first"? So bad?'
'I don't say that. I don't mean that. But after the first wonder and
pleasure of being noticed by one so different from any one who had
ever spoken to me, I began to feel that it might have been better if I
had never seen you.'
'Why?'
'Because you WERE so different,' she answered in a lower voice.
'Because it was so endless, so hopeless. Spare me!'
'Did you think for me at all, Lizzie?' he asked, as if he were a little
stung.
'Not much, Mr Wrayburn. Not much until to-night.'
'Will you tell me why?'
'I never supposed until to-night that you needed to be thought for.
But if you do need to be; if you do truly feel at heart that you have
indeed been towards me what you have called yourself to-night,
and that there is nothing for us in this life but separation; then
Heaven help you, and Heaven bless you!'
The purity with which in these words she expressed something of
her own love and her own suffering, made a deep impression on
him for the passing time. He held her, almost as if she were
sanctified to him by death, and kissed her, once, almost as he
might have kissed the dead.
'I promised that I would not accompany you, nor follow you. Shall
I keep you in view? You have been agitated, and it's growing
dark.'
'I am used to be out alone at this hour, and I entreat you not to do
so.'
'I promise. I can bring myself to promise nothing more tonight,
Lizzie, except that I will try what I can do.'
'There is but one means, Mr Wrayburn, of sparing yourself and of
sparing me, every way. Leave this neighbourhood to-morrow
morning.'
'I will try.'
As he spoke the words in a grave voice, she put her hand in his,
removed it, and went away by the river-side.
'Now, could Mortimer believe this?' murmured Eugene, still
remaining, after a while, where she had left him. 'Can I even
believe it myself?'
He referred to the circumstance that there were tears upon his
hand, as he stood covering his eyes. 'A most ridiculous position
this, to be found out in!' was his next thought. And his next struck
its root in a little rising resentment against the cause of the tears.
'Yet I have gained a wonderful power over her, too, let her be as
much in earnest as she will!'
The reflection brought back the yielding of her face and form as
she had drooped under his gaze. Contemplating the reproduction,
he seemed to see, for the second time, in the appeal and in the
confession of weakness, a little fear.
'And she loves me. And so earnest a character must be very
earnest in that passion. She cannot choose for herself to be strong
in this fancy, wavering in that, and weak in the other. She must go
through with her nature, as I must go through with mine. If mine
exacts its pains and penalties all round, so must hers, I suppose.'
Pursuing the inquiry into his own nature, he thought, 'Now, if I
married her. If, outfacing the absurdity of the situation in
correspondence with M. R. F., I astonished M. R. F. to the utmost
extent of his respected powers, by informing him that I had
married her, how would M. R. F. reason with the legal mind?
"You wouldn't marry for some money and some station, because
you were frightfully likely to become bored. Are you less
frightfully likely to become bored, marrying for no money and no
station? Are you sure of yourself?" Legal mind, in spite of
forensic protestations, must secretly admit, "Good reasoning on
the part of M. R. F. NOT sure of myself."'
In the very act of calling this tone of levity to his aid, he felt it to be
profligate and worthless, and asserted her against it.
'And yet,' said Eugene, 'I should like to see the fellow (Mortimer
excepted) who would undertake to tell me that this was not a real
sentiment on my part, won out of me by her beauty and her worth,
in spite of myself, and that I would not be true to her. I should
particularly like to see the fellow to-night who would tell me so, or
who would tell me anything that could he construed to her
disadvantage; for I am wearily out of sorts with one Wrayburn who
cuts a sorry figure, and I would far rather be out of sorts with
somebody else. "Eugene, Eugene, Eugene, this is a bad business."
Ah! So go the Mortimer Lightwood bells, and they sound
melancholy to-night.'
Strolling on, he thought of something else to take himself to task
for. 'Where is the analogy, Brute Beast,' he said impatiently,
'between a woman whom your father coolly finds out for you and a
woman whom you have found out for yourself, and have ever
drifted after with more and more of constancy since you first set
eyes upon her? Ass! Can you reason no better than that?'
But, again he subsided into a reminiscence of his first full
knowledge of his power just now, and of her disclosure of her
heart. To try no more to go away, and to try her again, was the
reckless conclusion it turned uppermost. And yet again, 'Eugene,
Eugene, Eugene, this is a bad business!' And, 'I wish I could stop
the Lightwood peal, for it sounds like a knell.'
Looking above, he found that the young moon was up, and that the
stars were beginning to shine in the sky from which the tones of
red and yellow were flickering out, in favour of the calm blue of a
summer night. He was still by the river-side. Turning suddenly,
he met a man, so close upon him that Eugene, surprised, stepped
back, to avoid a collision. The man carried something over his
shoulder which might have been a broken oar, or spar, or bar, and
took no notice of him, but passed on.
'Halloa, friend!' said Eugene, calling after him, 'are you blind?'
The man made no reply, but went his way.
Eugene Wrayburn went the opposite way, with his hands behind
him and his purpose in his thoughts. He passed the sheep, and
passed the gate, and came within hearing of the village sounds,
and came to the bridge. The inn where he stayed, like the village
and the mill, was not across the river, but on that side of the stream
on which he walked. However, knowing the rushy bank and the
backwater on the other side to be a retired place, and feeling out of
humour for noise or company, he crossed the bridge, and sauntered
on: looking up at the stars as they seemed one by one to be kindled
in the sky, and looking down at the river as the same stars seemed
to be kindled deep in the water. A landing-place overshadowed by
a willow, and a pleasure-boat lying moored there among some
stakes, caught his eye as he passed along. The spot was in such
dark shadow, that he paused to make out what was there, and then
passed on again.
The rippling of the river seemed to cause a correspondent stir in his
uneasy reflections. He would have laid them asleep if he could,
but they were in movement, like the stream, and all tending one
way with a strong current. As the ripple under the moon broke
unexpectedly now and then, and palely flashed in a new shape and
with a new sound, so parts of his thoughts started, unbidden, from
the rest, and revealed their wickedness. 'Out of the question to
marry her,' said Eugene, 'and out of the question to leave her. The
crisis!'
He had sauntered far enough. Before turning to retrace his steps,
he stopped upon the margin, to look down at the reflected night. In
an instant, with a dreadful crash, the reflected night turned
crooked, flames shot jaggedly across the air, and the moon and
stars came bursting from the sky.
Was he struck by lightning? With some incoherent half-formed
thought to that effect, he turned under the blows that were blinding
him and mashing his life, and closed with a murderer, whom he
caught by a red neckerchief--unless the raining down of his own
blood gave it that hue.
Eugene was light, active, and expert; but his arms were broken, or
he was paralysed, and could do no more than hang on to the man,
with his head swung back, so that he could see nothing but the
heaving sky. After dragging at the assailant, he fell on the bank
with him, and then there was another great crash, and then a
splash, and all was done.
Lizzie Hexam, too, had avoided the noise, and the Saturday
movement of people in the straggling street, and chose to walk
alone by the water until her tears should be dry, and she could so
compose herself as to escape remark upon her looking ill or
unhappy on going home. The peaceful serenity of the hour and
place, having no reproaches or evil intentions within her breast to
contend against, sank healingly into its depths. She had meditated
and taken comfort. She, too, was turning homeward, when she
heard a strange sound.
It startled her, for it was like a sound of blows. She stood still, and
listened. It sickened her, for blows fell heavily and cruelly on the
quiet of the night. As she listened, undecided, all was silent. As
she yet listened, she heard a faint groan, and a fall into the river.
Her old bold life and habit instantly inspired her. Without vain
waste of breath in crying for help where there were none to hear,
she ran towards the spot from which the sounds had come. It lay
between her and the bridge, but it was more removed from her than
she had thought; the night being so very quiet, and sound
travelling far with the help of water.
At length, she reached a part of the green bank, much and newly
trodden, where there lay some broken splintered pieces of wood
and some torn fragments of clothes. Stooping, she saw that the
grass was bloody. Following the drops and smears, she saw that
the watery margin of the bank was bloody. Following the current
with her eyes, she saw a bloody face turned up towards the moon,
and drifting away.
Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old time, and grant, O
Blessed Lord, that through thy wonderful workings it may turn to
good at last! To whomsoever the drifting face belongs, be it man's
or woman's, help my humble hands, Lord God, to raise it from
death and restore it to some one to whom it must be dear!
It was thought, fervently thought, but not for a moment did the
prayer check her. She was away before it welled up in her mind,
away, swift and true, yet steady above all--for without steadiness it
could never be done--to the landing-place under the willow-tree,
where she also had seen the boat lying moored among the stakes.
A sure touch of her old practised hand, a sure step of her old
practised foot, a sure light balance of her body, and she was in the
boat. A quick glance of her practised eye showed her, even
through the deep dark shadow, the sculls in a rack against the redbrick
garden-wall. Another moment, and she had cast off (taking
the line with her), and the boat had shot out into the moonlight,
and she was rowing down the stream as never other woman rowed
on English water.
Intently over her shoulder, without slackening speed, she looked
ahead for the driving face. She passed the scene of the struggle--
yonder it was, on her left, well over the boat's stern--she passed on
her right, the end of the village street, a hilly street that almost
dipped into the river; its sounds were growing faint again, and she
slackened; looking as the boat drove, everywhere, everywhere, for
the floating face.
She merely kept the boat before the stream now, and rested on her
oars, knowing well that if the face were not soon visible, it had
gone down, and she would overshoot it. An untrained sight would
never have seen by the moonlight what she saw at the length of a
few strokes astern. She saw the drowning figure rise to the
surface, slightly struggle, and as if by instinct turn over on its back
to float. Just so had she first dimly seen the face which she now
dimly saw again.
Firm of look and firm of purpose, she intently watched its coming
on, until it was very near; then, with a touch unshipped her sculls,
and crept aft in the boat, between kneeling and crouching. Once,
she let the body evade her, not being sure of her grasp. Twice, and
she had seized it by its bloody hair.
It was insensible, if not virtually dead; it was mutilated, and
streaked the water all about it with dark red streaks. As it could
not help itself, it was impossible for her to get it on board. She
bent over the stern to secure it with the line, and then the river and
its shores rang to the terrible cry she uttered.
But, as if possessed by supernatural spirit and strength, she lashed
it safe, resumed her seat, and rowed in, desperately, for the nearest
shallow water where she might run the boat aground. Desperately,
but not wildly, for she knew that if she lost distinctness of
intention, all was lost and gone.
She ran the boat ashore, went into the water, released him from the
line, and by main strength lifted him in her arms and laid him in
the bottom of the boat. He had fearful wounds upon him, and she
bound them up with her dress torn into strips. Else, supposing him
to be still alive, she foresaw that he must bleed to death before he
could be landed at his inn, which was the nearest place for
succour.
This done very rapidly, she kissed his disfigured forehead, looked
up in anguish to the stars, and blessed him and forgave him, 'if
she had anything to forgive.' It was only in that instant that she
thought of herself, and then she thought of herself only for him.
Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old time, enabling me,
without a wasted moment, to have got the boat afloat again, and to
row back against the stream! And grant, O Blessed Lord God, that
through poor me he may be raised from death, and preserved to
some one else to whom he may be dear one day, though never
dearer than to me!
She rowed hard--rowed desperately, but never wildly--and seldom
removed her eyes from him in the bottom of the boat. She had so
laid him there, as that she might see his disfigured face; it was so
much disfigured that his mother might have covered it, but it was
above and beyond disfigurement in her eyes.
The boat touched the edge of the patch of inn lawn, sloping gently
to the water. There were lights in the windows, but there chanced
to be no one out of doors. She made the boat fast, and again by
main strength took him up, and never laid him down until she laid
him down in the house.
Surgeons were sent for, and she sat supporting his head. She had
oftentimes heard in days that were gone, how doctors would lift the
hand of an insensible wounded person, and would drop it if the
person were dead. She waited for the awful moment when the
doctors might lift this hand, all broken and bruised, and let it fall.
The first of the surgeons came, and asked, before proceeding to his
examination, 'Who brought him in?'
'I brought him in, sir,' answered Lizzie, at whom all present
looked.
'You, my dear? You could not lift, far less carry, this weight.'
'I think I could not, at another time, sir; but I am sure I did.'
The surgeon looked at her with great attention, and with some
compassion. Having with a grave face touched the wounds upon
the head, and the broken arms, he took the hand.
O! would he let it drop?
He appeared irresolute. He did not retain it, but laid it gently
down, took a candle, looked more closely at the injuries on the
head, and at the pupils of the eyes. That done, he replaced the
candle and took the hand again. Another surgeon then coming in,
the two exchanged a whisper, and the second took the hand.
Neither did he let it fall at once, but kept it for a while and laid it
gently down.
'Attend to the poor girl,' said the first surgeon then. 'She is quite
unconscious. She sees nothing and hears nothing. All the better
for her! Don't rouse her, if you can help it; only move her. Poor
girl, poor girl! She must be amazingly strong of heart, but it is
much to be feared that she has set her heart upon the dead. Be
gentle with her.'
Chapter 7
BETTER TO BE ABEL THAN CAIN
Day was breaking at Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. Stars were yet
visible, but there was dull light in the east that was not the light of
night. The moon had gone down, and a mist crept along the banks
of the river, seen through which the trees were the ghosts of trees,
and the water was the ghost of water. This earth looked spectral,
and so did the pale stars: while the cold eastern glare,
expressionless as to heat or colour, with the eye of the firmament
quenched, might have been likened to the stare of the dead.
Perhaps it was so likened by the lonely Bargeman, standing on the
brink of the lock. For certain, Bradley Headstone looked that way,
when a chill air came up, and when it passed on murmuring, as if
it whispered something that made the phantom trees and water
tremble--or threaten--for fancy might have made it either.
He turned away, and tried the Lock-house door. It was fastened on
the inside.
'Is he afraid of me?' he muttered, knocking.
Rogue Riderhood was soon roused, and soon undrew the bolt and
let him in.
'Why, T'otherest, I thought you had been and got lost! Two nights
away! I a'most believed as you'd giv' me the slip, and I had as
good as half a mind for to advertise you in the newspapers to come
for'ard.'
Bradley's face turned so dark on this hint, that Riderhood deemed
it expedient to soften it into a compliment.
'But not you, governor, not you,' he went on, stolidly shaking his
head. 'For what did I say to myself arter having amused myself
with that there stretch of a comic idea, as a sort of a playful game?
Why, I says to myself; "He's a man o' honour." That's what I says
to myself. "He's a man o' double honour."'
Very remarkably, Riderhood put no question to him. He had
looked at him on opening the door, and he now looked at him
again (stealthily this time), and the result of his looking was, that
he asked him no question.
'You'll be for another forty on 'em, governor, as I judges, afore you
turns your mind to breakfast,' said Riderhood, when his visitor sat
down, resting his chin on his hand, with his eyes on the ground.
And very remarkably again: Riderhood feigned to set the scanty
furniture in order, while he spoke, to have a show of reason for not
looking at him.
'Yes. I had better sleep, I think,' said Bradley, without changing
his position.
'I myself should recommend it, governor,' assented Riderhood.
'Might you be anyways dry?'
'Yes. I should like a drink,' said Bradley; but without appearing to
attend much.
Mr Riderhood got out his bottle, and fetched his jug-full of water,
and administered a potation. Then, he shook the coverlet of his
bed and spread it smooth, and Bradley stretched himself upon it in
the clothes he wore. Mr Riderhood poetically remarking that he
would pick the bones of his night's rest, in his wooden chair, sat in
the window as before; but, as before, watched the sleeper narrowly
until he was very sound asleep. Then, he rose and looked at him
close, in the bright daylight, on every side, with great minuteness.
He went out to his Lock to sum up what he had seen.
'One of his sleeves is tore right away below the elber, and the
t'other's had a good rip at the shoulder. He's been hung on to,
pretty tight, for his shirt's all tore out of the neck-gathers. He's
been in the grass and he's been in the water. And he's spotted, and
I know with what, and with whose. Hooroar!'
Bradley slept long. Early in the afternoon a barge came down.
Other barges had passed through, both ways, before it; but the
Lock-keeper hailed only this particular barge, for news, as if he
had made a time calculation with some nicety. The men on board
told him a piece of news, and there was a lingering on their part to
enlarge upon it.
Twelve hours had intervened since Bradley's lying down, when he
got up. 'Not that I swaller it,' said Riderhood, squinting at his
Lock, when he saw Bradley coming out of the house, 'as you've
been a sleeping all the time, old boy!'
Bradley came to him, sitting on his wooden lever, and asked what
o'clock it was? Riderhood told him it was between two and three.
'When are you relieved?' asked Bradley.
'Day arter to-morrow, governor.'
'Not sooner?'
'Not a inch sooner, governor.'
On both sides, importance seemed attached to this question of
relief. Riderhood quite petted his reply; saying a second time, and
prolonging a negative roll of his head, 'n--n--not a inch sooner,
governor.'
'Did I tell you I was going on to-night?' asked Bradley.
'No, governor,' returned Riderhood, in a cheerful, affable, and
conversational manner, 'you did not tell me so. But most like you
meant to it and forgot to it. How, otherways, could a doubt have
come into your head about it, governor?'
'As the sun goes down, I intend to go on,' said Bradley.
'So much the more necessairy is a Peck,' returned Riderhood.
'Come in and have it, T'otherest.'
The formality of spreading a tablecloth not being observed in Mr
Riderhood's establishment, the serving of the 'peck' was the affair
of a moment; it merely consisting in the handing down of a
capacious baking dish with three-fourths of an immense meat pie
in it, and the production of two pocket-knives, an earthenware
mug, and a large brown bottle of beer.
Both ate and drank, but Riderhood much the more abundantly. In
lieu of plates, that honest man cut two triangular pieces from the
thick crust of the pie, and laid them, inside uppermost, upon the
table: the one before himself, and the other before his guest. Upon
these platters he placed two goodly portions of the contents of the
pie, thus imparting the unusual interest to the entertainment that
each partaker scooped out the inside of his plate, and consumed it
with his other fare, besides having the sport of pursuing the clots of
congealed gravy over the plain of the table, and successfully taking
them into his mouth at last from the blade of his knife, in case of
their not first sliding off it.
Bradley Headstone was so remarkably awkward at these exercises,
that the Rogue observed it.
'Look out, T'otherest!' he cried, 'you'll cut your hand!'
But, the caution came too late, for Bradley gashed it at the instant.
And, what was more unlucky, in asking Riderhood to tie it up, and
in standing close to him for the purpose, he shook his hand under
the smart of the wound, and shook blood over Riderhood's dress.
When dinner was done, and when what remained of the platters
and what remained of the congealed gravy had been put back into
what remained of the pie, which served as an economical
investment for all miscellaneous savings, Riderhood filled the mug
with beer and took a long drink. And now he did look at Bradley,
and with an evil eye.
'T'otherest!' he said, hoarsely, as he bent across the table to touch
his arm. 'The news has gone down the river afore you.'
'What news?'
'Who do you think,' said Riderhood, with a hitch of his head, as if
he disdainfully jerked the feint away, 'picked up the body? Guess.'
'I am not good at guessing anything.'
'She did. Hooroar! You had him there agin. She did.'
The convulsive twitching of Bradley Headstone's face, and the
sudden hot humour that broke out upon it, showed how grimly the
intelligence touched him. But he said not a single word, good or
bad. He only smiled in a lowering manner, and got up and stood
leaning at the window, looking through it. Riderhood followed
him with his eyes. Riderhood cast down his eyes on his own
besprinkled clothes. Riderhood began to have an air of being
better at a guess than Bradley owned to being.
'I have been so long in want of rest,' said the schoolmaster, 'that
with your leave I'll lie down again.'
'And welcome, T'otherest!' was the hospitable answer of his host.
He had laid himself down without waiting for it, and he remained
upon the bed until the sun was low. When he arose and came out
to resume his journey, he found his host waiting for him on the
grass by the towing-path outside the door.
'Whenever it may be necessary that you and I should have any
further communication together,' said Bradley, 'I will come back.
Good-night!'
'Well, since no better can be,' said Riderhood, turning on his heel,
'Good-night!' But he turned again as the other set forth, and added
under his breath, looking after him with a leer: 'You wouldn't be
let to go like that, if my Relief warn't as good as come. I'll catch
you up in a mile.'
In a word, his real time of relief being that evening at sunset, his
mate came lounging in, within a quarter of an hour. Not staying to
fill up the utmost margin of his time, but borrowing an hour or so,
to be repaid again when he should relieve his reliever, Riderhood
straightway followed on the track of Bradley Headstone.
He was a better follower than Bradley. It had been the calling of
his life to slink and skulk and dog and waylay, and he knew his
calling well. He effected such a forced march on leaving the Lock
House that he was close up with him--that is to say, as close up
with him as he deemed it convenient to be--before another Lock
was passed. His man looked back pretty often as he went, but got
no hint of him. HE knew how to take advantage of the ground,
and where to put the hedge between them, and where the wall, and
when to duck, and when to drop, and had a thousand arts beyond
the doomed Bradley's slow conception.
But, all his arts were brought to a standstill, like himself when
Bradley, turning into a green lane or riding by the river-side--a
solitary spot run wild in nettles, briars, and brambles, and
encumbered with the scathed trunks of a whole hedgerow of felled
trees, on the outskirts of a little wood--began stepping on these
trunks and dropping down among them and stepping on them
again, apparently as a schoolboy might have done, but assuredly
with no schoolboy purpose, or want of purpose.
'What are you up to?' muttered Riderhood, down in the ditch, and
holding the hedge a little open with both hands. And soon his
actions made a most extraordinary reply. 'By George and the
Draggin!' cried Riderhood, 'if he ain't a going to bathe!'
He had passed back, on and among the trunks of trees again, and
has passed on to the water-side and had begun undressing on the
grass. For a moment it had a suspicious look of suicide, arranged
to counterfeit accident. 'But you wouldn't have fetched a bundle
under your arm, from among that timber, if such was your game!'
said Riderhood. Nevertheless it was a relief to him when the
bather after a plunge and a few strokes came out. 'For I shouldn't,'
he said in a feeling manner, 'have liked to lose you till I had made
more money out of you neither.'
Prone in another ditch (he had changed his ditch as his man had
changed his position), and holding apart so small a patch of the
hedge that the sharpest eyes could not have detected him, Rogue
Riderhood watched the bather dressing. And now gradually came
the wonder that he stood up, completely clothed, another man, and
not the Bargeman.
'Aha!' said Riderhood. 'Much as you was dressed that night. I see.
You're a taking me with you, now. You're deep. But I knows a
deeper.'
When the bather had finished dressing, he kneeled on the grass,
doing something with his hands, and again stood up with his
bundle under his arm. Looking all around him with great
attention, he then went to the river's edge, and flung it in as far,
and yet as lightly as he could. It was not until he was so decidedly
upon his way again as to be beyond a bend of the river and for the
time out of view, that Riderhood scrambled from the ditch.
'Now,' was his debate with himself 'shall I foller you on, or shall I
let you loose for this once, and go a fishing?' The debate
continuing, he followed, as a precautionary measure in any case,
and got him again in sight. 'If I was to let you loose this once,' said
Riderhood then, still following, 'I could make you come to me
agin, or I could find you out in one way or another. If I wasn't to
go a fishing, others might.--I'll let you loose this once, and go a
fishing!' With that, he suddenly dropped the pursuit and turned.
The miserable man whom he had released for the time, but not for
long, went on towards London. Bradley was suspicious of every
sound he heard, and of every face he saw, but was under a spell
which very commonly falls upon the shedder of blood, and had no
suspicion of the real danger that lurked in his life, and would have
it yet. Riderhood was much in his thoughts--had never been out of
his thoughts since the night-adventure of their first meeting; but
Riderhood occupied a very different place there, from the place of
pursuer; and Bradley had been at the pains of devising so many
means of fitting that place to him, and of wedging him into it, that
his mind could not compass the possibility of his occupying any
other. And this is another spell against which the shedder of blood
for ever strives in vain. There are fifty doors by which discovery
may enter. With infinite pains and cunning, he double locks and
bars forty-nine of them, and cannot see the fiftieth standing wide
open.
Now, too, was he cursed with a state of mind more wearing and
more wearisome than remorse. He had no remorse; but the
evildoer who can hold that avenger at bay, cannot escape the
slower torture of incessantly doing the evil deed again and doing it
more efficiently. In the defensive declarations and pretended
confessions of murderers, the pursuing shadow of this torture may
be traced through every lie they tell. If I had done it as alleged, is
it conceivable that I would have made this and this mistake? If I
had done it as alleged, should I have left that unguarded place
which that false and wicked witness against me so infamously
deposed to? The state of that wretch who continually finds the
weak spots in his own crime, and strives to strengthen them when
it is unchangeable, is a state that aggravates the offence by doing
the deed a thousand times instead of once; but it is a state, too, that
tauntingly visits the offence upon a sullen unrepentant nature with
its heaviest punishment every time.
Bradley toiled on, chained heavily to the idea of his hatred and his
vengeance, and thinking how he might have satiated both in many
better ways than the way he had taken. The instrument might have
been better, the spot and the hour might have been better chosen.
To batter a man down from behind in the dark, on the brink of a
river, was well enough, but he ought to have been instantly
disabled, whereas he had turned and seized his assailant; and so, to
end it before chance-help came, and to be rid of him, he had been
hurriedly thrown backward into the river before the life was fully
beaten out of him. Now if it could be done again, it must not be so
done. Supposing his head had been held down under water for a
while. Supposing the first blow had been truer. Supposing he had
been shot. Supposing he had been strangled. Suppose this way,
that way, the other way. Suppose anything but getting unchained
from the one idea, for that was inexorably impossible.
The school reopened next day. The scholars saw little or no
change in their master's face, for it always wore its slowly
labouring expression. But, as he heard his classes, he was always
doing the deed and doing it better. As he paused with his piece of
chalk at the black board before writing on it, he was thinking of the
spot, and whether the water was not deeper and the fall straighter,
a little higher up, or a little lower down. He had half a mind to
draw a line or two upon the board, and show himself what he
meant. He was doing it again and improving on the manner, at
prayers, in his mental arithmetic, all through his questioning, all
through the day.
Charley Hexam was a master now, in another school, under
another head. It was evening, and Bradley was walking in his
garden observed from behind a blind by gentle little Miss Peecher,
who contemplated offering him a loan of her smelling salts for
headache, when Mary Anne, in faithful attendance, held up her
arm.
'Yes, Mary Anne?'
'Young Mr Hexam, if you please, ma'am, coming to see Mr
Headstone.'
'Very good, Mary Anne.'
Again Mary Anne held up her arm.
'You may speak, Mary Anne?'
'Mr Headstone has beckoned young Mr Hexam into his house,
ma'am, and he has gone in himself without waiting for young Mr
Hexam to come up, and now HE has gone in too, ma'am, and has
shut the door.'
'With all my heart, Mary Anne.'
Again Mary Anne's telegraphic arm worked.
'What more, Mary Anne?'
'They must find it rather dull and dark, Miss Peecher, for the
parlour blind's down, and neither of them pulls it up.'
'There is no accounting,' said good Miss Peecher with a little sad
sigh which she repressed by laying her hand on her neat
methodical boddice, 'there is no accounting for tastes, Mary Anne.'
Charley, entering the dark room, stopped short when he saw his
old friend in its yellow shade.
'Come in, Hexam, come in.'
Charley advanced to take the hand that was held out to him; but
stopped again, short of it. The heavy, bloodshot eyes of the
schoolmaster, rising to his face with an effort, met his look of
scrutiny.
'Mr Headstone, what's the matter?'
'Matter? Where?'
'Mr Headstone, have you heard the news? This news about the
fellow, Mr Eugene Wrayburn? That he is killed?'
'He is dead, then!' exclaimed Bradley.
Young Hexam standing looking at him, he moistened his lips with
his tongue, looked about the room, glanced at his former pupil, and
looked down. 'I heard of the outrage,' said Bradley, trying to
constrain his working mouth, 'but I had not heard the end of it.'
'Where were you,' said the boy, advancing a step as he lowered his
voice, 'when it was done? Stop! I don't ask that. Don't tell me. If
you force your confidence upon me, Mr Headstone, I'll give up
every word of it. Mind! Take notice. I'll give up it, and I'll give
up you. I will!'
The wretched creature seemed to suffer acutely under this
renunciation. A desolate air of utter and complete loneliness fell
upon him, like a visible shade.
'It's for me to speak, not you,' said the boy. 'If you do, you'll do it at
your peril. I am going to put your selfishness before you, Mr
Headstone--your passionate, violent, and ungovernable selfishness
--to show you why I can, and why I will, have nothing more to do
with you.'
He looked at young Hexam as if he were waiting for a scholar to go
on with a lesson that he knew by heart and was deadly tired of.
But he had said his last word to him.
'If you had any part--I don't say what--in this attack,' pursued the
boy; 'or if you know anything about it--I don't say how much--or if
you know who did it--I go no closer--you did an injury to me that's
never to be forgiven. You know that I took you with me to his
chambers in the Temple when I told him my opinion of him, and
made myself responsible for my opinion of you. You know that I
took you with me when I was watching him with a view to
recovering my sister and bringing her to her senses; you know that
I have allowed myself to be mixed up with you, all through this
business, in favouring your desire to marry my sister. And how do
you know that, pursuing the ends of your own violent temper, you
have not laid me open to suspicion? Is that your gratitude to me,
Mr Headstone?'
Bradley sat looking steadily before him at the vacant air. As often
as young Hexam stopped, he turned his eyes towards him, as if he
were waiting for him to go on with the lesson, and get it done. As
often as the boy resumed, Bradley resumed his fixed face.
'I am going to be plain with you, Mr Headstone,' said young
Hexam, shaking his head in a half-threatening manner, 'because
this is no time for affecting not to know things that I do know--
except certain things at which it might not be very safe for you, to
hint again. What I mean is this: if you were a good master, I was a
good pupil. I have done you plenty of credit, and in improving my
own reputation I have improved yours quite as much. Very well
then. Starting on equal terms, I want to put before you how you
have shown your gratitude to me, for doing all I could to further
your wishes with reference to my sister. You have compromised
me by being seen about with me, endeavouring to counteract this
Mr Eugene Wrayburn. That's the first thing you have done. If my
character, and my now dropping you, help me out of that, Mr
Headstone, the deliverance is to be attributed to me, and not to you.
No thanks to you for it!'
The boy stopping again, he moved his eyes again.
'I am going on, Mr Headstone, don't you be afraid. I am going on
to the end, and I have told you beforehand what the end is. Now,
you know my story. You are as well aware as I am, that I have had
many disadvantages to leave behind me in life. You have heard
me mention my father, and you are sufficiently acquainted with the
fact that the home from which I, as I may say, escaped, might have
been a more creditable one than it was. My father died, and then it
might have been supposed that my way to respectability was pretty
clear. No. For then my sister begins.'
He spoke as confidently, and with as entire an absence of any telltale
colour in his cheek, as if there were no softening old time
behind him. Not wonderful, for there WAS none in his hollow
empty heart. What is there but self, for selfishness to see behind
it?
'When I speak of my sister, I devoutly wish that you had never seen
her, Mr Headstone. However, you did see her, and that's useless
now. I confided in you about her. I explained her character to you,
and how she interposed some ridiculous fanciful notions in the
way of our being as respectable as I tried for. You fell in love with
her, and I favoured you with all my might. She could not be
induced to favour you, and so we came into collision with this Mr
Eugene Wrayburn. Now, what have you done? Why, you have
justified my sister in being firmly set against you from first to last,
and you have put me in the wrong again! And why have you done
it? Because, Mr Headstone, you are in all your passions so selfish,
and so concentrated upon yourself that you have not bestowed one
proper thought on me.'
The cool conviction with which the boy took up and held his
position, could have been derived from no other vice in human
nature.
'It is,' he went on, actually with tears, 'an extraordinary
circumstance attendant on my life, that every effort I make towards
perfect respectability, is impeded by somebody else through no
fault of mine! Not content with doing what I have put before you,
you will drag my name into notoriety through dragging my sister's
--which you are pretty sure to do, if my suspicions have any
foundation at all--and the worse you prove to be, the harder it will
be for me to detach myself from being associated with you in
people's minds.'
When he had dried his eyes and heaved a sob over his injuries, he
began moving towards the door.
'However, I have made up my mind that I will become respectable
in the scale of society, and that I will not be dragged down by
others. I have done with my sister as well as with you. Since she
cares so little for me as to care nothing for undermining my
respectability, she shall go her way and I will go mine. My
prospects are very good, and I mean to follow them alone. Mr
Headstone, I don't say what you have got upon your conscience, for
I don't know. Whatever lies upon it, I hope you will see the justice
of keeping wide and clear of me, and will find a consolation in
completely exonerating all but yourself. I hope, before many years
are out, to succeed the master in my present school, and the
mistress being a single woman, though some years older than I am,
I might even marry her. If it is any comfort to you to know what
plans I may work out by keeping myself strictly respectable in the
scale of society, these are the plans at present occurring to me. In
conclusion, if you feel a sense of having injured me, and a desire to
make some small reparation, I hope you will think how respectable
you might have been yourself and will contemplate your blighted
existence.'
Was it strange that the wretched man should take this heavily to
heart? Perhaps he had taken the boy to heart, first, through some
long laborious years; perhaps through the same years he had found
his drudgery lightened by communication with a brighter and more
apprehensive spirit than his own; perhaps a family resemblance of
face and voice between the boy and his sister, smote him hard in
the gloom of his fallen state. For whichsoever reason, or for all, he
drooped his devoted head when the boy was gone, and shrank
together on the floor, and grovelled there, with the palms of his
hands tight-clasping his hot temples, in unutterable misery, and
unrelieved by a single tear.
Rogue Riderhood had been busy with the river that day. He had
fished with assiduity on the previous evening, but the light was
short, and he had fished unsuccessfully. He had fished again that
day with better luck, and had carried his fish home to Plashwater
Weir Mill Lock-house, in a bundle.
Chapter 8
A FEW GRAINS OF PEPPER
The dolls' dressmaker went no more to the business-premises of
Pubsey and Co. in St Mary Axe, after chance had disclosed to her
(as she supposed) the flinty and hypocritical character of Mr Riah.
She often moralized over her work on the tricks and the manners of
that venerable cheat, but made her little purchases elsewhere, and
lived a secluded life. After much consultation with herself, she
decided not to put Lizzie Hexam on her guard against the old man,
arguing that the disappointment of finding him out would come
upon her quite soon enough. Therefore, in her communication
with her friend by letter, she was silent on this theme, and
principally dilated on the backslidings of her bad child, who every
day grew worse and worse.
'You wicked old boy,' Miss Wren would say to him, with a
menacing forefinger, 'you'll force me to run away from you, after
all, you will; and then you'll shake to bits, and there'll be nobody to
pick up the pieces!'
At this foreshadowing of a desolate decease, the wicked old boy
would whine and whimper, and would sit shaking himself into the
lowest of low spirits, until such time as he could shake himself out
of the house and shake another threepennyworth into himself. But
dead drunk or dead sober (he had come to such a pass that he was
least alive in the latter state), it was always on the conscience of
the paralytic scarecrow that he had betrayed his sharp parent for
sixty threepennyworths of rum, which were all gone, and that her
sharpness would infallibly detect his having done it, sooner or
later. All things considered therefore, and addition made of the
state of his body to the state of his mind, the bed on which Mr
Dolls reposed was a bed of roses from which the flowers and
leaves had entirely faded, leaving him to lie upon the thorns and
stalks.
On a certain day, Miss Wren was alone at her work, with the
house-door set open for coolness, and was trolling in a small sweet
voice a mournful little song which might have been the song of the
doll she was dressing, bemoaning the brittleness and meltability of
wax, when whom should she descry standing on the pavement,
looking in at her, but Mr Fledgeby.
'I thought it was you?' said Fledgeby, coming up the two steps.
'Did you?' Miss Wren retorted. 'And I thought it was you, young
man. Quite a coincidence. You're not mistaken, and I'm not
mistaken. How clever we are!'
'Well, and how are you?' said Fledgeby.
'I am pretty much as usual, sir,' replied Miss Wren. 'A very
unfortunate parent, worried out of my life and senses by a very bad
child.'
Fledgeby's small eyes opened so wide that they might have passed
for ordinary-sized eyes, as he stared about him for the very young
person whom he supposed to be in question.
'But you're not a parent,' said Miss Wren, 'and consequently it's of
no use talking to you upon a family subject.--To what am I to
attribute the honour and favour?'
'To a wish to improve your acquaintance,' Mr Fledgeby replied.
Miss Wren, stopping to bite her thread, looked at him very
knowingly.
'We never meet now,' said Fledgeby; 'do we?'
'No,' said Miss Wren, chopping off the word.
'So I had a mind,' pursued Fledgeby, 'to come and have a talk with
you about our dodging friend, the child of Israel.'
'So HE gave you my address; did he?' asked Miss Wren.
'I got it out of him,' said Fledgeby, with a stammer.
'You seem to see a good deal of him,' remarked Miss Wren, with
shrewd distrust. 'A good deal of him you seem to see, considering.'
'Yes, I do,' said Fledgeby. 'Considering.'
'Haven't you,' inquired the dressmaker, bending over the doll on
which her art was being exercised, 'done interceding with him yet?'
'No,' said Fledgeby, shaking his head.
'La! Been interceding with him all this time, and sticking to him
still?' said Miss Wren, busy with her work.
'Sticking to him is the word,' said Fledgeby.
Miss Wren pursued her occupation with a concentrated air, and
asked, after an interval of silent industry:
'Are you in the army?'
'Not exactly,' said Fledgeby, rather flattered by the question.
'Navy?' asked Miss Wren.
'N--no,' said Fledgeby. He qualified these two negatives, as if he
were not absolutely in either service, but was almost in both.
'What are you then?' demanded Miss Wren.
'I am a gentleman, I am,' said Fledgeby.
'Oh!' assented Jenny, screwing up her mouth with an appearance of
conviction. 'Yes, to be sure! That accounts for your having so
much time to give to interceding. But only to think how kind and
friendly a gentleman you must be!'
Mr Fledgeby found that he was skating round a board marked
Dangerous, and had better cut out a fresh track. 'Let's get back to
the dodgerest of the dodgers,' said he. 'What's he up to in the case
of your friend the handsome gal? He must have some object.
What's his object?'
'Cannot undertake to say, sir, I am sure!' returned Miss Wren,
composedly.
'He won't acknowledge where she's gone,' said Fledgeby; 'and I
have a fancy that I should like to have another look at her. Now I
know he knows where she is gone.'
'Cannot undertake to say, sir, I am sure!' Miss Wren again
rejoined.
'And you know where she is gone,' hazarded Fledgeby.
'Cannot undertake to say, sir, really,' replied Miss Wren.
The quaint little chin met Mr Fledgeby's gaze with such a baffling
hitch, that that agreeable gentleman was for some time at a loss
how to resume his fascinating part in the dialogue. At length he
said:
'Miss Jenny!--That's your name, if I don't mistake?'
'Probably you don't mistake, sir,' was Miss Wren's cool answer;
'because you had it on the best authority. Mine, you know.'
'Miss Jenny! Instead of coming up and being dead, let's come out
and look alive. It'll pay better, I assure you,' said Fledgeby,
bestowing an inveigling twinkle or two upon the dressmaker.
'You'll find it pay better.'
'Perhaps,' said Miss Jenny, holding out her doll at arm's length,
and critically contemplating the effect of her art with her scissors
on her lips and her head thrown back, as if her interest lay there,
and not in the conversation; 'perhaps you'll explain your meaning,
young man, which is Greek to me.--You must have another touch
of blue in your trimming, my dear.' Having addressed the last
remark to her fair client, Miss Wren proceeded to snip at some
blue fragments that lay before her, among fragments of all colours,
and to thread a needle from a skein of blue silk.
'Look here,' said Fledgeby.--'Are you attending?'
'I am attending, sir,' replied Miss Wren, without the slightest
appearance of so doing. 'Another touch of blue in your trimming,
my dear.'
'Well, look here,' said Fledgeby, rather discouraged by the
circumstances under which he found himself pursuing the
conversation. 'If you're attending--'
('Light blue, my sweet young lady,' remarked Miss Wren, in a
sprightly tone, 'being best suited to your fair complexion and your
flaxen curls.')
'I say, if you're attending,' proceeded Fledgeby, 'it'll pay better in
this way. It'll lead in a roundabout manner to your buying damage
and waste of Pubsey and Co. at a nominal price, or even getting it
for nothing.'
'Aha!' thought the dressmaker. 'But you are not so roundabout,
Little Eyes, that I don't notice your answering for Pubsey and Co.
after all! Little Eyes, Little Eyes, you're too cunning by half.'
'And I take it for granted,' pursued Fledgeby, 'that to get the most
of your materials for nothing would be well worth your while, Miss
Jenny?'
'You may take it for granted,' returned the dressmaker with many
knowing nods, 'that it's always well worth my while to make
money.'
'Now,' said Fledgeby approvingly, 'you're answering to a sensible
purpose. Now, you're coming out and looking alive! So I make so
free, Miss Jenny, as to offer the remark, that you and Judah were
too thick together to last. You can't come to be intimate with such
a deep file as Judah without beginning to see a little way into him,
you know,' said Fledgeby with a wink.
'I must own,' returned the dressmaker, with her eyes upon her
work, 'that we are not good friends at present.'
'I know you're not good friends at present,' said Fledgeby. 'I know
all about it. I should like to pay off Judah, by not letting him have
his own deep way in everything. In most things he'll get it by hook
or by crook, but--hang it all!--don't let him have his own deep way
in everything. That's too much.' Mr Fledgeby said this with some
display of indignant warmth, as if he was counsel in the cause for
Virtue.
'How can I prevent his having his own way?' began the
dressmaker.
'Deep way, I called it,' said Fledgeby.
'--His own deep way, in anything?'
'I'll tell you,' said Fledgeby. 'I like to hear you ask it, because it's
looking alive. It's what I should expect to find in one of your
sagacious understanding. Now, candidly.'
'Eh?' cried Miss Jenny.
'I said, now candidly,' Mr Fledgeby explained, a little put out.
'Oh-h!'
'I should be glad to countermine him, respecting the handsome
gal, your friend. He means something there. You may depend
upon it, Judah means something there. He has a motive, and of
course his motive is a dark motive. Now, whatever his motive is,
it's necessary to his motive'--Mr Fledgeby's constructive powers
were not equal to the avoidance of some tautology here--'that it
should be kept from me, what he has done with her. So I put it to
you, who know: What HAS he done with her? I ask no more.
And is that asking much, when you understand that it will pay?'
Miss Jenny Wren, who had cast her eyes upon the bench again
after her last interruption, sat looking at it, needle in hand but not
working, for some moments. She then briskly resumed her work,
and said with a sidelong glance of her eyes and chin at Mr
Fledgeby:
'Where d'ye live?'
'Albany, Piccadilly,' replied Fledgeby.
'When are you at home?'
'When you like.'
'Breakfast-time?' said Jenny, in her abruptest and shortest manner.
'No better time in the day,' said Fledgeby.
'I'll look in upon you to-morrow, young man. Those two ladies,'
pointing to dolls, 'have an appointment in Bond Street at ten
precisely. When I've dropped 'em there, I'll drive round to you.
With a weird little laugh, Miss Jenny pointed to her crutch-stick as
her equipage.
'This is looking alive indeed!' cried Fledgeby, rising.
'Mark you! I promise you nothing,' said the dolls' dressmaker,
dabbing two dabs at him with her needle, as if she put out both his
eyes.
'No no. I understand,' returned Fledgeby. 'The damage and waste
question shall be settled first. It shall be made to pay; don't you be
afraid. Good-day, Miss Jenny.'
'Good-day, young man.'
Mr Fledgeby's prepossessing form withdrew itself; and the little
dressmaker, clipping and snipping and stitching, and stitching and
snipping and clipping, fell to work at a great rate; musing and
muttering all the time.
'Misty, misty, misty. Can't make it out. Little Eyes and the wolf in
a conspiracy? Or Little Eyes and the wolf against one another?
Can't make it out. My poor Lizzie, have they both designs against
you, either way? Can't make it out. Is Little Eyes Pubsey, and the
wolf Co? Can't make it out. Pubsey true to Co, and Co to Pubsey?
Pubsey false to Co, and Co to Pubsey? Can't make it out. What
said Little Eyes? "Now, candidly?" Ah! However the cat jumps,
HE'S a liar. That's all I can make out at present; but you may go to
bed in the Albany, Piccadilly, with THAT for your pillow, young
man!' Thereupon, the little dressmaker again dabbed out his eyes
separately, and making a loop in the air of her thread and deftly
catching it into a knot with her needle, seemed to bowstring him
into the bargain.
For the terrors undergone by Mr Dolls that evening when his little
parent sat profoundly meditating over her work, and when he
imagined himself found out, as often as she changed her attitude,
or turned her eyes towards him, there is no adequate name.
Moreover it was her habit to shake her head at that wretched old
boy whenever she caught his eye as he shivered and shook. What
are popularly called 'the trembles' being in full force upon him that
evening, and likewise what are popularly called 'the horrors,' he
had a very bad time of it; which was not made better by his being
so remorseful as frequently to moan 'Sixty threepennorths.' This
imperfect sentence not being at all intelligible as a confession, but
sounding like a Gargantuan order for a dram, brought him into
new difficulties by occasioning his parent to pounce at him in a
more than usually snappish manner, and to overwhelm him with
bitter reproaches.
What was a bad time for Mr Dolls, could not fail to be a bad time
for the dolls' dressmaker. However, she was on the alert next
morning, and drove to Bond Street, and set down the two ladies
punctually, and then directed her equipage to conduct her to the
Albany. Arrived at the doorway of the house in which Mr
Fledgeby's chambers were, she found a lady standing there in a
travelling dress, holding in her hand--of all things in the world--a
gentleman's hat.
'You want some one?' said the lady in a stern manner.
'I am going up stairs to Mr Fledgeby's.'
'You cannot do that at this moment. There is a gentleman with
him. I am waiting for the gentleman. His business with Mr
Fledgeby will very soon be transacted, and then you can go up.
Until the gentleman comes down, you must wait here.'
While speaking, and afterwards, the lady kept watchfully between
her and the staircase, as if prepared to oppose her going up, by
force. The lady being of a stature to stop her with a hand, and
looking mightily determined, the dressmaker stood still.
'Well? Why do you listen?' asked the lady.
'I am not listening,' said the dressmaker.
'What do you hear?' asked the lady, altering her phrase.
'Is it a kind of a spluttering somewhere?' said the dressmaker, with
an inquiring look.
'Mr Fledgeby in his shower-bath, perhaps,' remarked the lady,
smiling.
'And somebody's beating a carpet, I think?'
'Mr Fledgeby's carpet, I dare say,' replied the smiling lady.
Miss Wren had a reasonably good eye for smiles, being well
accustomed to them on the part of her young friends, though their
smiles mostly ran smaller than in nature. But she had never seen
so singular a smile as that upon this lady's face. It twitched her
nostrils open in a remarkable manner, and contracted her lips and
eyebrows. It was a smile of enjoyment too, though of such a fierce
kind that Miss Wren thought she would rather not enjoy herself
than do it in that way.
'Well!' said the lady, watching her. 'What now?'
'I hope there's nothing the matter!' said the dressmaker.
'Where?' inquired the lady.
'I don't know where,' said Miss Wren, staring about her. 'But I
never heard such odd noises. Don't you think I had better call
somebody?'
'I think you had better not,' returned the lady with a significant
frown, and drawing closer.
On this hint, the dressmaker relinquished the idea, and stood
looking at the lady as hard as the lady looked at her. Meanwhile
the dressmaker listened with amazement to the odd noises which
still continued, and the lady listened too, but with a coolness in
which there was no trace of amazement.
Soon afterwards, came a slamming and banging of doors; and then
came running down stairs, a gentleman with whiskers, and out of
breath, who seemed to be red-hot.
'Is your business done, Alfred?' inquired the lady.
'Very thoroughly done,' replied the gentleman, as he took his hat
from her.
'You can go up to Mr Fledgeby as soon as you like,' said the lady,
moving haughtily away.
'Oh! And you can take these three pieces of stick with you,' added
the gentleman politely, 'and say, if you please, that they come from
Mr Alfred Lammle, with his compliments on leaving England. Mr
Alfred Lammle. Be so good as not to forget the name.'
The three pieces of stick were three broken and frayed fragments of
a stout lithe cane. Miss Jenny taking them wonderingly, and the
gentleman repeating with a grin, 'Mr Alfred Lammle, if you'll be
so good. Compliments, on leaving England,' the lady and
gentleman walked away quite deliberately, and Miss Jenny and her
crutch-stick went up stairs. 'Lammle, Lammle, Lammle?' Miss
Jenny repeated as she panted from stair to stair, 'where have I
heard that name? Lammle, Lammle? I know! Saint Mary Axe!'
With a gleam of new intelligence in her sharp face, the dolls'
dressmaker pulled at Fledgeby's bell. No one answered; but, from
within the chambers, there proceeded a continuous spluttering
sound of a highly singular and unintelligible nature.
'Good gracious! Is Little Eyes choking?' cried Miss Jenny.
Pulling at the bell again and getting no reply, she pushed the outer
door, and found it standing ajar. No one being visible on her
opening it wider, and the spluttering continuing, she took the
liberry of opening an inner door, and then beheld the
extraordinary spectacle of Mr Fledgeby in a shirt, a pair of
Turkish trousers, and a Turkish cap, rolling over and over on his
own carpet, and spluttering wonderfully.
'Oh Lord!' gasped Mr Fledgeby. 'Oh my eye! Stop thief! I am
strangling. Fire! Oh my eye! A glass of water. Give me a glass
of water. Shut the door. Murder! Oh Lord!' And then rolled and
spluttered more than ever.
Hurrying into another room, Miss Jenny got a glass of water, and
brought it for Fledgeby's relief: who, gasping, spluttering, and
rattling in his throat betweenwhiles, drank some water, and laid
his head faintly on her arm.
'Oh my eye!' cried Fledgehy, struggling anew. 'It's salt and snuff.
It's up my nose, and down my throat, and in my wind-pipe. Ugh!
Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah--h--h--h!' And here, crowing fearfully, with his
eyes starting out of his head, appeared to be contending with every
mortal disease incidental to poultry.
'And Oh my Eye, I'm so sore!' cried Fledgeby, starting, over on his
back, in a spasmodic way that caused the dressmaker to retreat to
the wall. 'Oh I smart so! Do put something to my back and arms,
and legs and shoulders. Ugh! It's down my throat again and can't
come up. Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah--h--h--h! Oh I smart so!' Here Mr
Fledgeby bounded up, and bounded down, and went rolling over
and over again.
The dolls' dressmaker looked on until he rolled himself into a
corner with his Turkish slippers uppermost, and then, resolving in
the first place to address her ministration to the salt and snuff, gave
him more water and slapped his back. But, the latter application
was by no means a success, causing Mr Fledgeby to scream, and to
cry out, 'Oh my eye! don't slap me! I'm covered with weales and I
smart so!'
However, he gradually ceased to choke and crow, saving at
intervals, and Miss Jenny got him into an easy-chair: where, with
his eyes red and watery, with his features swollen, and with some
half-dozen livid bars across his face, he presented a most rueful
sight.
'What ever possessed you to take salt and snuff, young man?'
inquired Miss Jenny.
'I didn't take it,' the dismal youth replied. 'It was crammed into my
mouth.'
'Who crammed it?' asked Miss Jenny.
'He did,' answered Fledgeby. 'The assassin. Lammle. He rubbed
it into my mouth and up my nose and down my throat--Ow! Ow!
Ow! Ah--h--h--h! Ugh!--to prevent my crying out, and then
cruelly assaulted me.'
'With this?' asked Miss Jenny, showing the pieces of cane.
'That's the weapon,' said Fledgeby, eyeing it with the air of an
acquaintance. 'He broke it over me. Oh I smart so! How did you
come by it?'
'When he ran down stairs and joined the lady he had left in the hall
with his hat'--Miss Jenny began.
'Oh!' groaned Mr Fledgeby, writhing, 'she was holding his hat, was
she? I might have known she was in it.'
'When he came down stairs and joined the lady who wouldn't let
me come up, he gave me the pieces for you, and I was to say,
"With Mr Alfred Lammle's compliments on his leaving England."'
Miss Jenny said it with such spiteful satisfaction, and such a hitch
of her chin and eyes as might have added to Mr Fledgehy's
miseries, if he could have noticed either, in his bodily pain with his
hand to his head.
'Shall I go for the police?' inquired Miss Jenny, with a nimble start
towards the door.
'Stop! No, don't!' cried Fledgeby. 'Don't, please. We had better
keep it quiet. Will you be so good as shut the door? Oh I do smart
so!'
In testimony of the extent to which he smarted, Mr Fledgeby came
wallowing out of the easy-chair, and took another roll on the
carpet.
Now the door's shut,' said Mr Fledgeby, sitting up in anguish, with
his Turkish cap half on and half off, and the bars on his face
getting bluer, 'do me the kindness to look at my back and
shoulders. They must be in an awful state, for I hadn't got my
dressing-gown on, when the brute came rushing in. Cut my shirt
away from the collar; there's a pair of scissors on that table. Oh!'
groaned Mr Fledgeby, with his hand to his head again. 'How I do
smart, to be sure!'
'There?' inquired Miss Jenny, alluding to the back and shoulders.
'Oh Lord, yes!' moaned Fledgeby, rocking himself. 'And all over!
Everywhere!'
The busy little dressmaker quickly snipped the shirt away, and laid
bare the results of as furious and sound a thrashing as even Mr
Fledgeby merited. 'You may well smart, young man!' exclaimed
Miss Jenny. And stealthily rubbed her little hands behind him,
and poked a few exultant pokes with her two forefingers over the
crown of his head.
'What do you think of vinegar and brown paper?' inquired the
suffering Fledgeby, still rocking and moaning. 'Does it look as if
vinegar and brown paper was the sort of application?'
'Yes,' said Miss Jenny, with a silent chuckle. 'It looks as if it ought
to be Pickled.'
Mr Fledgeby collapsed under the word 'Pickled,' and groaned
again. 'My kitchen is on this floor,' he said; 'you'll find brown
paper in a dresser-drawer there, and a bottle of vinegar on a shelf.
Would you have the kindness to make a few plasters and put 'em
on? It can't be kept too quiet.'
'One, two--hum--five, six. You'll want six,' said the dress-maker.
'There's smart enough,' whimpered Mr Fledgeby, groaning and
writhing again, 'for sixty.'
Miss Jenny repaired to the kitchen, scissors in hand, found the
brown paper and found the vinegar, and skilfully cut out and
steeped six large plasters. When they were all lying ready on the
dresser, an idea occurred to her as she was about to gather them
up.
'I think,' said Miss Jenny with a silent laugh, 'he ought to have a
little pepper? Just a few grains? I think the young man's tricks
and manners make a claim upon his friends for a little pepper?'
Mr Fledgeby's evil star showing her the pepper-box on the
chimneypiece, she climbed upon a chair, and got it down, and
sprinkled all the plasters with a judicious hand. She then went
back to Mr Fledgeby, and stuck them all on him: Mr Fledgeby
uttering a sharp howl as each was put in its place.
'There, young man!' said the dolls' dressmaker. 'Now I hope you
feel pretty comfortable?'
Apparently, Mr Fledgeby did not, for he cried by way of answer,
'Oh--h how I do smart!'
Miss Jenny got his Persian gown upon him, extinguished his eyes
crookedly with his Persian cap, and helped him to his bed: upon
which he climbed groaning. 'Business between you and me being
out of the question to-day, young man, and my time being
precious,' said Miss Jenny then, 'I'll make myself scarce. Are you
comfortable now?'
'Oh my eye!' cried Mr Fledgeby. 'No, I ain't. Oh--h--h! how I do
smart!'
The last thing Miss Jenny saw, as she looked back before closing
the room door, was Mr Fledgeby in the act of plunging and
gambolling all over his bed, like a porpoise or dolphin in its native
element. She then shut the bedroom door, and all the other doors,
and going down stairs and emerging from the Albany into the busy
streets, took omnibus for Saint Mary Axe: pressing on the road all
the gaily-dressed ladies whom she could see from the window, and
making them unconscious lay-figures for dolls, while she mentally
cut them out and basted them.
Chapter 9
TWO PLACES VACATED
Set down by the omnibus at the corner of Saint Mary Axe, and
trusting to her feet and her crutch-stick within its precincts, the
dolls' dressmaker proceeded to the place of business of Pubsey and
Co. All there was sunny and quiet externally, and shady and quiet
internally. Hiding herself in the entry outside the glass door, she
could see from that post of observation the old man in his
spectacles sitting writing at his desk.
'Boh!' cried the dressmaker, popping in her head at the glass-door.
'Mr Wolf at home?'
The old man took his glasses off, and mildly laid them down
beside him. 'Ah Jenny, is it you? I thought you had given me up.'
'And so I had given up the treacherous wolf of the forest,' she
replied; 'but, godmother, it strikes me you have come back. I am
not quite sure, because the wolf and you change forms. I want to
ask you a question or two, to find out whether you are really
godmother or really wolf. May I?'
'Yes, Jenny, yes.' But Riah glanced towards the door, as if he
thought his principal might appear there, unseasonably.
'If you're afraid of the fox,' said Miss Jenny, 'you may dismiss all
present expectations of seeing that animal. HE won't show
himself abroad, for many a day.'
'What do you mean, my child?'
'I mean, godmother,' replied Miss Wren, sitting down beside the
Jew, 'that the fox has caught a famous flogging, and that if his skin
and bones are not tingling, aching, and smarting at this present
instant, no fox did ever tingle, ache, and smart.' Therewith Miss
Jenny related what had come to pass in the Albany, omitting the
few grains of pepper.
'Now, godmother,' she went on, 'I particularly wish to ask you
what has taken place here, since I left the wolf here? Because I
have an idea about the size of a marble, rolling about in my little
noddle. First and foremost, are you Pubsey and Co., or are you
either? Upon your solemn word and honour.'
The old man shook his head.
'Secondly, isn't Fledgeby both Pubsey and Co.?'
The old man answered with a reluctant nod.
'My idea,' exclaimed Miss Wren, 'is now about the size of an
orange. But before it gets any bigger, welcome back, dear
godmother!'
The little creature folded her arms about the old man's neck with
great earnestness, and kissed him. 'I humbly beg your forgiveness,
godmother. I am truly sorry. I ought to have had more faith in
you. But what could I suppose when you said nothing for yourself,
you know? I don't mean to offer that as a justification, but what
could I suppose, when you were a silent party to all he said? It did
look bad; now didn't it?'
'It looked so bad, Jenny,' responded the old man, with gravity, 'that
I will straightway tell you what an impression it wrought upon me.
I was hateful in mine own eyes. I was hateful to myself, in being
so hateful to the debtor and to you. But more than that, and worse
than that, and to pass out far and broad beyond myself--I reflected
that evening, sitting alone in my garden on the housetop, that I was
doing dishonour to my ancient faith and race. I reflected--clearly
reflected for the first time--that in bending my neck to the yoke I
was willing to wear, I bent the unwilling necks of the whole
Jewish people. For it is not, in Christian countries, with the Jews
as with other peoples. Men say, 'This is a bad Greek, but there are
good Greeks. This is a bad Turk, but there are good Turks.' Not
so with the Jews. Men find the bad among us easily enough--
among what peoples are the bad not easily found?--but they take
the worst of us as samples of the best; they take the lowest of us as
presentations of the highest; and they say "All Jews are alike." If,
doing what I was content to do here, because I was grateful for the
past and have small need of money now, I had been a Christian, I
could have done it, compromising no one but my individual self.
But doing it as a Jew, I could not choose but compromise the Jews
of all conditions and all countries. It is a little hard upon us, but it
is the truth. I would that all our people remembered it! Though I
have little right to say so, seeing that it came home so late to me.'
The dolls' dressmaker sat holding the old man by the hand, and
looking thoughtfully in his face.
'Thus I reflected, I say, sitting that evening in my garden on the
housetop. And passing the painful scene of that day in review
before me many times, I always saw that the poor gentleman
believed the story readily, because I was one of the Jews--that you
believed the story readily, my child, because I was one of the Jews-
-that the story itself first came into the invention of the originator
thereof, because I was one of the Jews. This was the result of my
having had you three before me, face to face, and seeing the thing
visibly presented as upon a theatre. Wherefore I perceived that the
obligation was upon me to leave this service. But Jenny, my dear,'
said Riah, breaking off, 'I promised that you should pursue your
questions, and I obstruct them.'
'On the contrary, godmother; my idea is as large now as a
pumpkin--and YOU know what a pumpkin is, don't you? So you
gave notice that you were going? Does that come next?' asked
Miss Jenny with a look of close attention.
'I indited a letter to my master. Yes. To that effect.'
'And what said Tingling-Tossing-Aching-Screaming-
Scratching-Smarter?' asked Miss Wren with an unspeakable
enjoyment in the utterance of those honourable titles and in the
recollection of the pepper.
'He held me to certain months of servitude, which were his lawful
term of notice. They expire to-morrow. Upon their expiration--not
before--I had meant to set myself right with my Cinderella.'
'My idea is getting so immense now,' cried Miss Wren, clasping
her temples, 'that my head won't hold it! Listen, godmother; I am
going to expound. Little Eyes (that's Screaming-Scratching-
Smarter) owes you a heavy grudge for going. Little Eyes casts
about how best to pay you off. Little Eyes thinks of Lizzie. Little
Eyes says to himself, 'I'll find out where he has placed that girl,
and I'll betray his secret because it's dear to him.' Perhaps Little
Eyes thinks, "I'll make love to her myself too;" but that I can't
swear--all the rest I can. So, Little Eyes comes to me, and I go to
Little Eyes. That's the way of it. And now the murder's all out, I'm
sorry,' added the dolls' dressmaker, rigid from head to foot with
energy as she shook her little fist before her eyes, 'that I didn't give
him Cayenne pepper and chopped pickled Capsicum!'
This expression of regret being but partially intelligible to Mr
Riah, the old man reverted to the injuries Fledgeby had received,
and hinted at the necessity of his at once going to tend that beaten
cur.
'Godmother, godmother, godmother!' cried Miss Wren irritably, 'I
really lose all patience with you. One would think you believed in
the Good Samaritan. How can you be so inconsistent?'
'Jenny dear,' began the old man gently, 'it is the custom of our
people to help--'
'Oh! Bother your people!' interposed Miss Wren, with a toss of her
head. 'If your people don't know better than to go and help Little
Eyes, it's a pity they ever got out of Egypt. Over and above that,'
she added, 'he wouldn't take your help if you offered it. Too much
ashamed. Wants to keep it close and quiet, and to keep you out of
the way.'
They were still debating this point when a shadow darkened the
entry, and the glass door was opened by a messenger who brought
a letter unceremoniously addressed, 'Riah.' To which he said there
was an answer wanted.
The letter, which was scrawled in pencil uphill and downhill and
round crooked corners, ran thus:
'OLD RIAH,
Your accounts being all squared, go. Shut up the place, turn out
directly, and send me the key by bearer. Go. You are an
unthankful dog of a Jew. Get out.
F.'
The dolls' dressmaker found it delicious to trace the screaming and
smarting of Little Eyes in the distorted writing of this epistle. She
laughed over it and jeered at it in a convenient corner (to the great
astonishment of the messenger) while the old man got his few
goods together in a black bag. That done, the shutters of the upper
windows closed, and the office blind pulled down, they issued
forth upon the steps with the attendant messenger. There, while
Miss Jenny held the bag, the old man locked the house door, and
handed over the key to him; who at once retired with the same.
'Well, godmother,' said Miss Wren, as they remained upon the
steps together, looking at one another. 'And so you're thrown upon
the world!'
'It would appear so, Jenny, and somewhat suddenly.'
'Where are you going to seek your fortune?' asked Miss Wren.
The old man smiled, but looked about him with a look of having
lost his way in life, which did not escape the dolls' dressmaker.
'Verily, Jenny,' said he, 'the question is to the purpose, and more
easily asked than answered. But as I have experience of the ready
goodwill and good help of those who have given occupation to
Lizzie, I think I will seek them out for myself.'
'On foot?' asked Miss Wren, with a chop.
'Ay!' said the old man. 'Have I not my staff?'
It was exactly because he had his staff, and presented so quaint an
aspect, that she mistrusted his making the journey.
'The best thing you can do,' said Jenny, 'for the time being, at all
events, is to come home with me, godmother. Nobody's there but
my bad child, and Lizzie's lodging stands empty.' The old man
when satisfied that no inconvenience could be entailed on any one
by his compliance, readily complied; and the singularly-assorted
couple once more went through the streets together.
Now, the bad child having been strictly charged by his parent to
remain at home in her absence, of course went out; and, being in
the very last stage of mental decrepitude, went out with two
objects; firstly, to establish a claim he conceived himself to have
upon any licensed victualler living, to be supplied with
threepennyworth of rum for nothing; and secondly, to bestow some
maudlin remorse on Mr Eugene Wrayburn, and see what profit
came of it. Stumblingly pursuing these two designs--they both
meant rum, the only meaning of which he was capable--the
degraded creature staggered into Covent Garden Market and there
bivouacked, to have an attack of the trembles succeeded by an
attack of the horrors, in a doorway.
This market of Covent Garden was quite out of the creature's line
of road, but it had the attraction for him which it has for the worst
of the solitary members of the drunken tribe. It may be the
companionship of the nightly stir, or it may be the companionship
of the gin and beer that slop about among carters and hucksters, or
it may be the companionship of the trodden vegetable refuse which
is so like their own dress that perhaps they take the Market for a
great wardrobe; but be it what it may, you shall see no such
individual drunkards on doorsteps anywhere, as there. Of dozing
women-drunkards especially, you shall come upon such specimens
there, in the morning sunlight, as you might seek out of doors in
vain through London. Such stale vapid rejected cabbage-leaf and
cabbage-stalk dress, such damaged-orange countenance, such
squashed pulp of humanity, are open to the day nowhere else. So,
the attraction of the Market drew Mr Dolls to it, and he had out his
two fits of trembles and horrors in a doorway on which a woman
had had out her sodden nap a few hours before.
There is a swarm of young savages always flitting about this same
place, creeping off with fragments of orange-chests, and mouldy
litter--Heaven knows into what holes they can convey them, having
no home!--whose bare feet fall with a blunt dull softness on the
pavement as the policeman hunts them, and who are (perhaps for
that reason) little heard by the Powers that be, whereas in top-boots
they would make a deafening clatter. These, delighting in the
trembles and the horrors of Mr Dolls, as in a gratuitous drama,
flocked about him in his doorway, butted at him, leaped at him,
and pelted him. Hence, when he came out of his invalid retirement
and shook off that ragged train, he was much bespattered, and in
worse case than ever. But, not yet at his worst; for, going into a
public-house, and being supplied in stress of business with his
rum, and seeking to vanish without payment, he was collared,
searched, found penniless, and admonished not to try that again, by
having a pail of dirty water cast over him. This application
superinduced another fit of the trembles; after which Mr Dolls, as
finding himself in good cue for making a call on a professional
friend, addressed himself to the Temple.
There was nobody at the chambers but Young Blight. That
discreet youth, sensible of a certain incongruity in the association
of such a client with the business that might be coming some day,
with the best intentions temporized with Dolls, and offered a
shilling for coach-hire home. Mr Dolls, accepting the shilling,
promptly laid it out in two threepennyworths of conspiracy against
his life, and two threepennyworths of raging repentance.
Returning to the Chambers with which burden, he was descried
coming round into the court, by the wary young Blight watching
from the window: who instantly closed the outer door, and left the
miserable object to expend his fury on the panels.
The more the door resisted him, the more dangerous and imminent
became that bloody conspiracy against his life. Force of police
arriving, he recognized in them the conspirators, and laid about
him hoarsely, fiercely, staringly, convulsively, foamingly. A
humble machine, familiar to the conspirators and called by the
expressive name of Stretcher, being unavoidably sent for, he was
rendered a harmless bundle of torn rags by being strapped down
upon it, with voice and consciousness gone out of him, and life fast
going. As this machine was borne out at the Temple gate by four
men, the poor little dolls' dressmaker and her Jewish friend were
coming up the street.
'Let us see what it is,' cried the dressmaker. 'Let us make haste and
look, godmother.'
The brisk little crutch-stick was but too brisk. 'O gentlemen,
gentlemen, he belongs to me!'
'Belongs to you?' said the head of the party, stopping it.
'O yes, dear gentlemen, he's my child, out without leave. My poor
bad, bad boy! and he don't know me, he don't know me! O what
shall I do,' cried the little creature, wildly beating her hands
together, 'when my own child don't know me!'
The head of the party looked (as well he might) to the old man for
explanation. He whispered, as the dolls' dressmaker bent over the
exhausted form and vainly tried to extract some sign of recognition
from it: 'It's her drunken father.'
As the load was put down in the street, Riah drew the head of the
party aside, and whispered that he thought the man was dying.
'No, surely not?' returned the other. But he became less confident,
on looking, and directed the bearers to 'bring him to the nearest
doctor's shop.'
Thither he was brought; the window becoming from within, a wall
of faces, deformed into all kinds of shapes through the agency of
globular red bottles, green bottles, blue bottles, and other coloured
bottles. A ghastly light shining upon him that he didn't need, the
beast so furious but a few minutes gone, was quiet enough now,
with a strange mysterious writing on his face, reflected from one of
the great bottles, as if Death had marked him: 'Mine.'
The medical testimony was more precise and more to the purpose
than it sometimes is in a Court of Justice. 'You had better send for
something to cover it. All's over.'
Therefore, the police sent for something to cover it, and it was
covered and borne through the streets, the people falling away.
After it, went the dolls' dressmaker, hiding her face in the Jewish
skirts, and clinging to them with one hand, while with the other
she plied her stick. It was carried home, and, by reason that the
staircase was very narrow, it was put down in the parlour--the little
working-bench being set aside to make room for it--and there, in
the midst of the dolls with no speculation in their eyes, lay Mr
Dolls with no speculation in his.
Many flaunting dolls had to be gaily dressed, before the money
was in the dressmaker's pocket to get mourning for Mr Dolls. As
the old man, Riah, sat by, helping her in such small ways as he
could, he found it difficult to make out whether she really did
realize that the deceased had been her father.
'If my poor boy,' she would say, 'had been brought up better, he
might have done better. Not that I reproach myself. I hope I have
no cause for that.'
'None indeed, Jenny, I am very certain.'
'Thank you, godmother. It cheers me to hear you say so. But you
see it is so hard to bring up a child well, when you work, work,
work, all day. When he was out of employment, I couldn't always
keep him near me. He got fractious and nervous, and I was
obliged to let him go into the streets. And he never did well in the
streets, he never did well out of sight. How often it happens with
children!'
'Too often, even in this sad sense!' thought the old man.
'How can I say what I might have turned out myself, but for my
back having been so bad and my legs so queer, when I was young!'
the dressmaker would go on. 'I had nothing to do but work, and
so I worked. I couldn't play. But my poor unfortunate child could
play, and it turned out the worse for him.'
'And not for him alone, Jenny.'
'Well! I don't know, godmother. He suffered heavily, did my
unfortunate boy. He was very, very ill sometimes. And I called
him a quantity of names;' shaking her head over her work, and
dropping tears. 'I don't know that his going wrong was much the
worse for me. If it ever was, let us forget it.'
'You are a good girl, you are a patient girl.'
'As for patience,' she would reply with a shrug, 'not much of that,
godmother. If I had been patient, I should never have called him
names. But I hope I did it for his good. And besides, I felt my
responsibility as a mother, so much. I tried reasoning, and
reasoning failed. I tried coaxing, and coaxing failed. I tried
scolding and scolding failed. But I was bound to try everything,
you know, with such a charge upon my hands. Where would have
been my duty to my poor lost boy, if I had not tried everything!'
With such talk, mostly in a cheerful tone on the part of the
industrious little creature, the day-work and the night-work were
beguiled until enough of smart dolls had gone forth to bring into
the kitchen, where the working-bench now stood, the sombre stuff
that the occasion required, and to bring into the house the other
sombre preparations. 'And now,' said Miss Jenny, 'having
knocked off my rosy-cheeked young friends, I'll knock off my
white-cheeked self.' This referred to her making her own dress,
which at last was done. 'The disadvantage of making for yourself,'
said Miss Jenny, as she stood upon a chair to look at the result in
the glass, 'is, that you can't charge anybody else for the job, and the
advantage is, that you haven't to go out to try on. Humph! Very
fair indeed! If He could see me now (whoever he is) I hope he
wouldn't repent of his bargain!'
The simple arrangements were of her own making, and were stated
to Riah thus:
'I mean to go alone, godmother, in my usual carriage, and you'll be
so kind as keep house while I am gone. It's not far off. And when
I return, we'll have a cup of tea, and a chat over future
arrangements. It's a very plain last house that I have been able to
give my poor unfortunate boy; but he'll accept the will for the deed
if he knows anything about it; and if he doesn't know anything
about it,' with a sob, and wiping her eyes, 'why, it won't matter to
him. I see the service in the Prayer-book says, that we brought
nothing into this world and it is certain we can take nothing out. It
comforts me for not being able to hire a lot of stupid undertaker's
things for my poor child, and seeming as if I was trying to smuggle
'em out of this world with him, when of course I must break down
in the attempt, and bring 'em all back again. As it is, there'll be
nothing to bring back but me, and that's quite consistent, for I
shan't be brought back, some day!'
After that previous carrying of him in the streets, the wretched old
fellow seemed to he twice buried. He was taken on the shoulders
of half a dozen blossom-faced men, who shuffled with him to the
churchyard, and who were preceded by another blossom-faced
man, affecting a stately stalk, as if he were a Policeman of the
D(eath) Division, and ceremoniously pretending not to know his
intimate acquaintances, as he led the pageant. Yet, the spectacle of
only one little mourner hobbling after, caused many people to turn
their heads with a look of interest.
At last the troublesome deceased was got into the ground, to be
buried no more, and the stately stalker stalked back before the
solitary dressmaker, as if she were bound in honour to have no
notion of the way home. Those Furies, the conventionalities, being
thus appeased, he left her.
'I must have a very short cry, godmother, before I cheer up for
good,' said the little creature, coming in. 'Because after all a child
is a child, you know.'
It was a longer cry than might have been expected. Howbeit, it
wore itself out in a shadowy corner, and then the dressmaker came
forth, and washed her face, and made the tea. 'You wouldn't mind
my cutting out something while we are at tea, would you?' she
asked her Jewish friend, with a coaxing air.
'Cinderella, dear child,' the old man expostulated, 'will you never
rest?'
'Oh! It's not work, cutting out a pattern isn't,' said Miss Jenny,
with her busy little scissors already snipping at some paper. 'The
truth is, godmother, I want to fix it while I have it correct in my
mind.'
'Have you seen it to-day then?' asked Riah.
'Yes, godmother. Saw it just now. It's a surplice, that's what it is.
Thing our clergymen wear, you know,' explained Miss Jenny, in
consideration of his professing another faith.
'And what have you to do with that, Jenny?'
'Why, godmother,' replied the dressmaker, 'you must know that we
Professors who live upon our taste and invention, are obliged to
keep our eyes always open. And you know already that I have
many extra expenses to meet just now. So, it came into my head
while I was weeping at my poor boy's grave, that something in my
way might be done with a clergyman.'
'What can be done?' asked the old man.
'Not a funeral, never fear!' returned Miss Jenny, anticipating his
objection with a nod. 'The public don't like to be made
melancholy, I know very well. I am seldom called upon to put my
young friends into mourning; not into real mourning, that is; Court
mourning they are rather proud of. But a doll clergyman, my dear,
--glossy black curls and whiskers--uniting two of my young friends
in matrimony,' said Miss Jenny, shaking her forefinger, 'is quite
another affair. If you don't see those three at the altar in Bond
Street, in a jiffy, my name's Jack Robinson!'
With her expert little ways in sharp action, she had got a doll into
whitey-brown paper orders, before the meal was over, and was
displaying it for the edification of the Jewish mind, when a knock
was heard at the street-door. Riah went to open it, and presently
came back, ushering in, with the grave and courteous air that sat so
well upon him, a gentleman.
The gentleman was a stranger to the dressmaker; but even in the
moment of his casting his eyes upon her, there was something in
his manner which brought to her remembrance Mr Eugene
Wrayburn.
'Pardon me,' said the gentleman. 'You are the dolls' dressmaker?'
'I am the dolls' dressmaker, sir.'
'Lizzie Hexam's friend?'
'Yes, sir,' replied Miss Jenny, instantly on the defensive. 'And
Lizzie Hexam's friend.'
'Here is a note from her, entreating you to accede to the request of
Mr Mortimer Lightwood, the bearer. Mr Riah chances to know
that I am Mr Mortimer Lightwood, and will tell you so.'
Riah bent his head in corroboration.
'Will you read the note?'
'It's very short,' said Jenny, with a look of wonder, when she had
read it.
'There was no time to make it longer. Time was so very precious.
My dear friend Mr Eugene Wrayburn is dying.'
The dressmaker clasped her hands, and uttered a little piteous cry.
'Is dying,' repeated Lightwood, with emotion, 'at some distance
from here. He is sinking under injuries received at the hands of a
villain who attacked him in the dark. I come straight from his
bedside. He is almost always insensible. In a short restless
interval of sensibility, or partial sensibility, I made out that he
asked for you to be brought to sit by him. Hardly relying on my
own interpretation of the indistinct sounds he made, I caused
Lizzie to hear them. We were both sure that he asked for you.'
The dressmaker, with her hands still clasped, looked affrightedly
from the one to the other of her two companions.
'If you delay, he may die with his request ungratified, with his last
wish--intrusted to me--we have long been much more than
brothers--unfulfilled. I shall break down, if I try to say more.
In a few moments the black bonnet and the crutch-stick were on
duty, the good Jew was left in possession of the house, and the
dolls' dressmaker, side by side in a chaise with Mortimer
Lightwood, was posting out of town.
Chapter 10
THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER DISCOVERS A WORD
A darkened and hushed room; the river outside the windows
flowing on to the vast ocean; a figure on the bed, swathed and
bandaged and bound, lying helpless on its back, with its two
useless arms in splints at its sides. Only two days of usage so
familiarized the little dressmaker with this scene, that it held the
place occupied two days ago by the recollections of years.
He had scarcely moved since her arrival. Sometimes his eyes were
open, sometimes closed. When they were open, there was no
meaning in their unwinking stare at one spot straight before them,
unless for a moment the brow knitted into a faint expression of
anger, or surprise. Then, Mortimer Lightwood would speak to
him, and on occasions he would be so far roused as to make an
attempt to pronounce his friend's name. But, in an instant
consciousness was gone again, and no spirit of Eugene was in
Eugene's crushed outer form.
They provided Jenny with materials for plying her work, and she
had a little table placed at the foot of his bed. Sitting there, with
her rich shower of hair falling over the chair-back, they hoped she
might attract his notice. With the same object, she would sing,
just above her breath, when he opened his eyes, or she saw his
brow knit into that faint expression, so evanescent that it was like a
shape made in water. But as yet he had not heeded. The 'they'
here mentioned were the medical attendant; Lizzie, who was there
in all her intervals of rest; and Lightwood, who never left him.
The two days became three, and the three days became four. At
length, quite unexpectedly, he said something in a whisper.
'What was it, my dear Eugene?'
'Will you, Mortimer--'
'Will I--?
--'Send for her?'
'My dear fellow, she is here.'
Quite unconscious of the long blank, he supposed that they were
still speaking together.
The little dressmaker stood up at the foot of the bed, humming her
song, and nodded to him brightly. 'I can't shake hands, Jenny,'
said Eugene, with something of his old look; 'but I am very glad to
see you.'
Mortimer repeated this to her, for it could only be made out by
bending over him and closely watching his attempts to say it. In a
little while, he added:
'Ask her if she has seen the children.'
Mortimer could not understand this, neither could Jenny herself,
until he added:
'Ask her if she has smelt the flowers.'
'Oh! I know!' cried Jenny. 'I understand him now!' Then,
Lightwood yielded his place to her quick approach, and she said,
bending over the bed, with that better look: 'You mean my long
bright slanting rows of children, who used to bring me ease and
rest? You mean the children who used to take me up, and make
me light?'
Eugene smiled, 'Yes.'
'I have not seen them since I saw you. I never see them now, but I
am hardly ever in pain now.'
'It was a pretty fancy,' said Eugene.
'But I have heard my birds sing,' cried the little creature, 'and I
have smelt my flowers. Yes, indeed I have! And both were most
beautiful and most Divine!'
'Stay and help to nurse me,' said Eugene, quietly. 'I should like
you to have the fancy here, before I die.'
She touched his lips with her hand, and shaded her eyes with that
same hand as she went back to her work and her little low song.
He heard the song with evident pleasure, until she allowed it
gradually to sink away into silence.
'Mortimer.'
'My dear Eugene.'
'If you can give me anything to keep me here for only a few
minutes--'
To keep you here, Eugene?'
'To prevent my wandering away I don't know where--for I begin to
be sensible that I have just come back, and that I shall lose myself
again--do so, dear boy!'
Mortimer gave him such stimulants as could be given him with
safety (they were always at hand, ready), and bending over him
once more, was about to caution him, when he said:
'Don't tell me not to speak, for I must speak. If you knew the
harassing anxiety that gnaws and wears me when I am wandering
in those places--where are those endless places, Mortimer? They
must be at an immense distance!'
He saw in his friend's face that he was losing himself; for he added
after a moment: 'Don't be afraid--I am not gone yet. What was it?'
'You wanted to tell me something, Eugene. My poor dear fellow,
you wanted to say something to your old friend--to the friend who
has always loved you, admired you, imitated you, founded himself
upon you, been nothing without you, and who, God knows, would
be here in your place if he could!'
'Tut, tut!' said Eugene with a tender glance as the other put his
hand before his face. 'I am not worth it. I acknowledge that I like
it, dear boy, but I am not worth it. This attack, my dear Mortimer;
this murder--'
His friend leaned over him with renewed attention, saying: 'You
and I suspect some one.'
'More than suspect. But, Mortimer, while I lie here, and when I lie
here no longer, I trust to you that the perpetrator is never brought to
justice.'
'Eugene?'
'Her innocent reputation would be ruined, my friend. She would be
punished, not he. I have wronged her enough in fact; I have
wronged her still more in intention. You recollect what pavement
is said to be made of good intentions. It is made of bad intentions
too. Mortimer, I am lying on it, and I know!'
'Be comforted, my dear Eugene.'
'I will, when you have promised me. Dear Mortimer, the man
must never be pursued. If he should be accused, you must keep
him silent and save him. Don't think of avenging me; think only of
hushing the story and protecting her. You can confuse the case,
and turn aside the circumstances. Listen to what I say to you. It
was not the schoolmaster, Bradley Headstone. Do you hear me?
Twice; it was not the schoolmaster, Bradley Headstone. Do you
hear me? Three times; it was not the schoolmaster, Bradley
Headstone.'
He stopped, exhausted. His speech had been whispered, broken,
and indistinct; but by a great effort he had made it plain enough to
be unmistakeable.
'Dear fellow, I am wandering away. Stay me for another moment,
if you can.'
Lightwood lifted his head at the neck, and put a wine-glass to his
lips. He rallied.
'I don't know how long ago it was done, whether weeks, days, or
hours. No matter. There is inquiry on foot, and pursuit. Say! Is
there not?'
'Yes.'
'Check it; divert it! Don't let her be brought in question. Shield
her. The guilty man, brought to justice, would poison her name.
Let the guilty man go unpunished. Lizzie and my reparation before
all! Promise me!'
'Eugene, I do. I promise you!'
In the act of turning his eyes gratefully towards his friend, he
wandered away. His eyes stood still, and settled into that former
intent unmeaning stare.
Hours and hours, days and nights, he remained in this same
condition. There were times when he would calmly speak to his
friend after a long period of unconsciousness, and would say he
was better, and would ask for something. Before it could he given
him, he would be gone again.
The dolls' dressmaker, all softened compassion now, watched him
with an earnestness that never relaxed. She would regularly
change the ice, or the cooling spirit, on his head, and would keep
her ear at the pillow betweenwhiles, listening for any faint words
that fell from him in his wanderings. It was amazing through how
many hours at a time she would remain beside him, in a crouching
attitude, attentive to his slightest moan. As he could not move a
hand, he could make no sign of distress; but, through this close
watching (if through no secret sympathy or power) the little
creature attained an understanding of him that Lightwood did not
possess. Mortimer would often turn to her, as if she were an
interpreter between this sentient world and the insensible man; and
she would change the dressing of a wound, or ease a ligature, or
turn his face, or alter the pressure of the bedclothes on him, with an
absolute certainty of doing right. The natural lightness and
delicacy of touch which had become very refined by practice in her
miniature work, no doubt was involved in this; but her perception
was at least as fine.
The one word, Lizzie, he muttered millions of times. In a certain
phase of his distressful state, which was the worst to those who
tended him, he would roll his head upon the pillow, incessantly
repeating the name in a hurried and impatient manner, with the
misery of a disturbed mind, and the monotony of a machine.
Equally, when he lay still and staring, he would repeat it for hours
without cessation, but then, always in a tone of subdued warning
and horror. Her presence and her touch upon his breast or face
would often stop this, and then they learned to expect that he
would for some time remain still, with his eyes closed, and that he
would be conscious on opening them. But, the heavy
disappointment of their hope--revived by the welcome silence of
the room--was, that his spirit would glide away again and be lost,
in the moment of their joy that it was there.
This frequent rising of a drowning man from the deep, to sink
again, was dreadful to the beholders. But, gradually the change
stole upon him that it became dreadful to himself. His desire to
impart something that was on his mind, his unspeakable yearning
to have speech with his friend and make a communication to him,
so troubled him when he recovered consciousness, that its term
was thereby shortened. As the man rising from the deep would
disappear the sooner for fighting with the water, so he in his
desperate struggle went down again.
One afternoon when he had been lying still, and Lizzie,
unrecognized, had just stolen out of the room to pursue her
occupation, he uttered Lightwood's name.
'My dear Eugene, I am here.'
'How long is this to last, Mortimer?'
Lightwood shook his head. 'Still, Eugene, you are no worse than
you were.'
'But I know there's no hope. Yet I pray it may last long enough for
you to do me one last service, and for me to do one last action.
Keep me here a few moments, Mortimer. Try, try!'
His friend gave him what aid he could, and encouraged him to
believe that he was more composed, though even then his eyes
were losing the expression they so rarely recovered.
'Hold me here, dear fellow, if you can. Stop my wandering away.
I am going!'
'Not yet, not yet. Tell me, dear Eugene, what is it I shall do?'
'Keep me here for only a single minute. I am going away again.
Don't let me go. Hear me speak first. Stop me--stop me!'
'My poor Eugene, try to be calm.'
'I do try. I try so hard. If you only knew how hard! Don't let me
wander till I have spoken. Give me a little more wine.'
Lightwood complied. Eugene, with a most pathetic struggle
against the unconsciousness that was coming over him, and with a
look of appeal that affected his friend profoundly, said:
'You can leave me with Jenny, while you speak to her and tell her
what I beseech of her. You can leave me with Jenny, while you are
gone. There's not much for you to do. You won't be long away.'
'No, no, no. But tell me what it is that I shall do, Eugene!'
'I am going! You can't hold me.'
'Tell me in a word, Eugene!'
His eyes were fixed again, and the only word that came from his
lips was the word millions of times repeated. Lizzie, Lizzie,
Lizzie.
But, the watchful little dressmaker had been vigilant as ever in her
watch, and she now came up and touched Lightwood's arm as he
looked down at his friend, despairingly.
'Hush!' she said, with her finger on her lips. 'His eyes are closing.
He'll be conscious when he next opens them. Shall I give you a
leading word to say to him?'
'O Jenny, if you could only give me the right word!'
'I can. Stoop down.'
He stooped, and she whispered in his ear. She whispered in his ear
one short word of a single syllable. Lightwood started, and looked
at her.
'Try it,' said the little creature, with an excited and exultant face.
She then bent over the unconscious man, and, for the first time,
kissed him on the cheek, and kissed the poor maimed hand that
was nearest to her. Then, she withdrew to the foot of the bed.
Some two hours afterwards, Mortimer Lightwood saw his consciousness
come back, and instantly, but very tranquilly, bent over him.
'Don't speak, Eugene. Do no more than look at me, and listen to
me. You follow what I say.'
He moved his head in assent.
'I am going on from the point where we broke off. Is the word we
should soon have come to--is it--Wife?'
'O God bless you, Mortimer!'
'Hush! Don't be agitated. Don't speak. Hear me, dear Eugene.
Your mind will be more at peace, lying here, if you make Lizzie
your wife. You wish me to speak to her, and tell her so, and
entreat her to be your wife. You ask her to kneel at this bedside
and be married to you, that your reparation may be complete. Is
that so?'
'Yes. God bless you! Yes.'
'It shall be done, Eugene. Trust it to me. I shall have to go away
for some few hours, to give effect to your wishes. You see this is
unavoidable?'
'Dear friend, I said so.'
'True. But I had not the clue then. How do you think I got it?'
Glancing wistfully around, Eugene saw Miss Jenny at the foot of
the bed, looking at him with her elbows on the bed, and her head
upon her hands. There was a trace of his whimsical air upon him,
as he tried to smile at her.
'Yes indeed,' said Lightwood, 'the discovery was hers. Observe my
dear Eugene; while I am away you will know that I have
discharged my trust with Lizzie, by finding her here, in my present
place at your bedside, to leave you no more. A final word before I
go. This is the right course of a true man, Eugene. And I solemnly
believe, with all my soul, that if Providence should mercifully
restore you to us, you will be blessed with a noble wife in the
preserver of your life, whom you will dearly love.'
'Amen. I am sure of that. But I shall not come through it,
Mortimer.'
'You will not be the less hopeful or less strong, for this, Eugene.'
'No. Touch my face with yours, in case I should not hold out till
you come back. I love you, Mortimer. Don't be uneasy for me
while you are gone. If my dear brave girl will take me, I feel
persuaded that I shall live long enough to be married, dear fellow.'
Miss Jenny gave up altogether on this parting taking place between
the friends, and sitting with her back towards the bed in the bower
made by her bright hair, wept heartily, though noiselessly.
Mortimer Lightwood was soon gone. As the evening light
lengthened the heavy reflections of the trees in the river, another
figure came with a soft step into the sick room.
'Is he conscious?' asked the little dressmaker, as the figure took its
station by the pillow. For, Jenny had given place to it immediately,
and could not see the sufferer's face, in the dark room, from her
new and removed position.
'He is conscious, Jenny,' murmured Eugene for himself. 'He knows
his wife.'
Chapter 11
EFFECT IS GIVEN TO THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER'S DISCOVERY
Mrs John Rokesmith sat at needlework in her neat little room,
beside a basket of neat little articles of clothing, which presented
so much of the appearance of being in the dolls' dressmaker's way
of business, that one might have supposed she was going to set up
in opposition to Miss Wren. Whether the Complete British Family
Housewife had imparted sage counsel anent them, did not appear,
but probably not, as that cloudy oracle was nowhere visible. For
certain, however, Mrs John Rokesmith stitched at them with so
dexterous a hand, that she must have taken lessons of somebody.
Love is in all things a most wonderful teacher, and perhaps love
(from a pictorial point of view, with nothing on but a thimble), had
been teaching this branch of needlework to Mrs John Rokesmith.
It was near John's time for coming home, but as Mrs John was
desirous to finish a special triumph of her skill before dinner, she
did not go out to meet him. Placidly, though rather
consequentially smiling, she sat stitching away with a regular
sound, like a sort of dimpled little charming Dresden-china clock
by the very best maker.
A knock at the door, and a ring at the bell. Not John; or Bella
would have flown out to meet him. Then who, if not John? Bella
was asking herself the question, when that fluttering little fool of a
servant fluttered in, saying, 'Mr Lightwood!'
Oh good gracious!
Bella had but time to throw a handkerchief over the basket, when
Mr Lightwood made his bow. There was something amiss with
Mr Lightwood, for he was strangely grave and looked ill.
With a brief reference to the happy time when it had been his
privilege to know Mrs Rokesmith as Miss Wilfer, Mr Lightwood
explained what was amiss with him and why he came. He came
bearing Lizzie Hexam's earnest hope that Mrs John Rokesmith
would see her married.
Bella was so fluttered by the request, and by the short narrative he
had feelingly given her, that there never was a more timely
smelling-bottle than John's knock. 'My husband,' said Bella; 'I'll
bring him in.'
But, that turned out to be more easily said than done; for, the
instant she mentioned Mr Lightwood's name, John stopped, with
his hand upon the lock of the room door.
'Come up stairs, my darling.'
Bella was amazed by the flush in his face, and by his sudden
turning away. 'What can it mean?' she thought, as she
accompanied him up stairs.
'Now, my life,' said John, taking her on his knee, 'tell me all about
it.'
All very well to say, 'Tell me all about it;' but John was very much
confused. His attention evidently trailed off, now and then, even
while Bella told him all about it. Yet she knew that he took a great
interest in Lizzie and her fortunes. What could it mean?
'You will come to this marriage with me, John dear?'
'N--no, my love; I can't do that.'
'You can't do that, John?'
'No, my dear, it's quite out of the question. Not to be thought of.'
'Am I to go alone, John?'
'No, my dear, you will go with Mr Lightwood.'
'Don't you think it's time we went down to Mr Lightwood, John
dear?' Bella insinuated.
'My darling, it's almost time you went, but I must ask you to
excuse me to him altogether.'
'You never mean, John dear, that you are not going to see him?
Why, he knows you have come home. I told him so.'
'That's a little unfortunate, but it can't be helped. Unfortunate or
fortunate, I positively cannot see him, my love.'
Bella cast about in her mind what could be his reason for this
unaccountable behaviour; as she sat on his knee looking at him in
astonishment and pouting a little. A weak reason presented itself.
'John dear, you never can be jealous of Mr Lightwood?'
'Why, my precious child,' returned her husband, laughing outright:
'how could I be jealous of him? Why should I be jealous of him?'
'Because, you know, John,' pursued Bella, pouting a little more,
'though he did rather admire me once, it was not my fault.'
'It was your fault that I admired you,' returned her husband, with a
look of pride in her, 'and why not your fault that he admired you?
But, I jealous on that account? Why, I must go distracted for life,
if I turned jealous of every one who used to find my wife beautiful
and winning!'
'I am half angry with you, John dear,' said Bella, laughing a little,
'and half pleased with you; because you are such a stupid old
fellow, and yet you say nice things, as if you meant them. Don't be
mysterious, sir. What harm do you know of Mr Lightwood?'
'None, my love.'
'What has he ever done to you, John?'
'He has never done anything to me, my dear. I know no more
against him than I know against Mr Wrayburn; he has never done
anything to me; neither has Mr Wrayburn. And yet I have exactly
the same objection to both of them.'
'Oh, John!' retorted Bella, as if she were giving him up for a bad
job, as she used to give up herself. 'You are nothing better than a
sphinx! And a married sphinx isn't a--isn't a nice confidential
husband,' said Bella, in a tone of injury.
'Bella, my life,' said John Rokesmith, touching her cheek, with a
grave smile, as she cast down her eyes and pouted again; 'look at
me. I want to speak to you.'
'In earnest, Blue Beard of the secret chamber?' asked Bella,
clearing her pretty face.
'In earnest. And I confess to the secret chamber. Don't you
remember that you asked me not to declare what I thought of your
higher qualities until you had been tried?'
'Yes, John dear. And I fully meant it, and I fully mean it.'
'The time will come, my darling--I am no prophet, but I say so,--
when you WILL be tried. The time will come, I think, when you
will undergo a trial through which you will never pass quite
triumphantly for me, unless you can put perfect faith in me.'
'Then you may be sure of me, John dear, for I can put perfect faith
in you, and I do, and I always, always will. Don't judge me by a
little thing like this, John. In little things, I am a little thing
myself--I always was. But in great things, I hope not; I don't
mean to boast, John dear, but I hope not!'
He was even better convinced of the truth of what she said than she
was, as he felt her loving arms about him. If the Golden
Dustman's riches had been his to stake, he would have staked them
to the last farthing on the fidelity through good and evil of her
affectionate and trusting heart.
'Now, I'll go down to, and go away with, Mr Lightwood,' said
Bella, springing up. 'You are the most creasing and tumbling
Clumsy-Boots of a packer, John, that ever was; but if you're quite
good, and will promise never to do so any more (though I don't
know what you have done!) you may pack me a little bag for a
night, while I get my bonnet on.'
He gaily complied, and she tied her dimpled chin up, and shook
her head into her bonnet, and pulled out the bows of her bonnetstrings,
and got her gloves on, finger by finger, and finally got
them on her little plump hands, and bade him good-bye and went
down. Mr Lightwood's impatience was much relieved when he
found her dressed for departure.
'Mr Rokesmith goes with us?' he said, hesitating, with a look
towards the door.
'Oh, I forgot!' replied Bella. 'His best compliments. His face is
swollen to the size of two faces, and he is to go to bed directly,
poor fellow, to wait for the doctor, who is coming to lance him.'
'It is curious,' observed Lightwood, 'that I have never yet seen Mr
Rokesmith, though we have been engaged in the same affairs.'
'Really?' said the unblushing Bella.
'I begin to think,' observed Lightwood, 'that I never shall see him.'
'These things happen so oddly sometimes,' said Bella with a steady
countenance, 'that there seems a kind of fatality in them. But I am
quite ready, Mr Lightwood.'
They started directly, in a little carriage that Lightwood had
brought with him from never-to-be-forgotten Greenwich; and
from Greenwich they started directly for London; and in London
they waited at a railway station until such time as the Reverend
Frank Milvey, and Margaretta his wife, with whom Mortimer
Lightwood had been already in conference, should come and join
them.
That worthy couple were delayed by a portentous old parishioner of
the female gender, who was one of the plagues of their lives, and
with whom they bore with most exemplary sweetness and goodhumour,
notwithstanding her having an infection of absurdity
about her, that communicated itself to everything with which, and
everybody with whom, she came in contact. She was a member of
the Reverend Frank's congregation, and made a point of
distinguishing herself in that body, by conspicuously weeping at
everything, however cheering, said by the Reverend Frank in his
public ministration; also by applying to herself the various
lamentations of David, and complaining in a personally injured
manner (much in arrear of the clerk and the rest of the respondents)
that her enemies were digging pit-falls about her, and breaking her
with rods of iron. Indeed, this old widow discharged herself of that
portion of the Morning and Evening Service as if she were lodging
a complaint on oath and applying for a warrant before a magistrate.
But this was not her most inconvenient characteristic, for that took
the form of an impression, usually recurring in inclement weather
and at about daybreak, that she had something on her mind and
stood in immediate need of the Reverend Frank to come and take it
off. Many a time had that kind creature got up, and gone out to
Mrs Sprodgkin (such was the disciple's name), suppressing a
strong sense of her comicality by his strong sense of duty, and
perfectly knowing that nothing but a cold would come of it.
However, beyond themselves, the Reverend Frank Milvey and Mrs
Milvey seldom hinted that Mrs Sprodgkin was hardly worth the
trouble she gave; but both made the best of her, as they did of all
their troubles.
This very exacting member of the fold appeared to be endowed
with a sixth sense, in regard of knowing when the Reverend Frank
Milvey least desired her company, and with promptitude appearing
in his little hall. Consequently, when the Reverend Frank had
willingly engaged that he and his wife would accompany
Lightwood back, he said, as a matter of course: 'We must make
haste to get out, Margaretta, my dear, or we shall be descended on
by Mrs Sprodgkin.' To which Mrs Milvey replied, in her
pleasantly emphatic way, 'Oh YES, for she IS such a marplot,
Frank, and DOES worry so!' Words that were scarcely uttered
when their theme was announced as in faithful attendance below,
desiring counsel on a spiritual matter. The points on which Mrs
Sprodkgin sought elucidation being seldom of a pressing nature
(as Who begat Whom, or some information concerning the
Amorites), Mrs Milvey on this special occasion resorted to the
device of buying her off with a present of tea and sugar, and a loaf
and butter. These gifts Mrs Sprodgkin accepted, but still insisted
on dutifully remaining in the hall, to curtsey to the Reverend Frank
as he came forth. Who, incautiously saying in his genial manner,
'Well, Sally, there you are!' involved himself in a discursive
address from Mrs Sprodgkin, revolving around the result that she
regarded tea and sugar in the light of myrrh and frankincense, and
considered bread and butter identical with locusts and wild honey.
Having communicated this edifying piece of information, Mrs
Sprodgkin was left still unadjourned in the hall, and Mr and Mrs
Milvey hurried in a heated condition to the railway station. All of
which is here recorded to the honour of that good Christian pair,
representatives of hundreds of other good Christian pairs as
conscientious and as useful, who merge the smallness of their
work in its greatness, and feel in no danger of losing dignity when
they adapt themselves to incomprehensible humbugs.
'Detained at the last moment by one who had a claim upon me,'
was the Reverend Frank's apology to Lightwood, taking no thought
of himself. To which Mrs Milvey added, taking thought for him,
like the championing little wife she was; 'Oh yes, detained at the
last moment. But AS to the claim, Frank, I MUST say that I DO
think you are OVER-considerate sometimes, and allow THAT to
be a LITTLE abused.'
Bella felt conscious, in spite of her late pledge for herself, that her
husband's absence would give disagreeable occasion for surprise to
the Milveys. Nor could she appear quite at her ease when Mrs
Milvey asked:
'HOW is Mr Rokesmith, and IS he gone before us, or DOES he
follow us?'
It becoming necessary, upon this, to send him to bed again and
hold him in waiting to be lanced again, Bella did it. But not half
as well on the second occasion as on the first; for, a twice-told
white one seems almost to become a black one, when you are not
used to it
'Oh DEAR!' said Mrs Milvey, 'I am SO sorry! Mr Rokesmith took
SUCH an interest in Lizzie Hexam, when we were there before.
And if we had ONLY known of his face, we COULD have given
him something that would have kept it down long enough for so
SHORT a purpose.'
By way of making the white one whiter, Bella hastened to stipulate
that he was not in pain. Mrs Milvey was SO glad of it.
'I don't know HOW it is,' said Mrs Milvey, 'and I am SURE you
don't, Frank, but the clergy and their wives seem to CAUSE
swelled faces. Whenever I take notice of a child in the school, it
seems to me as if its face swelled INSTANTLY. Frank NEVER
makes acquaintance with a new old woman, but she gets the faceache.
And another thing is, we DO make the poor children sniff
so. I don't know HOW we do it, and I should be so glad not to; but
the MORE we take notice of them, the MORE they sniff. Just as
they do when the text is given out.--Frank, that's a schoolmaster. I
have seen him somewhere.'
The reference was to a young man of reserved appearance, in a coat
and waistcoat of black, and pantaloons of pepper and salt. He had
come into the office of the station, from its interior, in an unsettled
way, immediately after Lightwood had gone out to the train; and he
had been hurriedly reading the printed hills and notices on the
wall. He had had a wandering interest in what was said among the
people waiting there and passing to and fro. He had drawn nearer,
at about the time when Mrs Milvey mentioned Lizzie Hexam, and
had remained near, since: though always glancing towards the
door by which Lightwood had gone out. He stood with his back
towards them, and his gloved hands clasped behind him. There
was now so evident a faltering upon him, expressive of indecision
whether or no he should express his having heard himself referred
to, that Mr Milvey spoke to him.
'I cannot recall your name,' he said, 'but I remember to have seen
you in your school.'
'My name is Bradley Headstone, sir,' he replied, backing into a
more retired place.
'I ought to have remembered it,' said Mr Milvey, giving him his
hand. 'I hope you are well? A little overworked, I am afraid?'
'Yes, I am overworked just at present, sir.'
'Had no play in your last holiday time?'
'No, sir.'
'All work and no play, Mr Headstone, will not make dulness, in
your case, I dare say; but it will make dyspepsia, if you don't take
care.'
'I will endeavour to take care, sir. Might I beg leave to speak to
you, outside, a moment?'
'By all means.'
It was evening, and the office was well lighted. The schoolmaster,
who had never remitted his watch on Lightwood's door, now
moved by another door to a corner without, where there was more
shadow than light; and said, plucking at his gloves:
'One of your ladies, sir, mentioned within my hearing a name that I
am acquainted with; I may say, well acquainted with. The name of
the sister of an old pupil of mine. He was my pupil for a long time,
and has got on and gone upward rapidly. The name of Hexam.
The name of Lizzie Hexam.' He seemed to be a shy man,
struggling against nervousness, and spoke in a very constrained
way. The break he set between his last two sentences was quite
embarrassing to his hearer.
'Yes,' replied Mr Milvey. 'We are going down to see her.'
'I gathered as much, sir. I hope there is nothing amiss with the
sister of my old pupil? I hope no bereavement has befallen her. I
hope she is in no affliction? Has lost no--relation?'
Mr Milvey thought this a man with a very odd manner, and a dark
downward look; but he answered in his usual open way.
'I am glad to tell you, Mr Headstone, that the sister of your old
pupil has not sustained any such loss. You thought I might be
going down to bury some one?'
'That may have been the connexion of ideas, sir, with your clerical
character, but I was not conscious of it.--Then you are not, sir?'
A man with a very odd manner indeed, and with a lurking look
that was quite oppressive.
'No. In fact,' said Mr Milvey, 'since you are so interested in the
sister of your old pupil, I may as well tell you that I am going
down to marry her.'
The schoolmaster started back.
'Not to marry her, myself,' said Mr Milvey, with a smile, 'because I
have a wife already. To perform the marriage service at her
wedding.'
Bradley Headstone caught hold of a pillar behind him. If Mr
Milvey knew an ashy face when he saw it, he saw it then.
'You are quite ill, Mr Headstone!'
'It is not much, sir. It will pass over very soon. I am accustomed
to be seized with giddiness. Don't let me detain you, sir; I stand in
need of no assistance, I thank you. Much obliged by your sparing
me these minutes of your time.'
As Mr Milvey, who had no more minutes to spare, made a suitable
reply and turned back into the office, he observed the schoolmaster
to lean against the pillar with his hat in his hand, and to pull at his
neckcloth as if he were trying to tear it off. The Reverend Frank
accordingly directed the notice of one of the attendants to him, by
saying: 'There is a person outside who seems to be really ill, and to
require some help, though he says he does not.'
Lightwood had by this time secured their places, and the departurebell
was about to be rung. They took their seats, and were
beginning to move out of the station, when the same attendant
came running along the platform, looking into all the carriages.
'Oh! You are here, sir!' he said, springing on the step, and holding
the window-frame by his elbow, as the carriage moved. 'That
person you pointed out to me is in a fit.'
'I infer from what he told me that he is subject to such attacks. He
will come to, in the air, in a little while.'
He was took very bad to be sure, and was biting and knocking
about him (the man said) furiously. Would the gentleman give
him his card, as he had seen him first? The gentleman did so, with
the explanation that he knew no more of the man attacked than that
he was a man of a very respectable occupation, who had said he
was out of health, as his appearance would of itself have indicated.
The attendant received the card, watched his opportunity for
sliding down, slid down, and so it ended.
Then, the train rattled among the house-tops, and among the
ragged sides of houses torn down to make way for it, and over the
swarming streets, and under the fruitful earth, until it shot across
the river: bursting over the quiet surface like a bomb-shell, and
gone again as if it had exploded in the rush of smoke and steam
and glare. A little more, and again it roared across the river, a
great rocket: spurning the watery turnings and doublings with
ineffable contempt, and going straight to its end, as Father Time
goes to his. To whom it is no matter what living waters run high
or low, reflect the heavenly lights and darknesses, produce their
little growth of weeds and flowers, turn here, turn there, are noisy
or still, are troubled or at rest, for their course has one sure
termination, though their sources and devices are many.
Then, a carriage ride succeeded, near the solemn river, stealing
away by night, as all things steal away, by night and by day, so
quietly yielding to the attraction of the loadstone rock of Eternity;
and the nearer they drew to the chamber where Eugene lay, the
more they feared that they might find his wanderings done. At last
they saw its dim light shining out, and it gave them hope: though
Lightwood faltered as he thought: 'If he were gone, she would still
be sitting by him.'
But he lay quiet, half in stupor, half in sleep. Bella, entering with a
raised admonitory finger, kissed Lizzie softly, but said not a word.
Neither did any of them speak, but all sat down at the foot of the
bed, silently waiting. And now, in this night-watch, mingling with
the flow of the river and with the rush of the train, came the
questions into Bella's mind again: What could be in the depths of
that mystery of John's? Why was it that he had never been seen by
Mr Lightwood, whom he still avoided? When would that trial
come, through which her faith in, and her duty to, her dear
husband, was to carry her, rendering him triumphant? For, that
had been his term. Her passing through the trial was to make the
man she loved with all her heart, triumphant. Term not to sink out
of sight in Bella's breast.
Far on in the night, Eugene opened his eyes. He was sensible, and
said at once: 'How does the time go? Has our Mortimer come
back?'
Lightwood was there immediately, to answer for himself. 'Yes,
Eugene, and all is ready.'
'Dear boy!' returned Eugene with a smile, 'we both thank you
heartily. Lizzie, tell them how welcome they are, and that I would
be eloquent if I could.'
'There is no need,' said Mr Milvey. 'We know it. Are you better,
Mr Wrayburn?'
'I am much happier,' said Eugene.
'Much better too, I hope?'
Eugene turned his eyes towards Lizzie, as if to spare her, and
answered nothing
Then, they all stood around the bed, and Mr Milvey, opening his
book, began the service; so rarely associated with the shadow of
death; so inseparable in the mind from a flush of life and gaiety
and hope and health and joy. Bella thought how different from her
own sunny little wedding, and wept. Mrs Milvey overflowed with
pity, and wept too. The dolls' dressmaker, with her hands before
her face, wept in her golden bower. Reading in a low clear voice,
and bending over Eugene, who kept his eyes upon him, Mr Milvey
did his office with suitable simplicity. As the bridegroom could
not move his hand, they touched his fingers with the ring, and so
put it on the bride. When the two plighted their troth, she laid her
hand on his and kept it there. When the ceremony was done, and
all the rest departed from the room, she drew her arm under his
head, and laid her own head down upon the pillow by his side.
'Undraw the curtains, my dear girl,' said Eugene, after a while, 'and
let us see our wedding-day.'
The sun was rising, and his first rays struck into the room, as she
came back, and put her lips to his. 'I bless the day!' said Eugene.
'I bless the day!' said Lizzie.
'You have made a poor marriage of it, my sweet wife,' said
Eugene. 'A shattered graceless fellow, stretched at his length here,
and next to nothing for you when you are a young widow.'
'I have made the marriage that I would have given all the world to
dare to hope for,' she replied.
'You have thrown yourself away,' said Eugene, shaking his head.
'But you have followed the treasure of your heart. My justification
is, that you had thrown that away first, dear girl!'
'No. I had given it to you.'
'The same thing, my poor Lizzie!'
'Hush! hush! A very different thing.'
There were tears in his eyes, and she besought him to close them.
'No,' said Eugene, again shaking his head; 'let me look at you,
Lizzie, while I can. You brave devoted girl! You heroine!'
Her own eyes filled under his praises. And when he mustered
strength to move his wounded head a very little way, and lay it on
her bosom, the tears of both fell.
'Lizzie,' said Eugene, after a silence: 'when you see me wandering
away from this refuge that I have so ill deserved, speak to me by
my name, and I think I shall come back.'
'Yes, dear Eugene.'
'There!' he exclaimed, smiling. 'I should have gone then, but for
that!'
A little while afterwards, when he appeared to be sinking into
insensibility, she said, in a calm loving voice: 'Eugene, my dear
husband!' He immediately answered: 'There again! You see how
you can recall me!' And afterwards, when he could not speak, he
still answered by a slight movement of his head upon her bosom.
The sun was high in the sky, when she gently disengaged herself to
give him the stimulants and nourishment he required. The utter
helplessness of the wreck of him that lay cast ashore there, now
alarmed her, but he himself appeared a little more hopeful.
'Ah, my beloved Lizzie!' he said, faintly. 'How shall I ever pay all
I owe you, if I recover!'
'Don't be ashamed of me,' she replied, 'and you will have more than
paid all.'
'It would require a life, Lizzie, to pay all; more than a life.'
'Live for that, then; live for me, Eugene; live to see how hard I will
try to improve myself, and never to discredit you.'
'My darling girl,' he replied, rallying more of his old manner than
he had ever yet got together. 'On the contrary, I have been thinking
whether it is not the best thing I can do, to die.'
'The best thing you can do, to leave me with a broken heart?'
'I don't mean that, my dear girl. I was not thinking of that. What I
was thinking of was this. Out of your compassion for me, in this
maimed and broken state, you make so much of me--you think so
well of me--you love me so dearly.'
'Heaven knows I love you dearly!'
'And Heaven knows I prize it! Well. If I live, you'll find me out.'
'I shall find out that my husband has a mine of purpose and energy,
and will turn it to the best account?'
'I hope so, dearest Lizzie,' said Eugene, wistfully, and yet
somewhat whimsically. 'I hope so. But I can't summon the vanity
to think so. How can I think so, looking back on such a trifiling
wasted youth as mine! I humbly hope it; but I daren't believe it.
There is a sharp misgiving in my conscience that if I were to live, I
should disappoint your good opinion and my own--and that I ought
to die, my dear!'
Chapter 12
THE PASSING SHADOW
The winds and tides rose and fell a certain number of times, the
earth moved round the sun a certain number of times, the ship
upon the ocean made her voyage safely, and brought a baby-Bella
home. Then who so blest and happy as Mrs John Rokesmith,
saving and excepting Mr John Rokesmith!
'Would you not like to be rich NOW, my darling?'
'How can you ask me such a question, John dear? Am I not rich?'
These were among the first words spoken near the baby Bella as
she lay asleep. She soon proved to be a baby of wonderful
intelligence, evincing the strongest objection to her grandmother's
society, and being invariably seized with a painful acidity of the
stomach when that dignified lady honoured her with any attention.
It was charming to see Bella contemplating this baby, and finding
out her own dimples in that tiny reflection, as if she were looking
in the glass without personal vanity. Her cherubic father justly
remarked to her husband that the baby seemed to make her
younger than before, reminding him of the days when she had a pet
doll and used to talk to it as she carried it about. The world might
have been challenged to produce another baby who had such a
store of pleasant nonsense said and sung to it, as Bella said and
sung to this baby; or who was dressed and undressed as often in
four-and-twenty hours as Bella dressed and undressed this baby; or
who was held behind doors and poked out to stop its father's way
when he came home, as this baby was; or, in a word, who did half
the number of baby things, through the lively invention of a gay
and proud young mother, that this inexhaustible baby did.
The inexhaustible baby was two or three months old, when Bella
began to notice a cloud upon her husband's brow. Watching it, she
saw a gathering and deepening anxiety there, which caused her
great disquiet. More than once, she awoke him muttering in his
sleep; and, though he muttered nothing worse than her own name,
it was plain to her that his restlessness originated in some load of
care. Therefore, Bella at length put in her claim to divide this
load, and hear her half of it.
'You know, John dear,' she said, cheerily reverting to their former
conversation, 'that I hope I may safely be trusted in great things.
And it surely cannot be a little thing that causes you so much
uneasiness. It's very considerate of you to try to hide from me that
you are uncomfortable about something, but it's quite impossible to
be done, John love.'
'I admit that I am rather uneasy, my own.'
'Then please to tell me what about, sir.'
But no, he evaded that. 'Never mind!' thought Bella, resolutely.
'John requires me to put perfect faith in him, and he shall not be
disappointed.'
She went up to London one day, to meet him, in order that they
might make some purchases. She found him waiting for her at her
journey's end, and they walked away together through the streets.
He was in gay spirits, though still harping on that notion of their
being rich; and he said, now let them make believe that yonder fine
carriage was theirs, and that it was waiting to take them home to a
fine house they had; what would Bella, in that case, best like to
find in the house? Well! Bella didn't know: already having
everything she wanted, she couldn't say. But, by degrees she was
led on to confess that she would like to have for the inexhaustible
baby such a nursery as never was seen. It was to be 'a very
rainbow for colours', as she was quite sure baby noticed colours;
and the staircase was to be adorned with the most exquisite
flowers, as she was absolutely certain baby noticed flowers; and
there was to be an aviary somewhere, of the loveliest little birds, as
there was not the smallest doubt in the world that baby noticed
birds. Was there nothing else? No, John dear. The predilections
of the inexhaustible baby being provided for, Bella could think of
nothing else.
They were chatting on in this way, and John had suggested, 'No
jewels for your own wear, for instance?' and Bella had replied
laughing. O! if he came to that, yes, there might be a beautiful
ivory case of jewels on her dressing-table; when these pictures
were in a moment darkened and blotted out.
They turned a corner, and met Mr Lightwood.
He stopped as if he were petrified by the sight of Bella's husband,
who in the same moment had changed colour.
'Mr Lightwood and I have met before,' he said.
'Met before, John?' Bella repeated in a tone of wonder. 'Mr
Lightwood told me he had never seen you.'
'I did not then know that I had,' said Lightwood, discomposed on
her account. I believed that I had only heard of--Mr Rokesmith.'
With an emphasis on the name.
'When Mr Lightwood saw me, my love,' observed her husband, not
avoiding his eye, but looking at him, 'my name was Julius
Handford.'
Julius Handford! The name that Bella had so often seen in old
newspapers, when she was an inmate of Mr Boffin's house! Julius
Handford, who had been publicly entreated to appear, and for
intelligence of whom a reward had been publicly offered!
'I would have avoided mentioning it in your presence,' said
Lightwood to Bella, delicately; 'but since your husband mentions it
himself, I must confirm his strange admission. I saw him as Mr
Julius Handford, and I afterwards (unquestionably to his
knowledge) took great pains to trace him out.'
'Quite true. But it was not my object or my interest,' said
Rokesmith, quietly, 'to be traced out.'
Bella looked from the one to the other, in amazement.
'Mr Lightwood,' pursued her husband, 'as chance has brought us
face to face at last--which is not to be wondered at, for the wonder
is, that, in spite of all my pains to the contrary, chance has not
confronted us together sooner--I have only to remind you that you
have been at my house, and to add that I have not changed my
residence.'
'Sir' returned Lightwood, with a meaning glance towards Bella,
'my position is a truly painful one. I hope that no complicity in a
very dark transaction may attach to you, but you cannot fail to
know that your own extraordinary conduct has laid you under
suspicion.'
'I know it has,' was all the reply.
'My professional duty,' said Lightwood hesitating, with another
glance towards Bella, 'is greatly at variance with my personal
inclination; but I doubt, Mr Handford, or Mr Rokesmith, whether I
am justified in taking leave of you here, with your whole course
unexplained.'
Bella caught her husband by the hand.
'Don't be alarmed, my darling. Mr Lightwood will find that he is
quite justified in taking leave of me here. At all events,' added
Rokesmith, 'he will find that I mean to take leave of him here.'
'I think, sir,' said Lightwood, 'you can scarcely deny that when I
came to your house on the occasion to which you have referred,
you avoided me of a set purpose.'
'Mr Lightwood, I assure you I have no disposition to deny it, or
intention to deny it. I should have continued to avoid you, in
pursuance of the same set purpose, for a short time longer, if we
had not met now. I am going straight home, and shall remain at
home to-morrow until noon. Hereafter, I hope we may be better
acquainted. Good-day.'
Lightwood stood irresolute, but Bella's husband passed him in the
steadiest manner, with Bella on his arm; and they went home
without encountering any further remonstrance or molestation from
any one.
When they had dined and were alone, John Rokesmith said to his
wife, who had preserved her cheerfulness: 'And you don't ask me,
my dear, why I bore that name?'
'No, John love. I should dearly like to know, of course;' (which her
anxious face confirmed;) 'but I wait until you can tell me of your
own free will. You asked me if I could have perfect faith in you,
and I said yes, and I meant it.'
It did not escape Bella's notice that he began to look triumphant.
She wanted no strengthening in her firmness; but if she had had
need of any, she would have derived it from his kindling face.
'You cannot have been prepared, my dearest, for such a discovery
as that this mysterious Mr Handford was identical with your
husband?'
'No, John dear, of course not. But you told me to prepare to be
tried, and I prepared myself.'
He drew her to nestle closer to him, and told her it would soon be
over, and the truth would soon appear. 'And now,' he went on, 'lay
stress, my dear, on these words that I am going to add. I stand in
no kind of peril, and I can by possibility be hurt at no one's hand.'
'You are quite, quite sure of that, John dear?'
'Not a hair of my head! Moreover, I have done no wrong, and have
injured no man. Shall I swear it?'
'No, John!' cried Bella, laying her hand upon his lips, with a proud
look. 'Never to me!'
'But circumstances,' he went on '--I can, and I will, disperse them
in a moment--have surrounded me with one of the strangest
suspicions ever known. You heard Mr Lightwood speak of a dark
transaction?'
'Yes, John.'
'You are prepared to hear explicitly what he meant?'
'Yes, John.'
'My life, he meant the murder of John Harmon, your allotted
husband.'
With a fast palpitating heart, Bella grasped him by the arm. 'You
cannot be suspected, John?'
'Dear love, I can be--for I am!'
There was silence between them, as she sat looking in his face,
with the colour quite gone from her own face and lips. 'How dare
they!' she cried at length, in a burst of generous indignation. 'My
beloved husband, how dare they!'
He caught her in his arms as she opened hers, and held her to his
heart. 'Even knowing this, you can trust me, Bella?'
'I can trust you, John dear, with all my soul. If I could not trust
you, I should fall dead at your feet.'
The kindling triumph in his face was bright indeed, as he looked
up and rapturously exclaimed, what had he done to deserve the
blessing of this dear confiding creature's heart! Again she put her
hand upon his lips, saying, 'Hush!' and then told him, in her own
little natural pathetic way, that if all the world were against him,
she would be for him; that if all the world repudiated him, she
would believe him; that if he were infamous in other eyes, he
would be honoured in hers; and that, under the worst unmerited
suspicion, she could devote her life to consoling him, and
imparting her own faith in him to their little child.
A twilight calm of happiness then succeeding to their radiant noon,
they remained at peace, until a strange voice in the room startled
them both. The room being by that time dark, the voice said,
'Don't let the lady be alarmed by my striking a light,' and
immediately a match rattled, and glimmered in a hand. The hand
and the match and the voice were then seen by John Rokesmith to
belong to Mr Inspector, once meditatively active in this chronicle.
'I take the liberty,' said Mr Inspector, in a business-like manner, 'to
bring myself to the recollection of Mr Julius Handford, who gave
me his name and address down at our place a considerable time
ago. Would the lady object to my lighting the pair of candles on
the chimneypiece, to throw a further light upon the subject? No?
Thank you, ma'am. Now, we look cheerful.'
Mr Inspector, in a dark-blue buttoned-up frock coat and
pantaloons, presented a serviceable, half-pay, Royal Arms kind of
appearance, as he applied his pocket handkerchief to his nose and
bowed to the lady.
'You favoured me, Mr Handford,' said Mr Inspector, 'by writing
down your name and address, and I produce the piece of paper on
which you wrote it. Comparing the same with the writing on the
fly-leaf of this book on the table--and a sweet pretty volume it is--I
find the writing of the entry, 'Mrs John Rokesmith. From her
husband on her birthday"--and very gratifying to the feelings such
memorials are--to correspond exactly. Can I have a word with
you?'
'Certainly. Here, if you please,' was the reply.
'Why,' retorted Mr Inspector, again using his pocket handkerchief,
'though there's nothing for the lady to be at all alarmed at, still,
ladies are apt to take alarm at matters of business--being of that
fragile sex that they're not accustomed to them when not of a
strictly domestic character--and I do generally make it a rule to
propose retirement from the presence of ladies, before entering
upon business topics. Or perhaps,' Mr Inspector hinted, 'if the lady
was to step up-stairs, and take a look at baby now!'
'Mrs Rokesmith,'--her husband was beginning; when Mr Inspector,
regarding the words as an introduction, said, 'Happy I am sure, to
have the honour.' And bowed, with gallantry.
'Mrs Rokesmith,' resumed her husband, 'is satisfied that she can
have no reason for being alarmed, whatever the business is.'
'Really? Is that so?' said Mr Inspector. 'But it's a sex to live and
learn from, and there's nothing a lady can't accomplish when she
once fully gives her mind to it. It's the case with my own wife.
Well, ma'am, this good gentleman of yours has given rise to a
rather large amount of trouble which might have been avoided if he
had come forward and explained himself. Well you see! He
DIDN'T come forward and explain himself. Consequently, now
that we meet, him and me, you'll say--and say right--that there's
nothing to be alarmed at, in my proposing to him TO come
forward--or, putting the same meaning in another form, to come
along with me--and explain himself.'
When Mr Inspector put it in that other form, 'to come along with
me,' there was a relishing roll in his voice, and his eye beamed
with an official lustre.
'Do you propose to take me into custody?' inquired John
Rokesmith, very coolly.
'Why argue?' returned Mr Inspector in a comfortable sort of
remonstrance; 'ain't it enough that I propose that you shall come
along with me?'
'For what reason?'
Lord bless my soul and body!' returned Mr Inspector, 'I wonder at
it in a man of your education. Why argue?'
'What do you charge against me?'
'I wonder at you before a lady,' said Mr Inspector, shaking his
head reproachfully: 'I wonder, brought up as you have been, you
haven't a more delicate mind! I charge you, then, with being some
way concerned in the Harmon Murder. I don't say whether before,
or in, or after, the fact. I don't say whether with having some
knowledge of it that hasn't come out.'
'You don't surprise me. I foresaw your visit this afternoon.'
'Don't!' said Mr Inspector. 'Why, why argue? It's my duty to
inform you that whatever you say, will be used against you.'
'I don't think it will.'
'But I tell you it will,' said Mr Inspector. 'Now, having received
the caution, do you still say that you foresaw my visit this
afternoon?'
'Yes. And I will say something more, if you will step with me into
the next room.'
With a reassuring kiss on the lips of the frightened Bella, her
husband (to whom Mr Inspector obligingly offered his arm), took
up a candle, and withdrew with that gentleman. They were a full
half-hour in conference. When they returned, Mr Inspector
looked considerably astonished.
'I have invited this worthy officer, my dear,' said John, 'to make a
short excursion with me in which you shall be a sharer. He will
take something to eat and drink, I dare say, on your invitation,
while you are getting your bonnet on.'
Mr Inspector declined eating, but assented to the proposal of a
glass of brandy and water. Mixing this cold, and pensively
consuming it, he broke at intervals into such soliloquies as that he
never did know such a move, that he never had been so gravelled,
and that what a game was this to try the sort of stuff a man's
opinion of himself was made of! Concurrently with these
comments, he more than once burst out a laughing, with the halfenjoying
and half-piqued air of a man, who had given up a good
conundrum, after much guessing, and been told the answer. Bella
was so timid of him, that she noted these things in a halfshrinking,
half-perceptive way, and similarly noted that there was
a great change in his manner towards John. That coming-alongwith-
him deportment was now lost in long musing looks at John
and at herself and sometimes in slow heavy rubs of his hand
across his forehead, as if he were ironing cut the creases which his
deep pondering made there. He had had some coughing and
whistling satellites secretly gravitating towards him about the
premises, but they were now dismissed, and he eyed John as if he
had meant to do him a public service, but had unfortunately been
anticipated. Whether Bella might have noted anything more, if she
had been less afraid of him, she could not determine; but it was all
inexplicable to her, and not the faintest flash of the real state of the
case broke in upon her mind. Mr Inspector's increased notice of
herself and knowing way of raising his eyebrows when their eyes
by any chance met, as if he put the question 'Don't you see?'
augmented her timidity, and, consequently, her perplexity. For all
these reasons, when he and she and John, at towards nine o'clock
of a winter evening went to London, and began driving from
London Bridge, among low-lying water-side wharves and docks
and strange places, Bella was in the state of a dreamer; perfectly
unable to account for her being there, perfectly unable to forecast
what would happen next, or whither she was going, or why; certain
of nothing in the immediate present, but that she confided in John,
and that John seemed somehow to be getting more triumphant.
But what a certainty was that!
They alighted at last at the corner of a court, where there was a
building with a bright lamp and wicket gate. Its orderly
appearance was very unlike that of the surrounding neighbourhood,
and was explained by the inscription POLICE STATION.
'We are not going in here, John?' said Bella, clinging to him.
'Yes, my dear; but of our own accord. We shall come out again as
easily, never fear.'
The whitewashed room was pure white as of old, the methodical
book-keeping was in peaceful progress as of old, and some distant
howler was banging against a cell door as of old. The sanctuary
was not a permanent abiding-place, but a kind of criminal
Pickford's. The lower passions and vices were regularly ticked off
in the books, warehoused in the cells, carted away as per
accompanying invoice, and left little mark upon it.
Mr Inspector placed two chairs for his visitors, before the fire, and
communed in a low voice with a brother of his order (also of a
half-pay, and Royal Arms aspect), who, judged only by his
occupation at the moment, might have been a writing-master,
setting copies. Their conference done, Mr Inspector returned to the
fireplace, and, having observed that he would step round to the
Fellowships and see how matters stood, went out. He soon came
back again, saying, 'Nothing could be better, for they're at supper
with Miss Abbey in the bar;' and then they all three went out
together.
Still, as in a dream, Bella found herself entering a snug oldfashioned
public-house, and found herself smuggled into a little
three-cornered room nearly opposite the bar of that establishment.
Mr Inspector achieved the smuggling of herself and John into this
queer room, called Cosy in an inscription on the door, by entering
in the narrow passage first in order, and suddenly turning round
upon them with extended arms, as if they had been two sheep. The
room was lighted for their reception.
'Now,' said Mr Inspector to John, turning the gas lower; 'I'll mix
with 'em in a casual way, and when I say Identification, perhaps
you'll show yourself.'
John nodded, and Mr Inspector went alone to the half-door of the
bar. From the dim doorway of Cosy, within which Bella and her
husband stood, they could see a comfortable little party of three
persons sitting at supper in the bar, and could hear everything that
was said.
The three persons were Miss Abbey and two male guests. To
whom collectively, Mr Inspector remarked that the weather was
getting sharp for the time of year.
'It need be sharp to suit your wits, sir,' said Miss Abbey. 'What
have you got in hand now?'
'Thanking you for your compliment: not much, Miss Abbey,' was
Mr Inspector's rejoinder.
'Who have you got in Cosy?' asked Miss Abbey.
'Only a gentleman and his wife, Miss.'
'And who are they? If one may ask it without detriment to your
deep plans in the interests of the honest public?' said Miss Abbey,
proud of Mr Inspector as an administrative genius.
'They are strangers in this part of the town, Miss Abbey. They are
waiting till I shall want the gentleman to show himself
somewhere, for half a moment.'
'While they're waiting,' said Miss Abbey, 'couldn't you join us?'
Mr Inspector immediately slipped into the bar, and sat down at the
side of the half-door, with his back towards the passage, and
directly facing the two guests. 'I don't take my supper till later in
the night,' said he, 'and therefore I won't disturb the compactness
of the table. But I'll take a glass of flip, if that's flip in the jug in
the fender.'
'That's flip,' replied Miss Abbey, 'and it's my making, and if even
you can find out better, I shall be glad to know where.' Filling
him, with hospitable hands, a steaming tumbler, Miss Abbey
replaced the jug by the fire; the company not having yet arrived at
the flip-stage of their supper, but being as yet skirmishing with
strong ale.
'Ah--h!' cried Mr Inspector. 'That's the smack! There's not a
Detective in the Force, Miss Abbey, that could find out better stuff
than that.'
'Glad to hear you say so,' rejoined Miss Abbey. 'You ought to
know, if anybody does.'
'Mr Job Potterson,' Mr Inspector continued, 'I drink your health.
Mr Jacob Kibble, I drink yours. Hope you have made a prosperous
voyage home, gentlemen both.'
Mr Kibble, an unctuous broad man of few words and many
mouthfuls, said, more briefly than pointedly, raising his ale to his
lips: 'Same to you.' Mr Job Potterson, a semi-seafaring man of
obliging demeanour, said, 'Thank you, sir.'
'Lord bless my soul and body!' cried Mr Inspector. 'Talk of trades,
Miss Abbey, and the way they set their marks on men' (a subject
which nobody had approached); 'who wouldn't know your brother
to be a Steward! There's a bright and ready twinkle in his eye,
there's a neatness in his action, there's a smartness in his figure,
there's an air of reliability about him in case you wanted a basin,
which points out the steward! And Mr Kibble; ain't he Passenger,
all over? While there's that mercantile cut upon him which would
make you happy to give him credit for five hundred pound, don't
you see the salt sea shining on him too?'
'YOU do, I dare say,' returned Miss Abbey, 'but I don't. And as for
stewarding, I think it's time my brother gave that up, and took his
House in hand on his sister's retiring. The House will go to pieces
if he don't. I wouldn't sell it for any money that could be told out,
to a person that I couldn't depend upon to be a Law to the Porters,
as I have been.'
'There you're right, Miss,' said Mr Inspector. 'A better kept house
is not known to our men. What do I say? Half so well a kept
house is not known to our men. Show the Force the Six Jolly
Fellowship Porters, and the Force--to a constable--will show you a
piece of perfection, Mr Kibble.'
That gentleman, with a very serious shake of his head, subscribed
the article.
'And talk of Time slipping by you, as if it was an animal at rustic
sports with its tail soaped,' said Mr Inspector (again, a subject
which nobody had approached); 'why, well you may. Well you
may. How has it slipped by us, since the time when Mr Job
Potterson here present, Mr Jacob Kibble here present, and an
Officer of the Force here present, first came together on a matter of
Identification!'
Bella's husband stepped softly to the half-door of the bar, and stood
there.
'How has Time slipped by us,' Mr Inspector went on slowly, with
his eyes narrowly observant of the two guests, 'since we three very
men, at an Inquest in this very house--Mr Kibble? Taken ill, sir?'
Mr Kibble had staggered up, with his lower jaw dropped, catching
Potterson by the shoulder, and pointing to the half-door. He now
cried out: 'Potterson! Look! Look there!' Potterson started up,
started back, and exclaimed: 'Heaven defend us, what's that!'
Bella's husband stepped back to Bella, took her in his arms (for she
was terrified by the unintelligible terror of the two men), and shut
the door of the little room. A hurry of voices succeeded, in which
Mr Inspector's voice was busiest; it gradually slackened and sank;
and Mr Inspector reappeared. 'Sharp's the word, sir!' he said,
looking in with a knowing wink. 'We'll get your lady out at once.'
Immediately, Bella and her husband were under the stars, making
their way back, alone, to the vehicle they had kept in waiting.
All this was most extraordinary, and Bella could make nothing of
it but that John was in the right. How in the right, and how
suspected of being in the wrong, she could not divine. Some
vague idea that he had never really assumed the name of Handford,
and that there was a remarkable likeness between him and that
mysterious person, was her nearest approach to any definite
explanation. But John was triumphant; that much was made
apparent; and she could wait for the rest.
When John came home to dinner next day, he said, sitting down on
the sofa by Bella and baby-Bella: 'My dear, I have a piece of news
to tell you. I have left the China House.'
As he seemed to like having left it, Bella took it for granted that
there was no misfortune in the case.
'In a word, my love,' said John, 'the China House is broken up and
abolished. There is no such thing any more.'
'Then, are you already in another House, John?'
'Yes, my darling. I am in another way of business. And I am
rather better off.'
The inexhaustible baby was instantly made to congratulate him,
and to say, with appropriate action on the part of a very limp arm
and a speckled fist: 'Three cheers, ladies and gemplemorums.
Hoo--ray!'
'I am afraid, my life,' said John, 'that you have become very much
attached to this cottage?'
'Afraid I have, John? Of course I have.'
'The reason why I said afraid,' returned John, 'is, because we must
move.'
'O John!'
'Yes, my dear, we must move. We must have our head-quarters in
London now. In short, there's a dwelling-house rent-free, attached
to my new position, and we must occupy it.'
'That's a gain, John.'
'Yes, my dear, it is undoubtedly a gain.'
He gave her a very blithe look, and a very sly look. Which
occasioned the inexhaustible baby to square at him with the
speckled fists, and demand in a threatening manner what he
meant?
'My love, you said it was a gain, and I said it was a gain. A very
innocent remark, surely.'
'I won't,' said the inexhaustible baby, '--allow--you--to--make--
game--of--my--venerable--Ma.' At each division administering a
soft facer with one of the speckled fists.
John having stooped down to receive these punishing visitations,
Bella asked him, would it be necessary to move soon? Why yes,
indeed (said John), he did propose that they should move very
soon. Taking the furniture with them, of course? (said Bella).
Why, no (said John), the fact was, that the house was--in a sort of
a kind of a way--furnished already.
The inexhaustible baby, hearing this, resumed the offensive, and
said: 'But there's no nursery for me, sir. What do you mean,
marble-hearted parent?' To which the marble-hearted parent
rejoined that there was a--sort of a kind of a--nursery, and it might
be 'made to do'. 'Made to do?' returned the Inexhaustible,
administering more punishment, 'what do you take me for?' And
was then turned over on its back in Bella's lap, and smothered with
kisses.
'But really, John dear,' said Bella, flushed in quite a lovely manner
by these exercises, 'will the new house, just as it stands, do for
baby? That's the question.'
'I felt that to be the question,' he returned, 'and therefore I arranged
that you should come with me and look at it, to-morrow morning.'
Appointment made, accordingly, for Bella to go up with him tomorrow
morning; John kissed; and Bella delighted.
When they reached London in pursuance of their little plan, they
took coach and drove westward. Not only drove westward, but
drove into that particular westward division, which Bella had seen
last when she turned her face from Mr Boffin's door. Not only
drove into that particular division, but drove at last into that very
street. Not only drove into that very street, but stopped at last at
that very house.
'John dear!' cried Bella, looking out of window in a flutter. 'Do you
see where we are?'
'Yes, my love. The coachman's quite right.'
The house-door was opened without any knocking or ringing, and
John promptly helped her out. The servant who stood holding the
door, asked no question of John, neither did he go before them or
follow them as they went straight up-stairs. It was only her
husband's encircling arm, urging her on, that prevented Bella from
stopping at the foot of the staircase. As they ascended, it was seen
to be tastefully ornamented with most beautiful flowers.
'O John!' said Bella, faintly. 'What does this mean?'
'Nothing, my darling, nothing. Let us go on.'
Going on a little higher, they came to a charming aviary, in which
a number of tropical birds, more gorgeous in colour than the
flowers, were flying about; and among those birds were gold and
silver fish, and mosses, and water-lilies, and a fountain, and all
manner of wonders.
'O my dear John!' said Bella. 'What does this mean?'
'Nothing, my darling, nothing. Let us go on.'
They went on, until they came to a door. As John put out his hand
to open it, Bella caught his hand.
'I don't know what it means, but it's too much for me. Hold me,
John, love.'
John caught her up in his arm, and lightly dashed into the room
with her.
Behold Mr and Mrs Boffin, beaming! Behold Mrs Boffin clapping
her hands in an ecstacy, running to Bella with tears of joy pouring
down her comely face, and folding her to her breast, with the
words: 'My deary deary, deary girl, that Noddy and me saw
married and couldn't wish joy to, or so much as speak to! My
deary, deary, deary, wife of John and mother of his little child! My
loving loving, bright bright, Pretty Pretty! Welcome to your house
and home, my deary!'
Chapter 13
SHOWING HOW THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN HELPED TO SCATTER DUST
In all the first bewilderment of her wonder, the most bewilderingly
wonderful thing to Bella was the shining countenance of Mr
Boffin. That his wife should be joyous, open-hearted, and genial,
or that her face should express every quality that was large and
trusting, and no quality that was little or mean, was accordant with
Bella's experience. But, that he, with a perfectly beneficent air and
a plump rosy face, should be standing there, looking at her and
John, like some jovial good spirit, was marvellous. For, how had
he looked when she last saw him in that very room (it was the
room in which she had given him that piece of her mind at
parting), and what had become of all those crooked lines of
suspicion, avarice, and distrust, that twisted his visage then?
Mrs Boffin seated Bella on the large ottoman, and seated herself
beside her, and John her husband seated himself on the other side
of her, and Mr Boffin stood beaming at every one and everything
he could see, with surpassing jollity and enjoyment. Mrs Boffin
was then taken with a laughing fit of clapping her hands, and
clapping her knees, and rocking herself to and fro, and then with
another laughing fit of embracing Bella, and rocking her to and
fro--both fits, of considerable duration.
'Old lady, old lady,' said Mr Boffin, at length; 'if you don't begin
somebody else must.'
'I'm a going to begin, Noddy, my dear,' returned Mrs Boffin. 'Only
it isn't easy for a person to know where to begin, when a person is
in this state of delight and happiness. Bella, my dear. Tell me,
who's this?'
'Who is this?' repeated Bella. 'My husband.'
'Ah! But tell me his name, deary!' cried Mrs Boffin.
'Rokesmith.'
'No, it ain't!' cried Mrs Boffin, clapping her hands, and shaking her
head. 'Not a bit of it.'
'Handford then,' suggested Bella.
'No, it ain't!' cried Mrs Boffin, again clapping her hands and
shaking her head. 'Not a bit of it.'
'At least, his name is John, I suppose?' said Bella.
'Ah! I should think so, deary!' cried Mrs Boffin. 'I should hope so!
Many and many is the time I have called him by his name of John.
But what's his other name, his true other name? Give a guess, my
pretty!'
'I can't guess,' said Bella, turning her pale face from one to
another.
'I could,' cried Mrs Boffin, 'and what's more, I did! I found him
out, all in a flash as I may say, one night. Didn't I, Noddy?'
'Ay! That the old lady did!' said Mr Boffin, with stout pride in the
circumstance.
'Harkee to me, deary,' pursued Mrs Boffin, taking Bella's hands
between her own, and gently beating on them from time to time. 'It
was after a particular night when John had been disappointed--as
he thought--in his affections. It was after a night when John had
made an offer to a certain young lady, and the certain young lady
had refused it. It was after a particular night, when he felt himself
cast-away-like, and had made up his mind to go seek his fortune.
It was the very next night. My Noddy wanted a paper out of his
Secretary's room, and I says to Noddy, "I am going by the door,
and I'll ask him for it." I tapped at his door, and he didn't hear me.
I looked in, and saw him a sitting lonely by his fire, brooding over
it. He chanced to look up with a pleased kind of smile in my
company when he saw me, and then in a single moment every
grain of the gunpowder that had been lying sprinkled thick about
him ever since I first set eyes upon him as a man at the Bower,
took fire! Too many a time had I seen him sitting lonely, when he
was a poor child, to be pitied, heart and hand! Too many a time
had I seen him in need of being brightened up with a comforting
word! Too many and too many a time to be mistaken, when that
glimpse of him come at last! No, no! I just makes out to cry, "I
know you now! You're John!" And he catches me as I drops.--So
what,' says Mrs Boffin, breaking off in the rush of her speech to
smile most radiantly, 'might you think by this time that your
husband's name was, dear?'
'Not,' returned Bella, with quivering lips; 'not Harmon? That's not
possible?'
'Don't tremble. Why not possible, deary, when so many things are
possible?' demanded Mrs Boffin, in a soothing tone.
'He was killed,' gasped Bella.
'Thought to be,' said Mrs Boffin. 'But if ever John Harmon drew
the breath of life on earth, that is certainly John Harmon's arm
round your waist now, my pretty. If ever John Harmon had a wife
on earth, that wife is certainly you. If ever John Harmon and his
wife had a child on earth, that child is certainly this.'
By a master-stroke of secret arrangement, the inexhaustible baby
here appeared at the door, suspended in mid-air by invisible
agency. Mrs Boffin, plunging at it, brought it to Bella's lap, where
both Mrs and Mr Boffin (as the saying is) 'took it out of' the
Inexhaustible in a shower of caresses. It was only this timely
appearance that kept Bella from swooning. This, and her
husband's earnestness in explaining further to her how it had come
to pass that he had been supposed to be slain, and had even been
suspected of his own murder; also, how he had put a pious fraud
upon her which had preyed upon his mind, as the time for its
disclosure approached, lest she might not make full allowance for
the object with which it had originated, and in which it had fully
developed.
'But bless ye, my beauty!' cried Mrs Boflin, taking him up short at
this point, with another hearty clap of her hands. 'It wasn't John
only that was in it. We was all of us in it.'
'I don't,' said Bella, looking vacantly from one to another, 'yet
understand--'
'Of course you don't, my deary,' exclaimed Mrs Boffin. 'How can
you till you're told! So now I am a going to tell you. So you put
your two hands between my two hands again,' cried the
comfortable creature, embracing her, 'with that blessed little picter
lying on your lap, and you shall be told all the story. Now, I'm a
going to tell the story. Once, twice, three times, and the horses is
off. Here they go! When I cries out that night, "I know you now,
you're John! "--which was my exact words; wasn't they, John?'
'Your exact words,' said John, laying his hand on hers.
'That's a very good arrangement,' cried Mrs Boffin. 'Keep it there,
John. And as we was all of us in it, Noddy you come and lay yours
a top of his, and we won't break the pile till the story's done.'
Mr Boffin hitched up a chair, and added his broad brown right
hand to the heap.
'That's capital!' said Mrs Boffin, giving it a kiss. 'Seems quite a
family building; don't it? But the horses is off. Well! When I
cries out that night, "I know you now! you're John!" John catches
of me, it is true; but I ain't a light weight, bless ye, and he's forced
to let me down. Noddy, he hears a noise, and in he trots, and as
soon as I anyways comes to myself I calls to him, "Noddy, well I
might say as I did say, that night at the Bower, for the Lord be
thankful this is John!" On which he gives a heave, and down he
goes likewise, with his head under the writing-table. This brings
me round comfortable, and that brings him round comfortable, and
then John and him and me we all fall a crying for joy.'
'Yes! They cry for joy, my darling,' her husband struck in. 'You
understand? These two, whom I come to life to disappoint and
dispossess, cry for joy!'
Bella looked at him confusedly, and looked again at Mrs Boffin's
radiant face.
'That's right, my dear, don't you mind him,' said Mrs Boffin, 'stick
to me. Well! Then we sits down, gradually gets cool, and holds a
confabulation. John, he tells us how he is despairing in his mind
on accounts of a certain fair young person, and how, if I hadn't
found him out, he was going away to seek his fortune far and wide,
and had fully meant never to come to life, but to leave the property
as our wrongful inheritance for ever and a day. At which you
never see a man so frightened as my Noddy was. For to think that
he should have come into the property wrongful, however innocent,
and--more than that--might have gone on keeping it to his dying
day, turned him whiter than chalk.'
'And you too,' said Mr Boffin.
'Don't you mind him, neither, my deary,' resumed Mrs Boffin;
'stick to me. This brings up a confabulation regarding the certain
fair young person; when Noddy he gives it as his opinion that she
is a deary creetur. "She may be a leetle spoilt, and nat'rally spoilt,"
he says, "by circumstances, but that's only the surface, and I lay my
life," he says, "that she's the true golden gold at heart."
'So did you,' said Mr Boffin.
'Don't you mind him a single morsel, my dear,' proceeded Mrs
Boffin, 'but stick to me. Then says John, O, if he could but prove
so! Then we both of us ups and says, that minute, "Prove so!"'
With a start, Bella directed a hurried glance towards Mr Boffin.
But, he was sitting thoughtfully smiling at that broad brown hand
of his, and either didn't see it, or would take no notice of it.
'"Prove it, John!" we says,' repeated Mrs Boffin. '"Prove it and
overcome your doubts with triumph, and be happy for the first time
in your life, and for the rest of your life." This puts John in a state,
to be sure. Then we says, "What will content you? If she was to
stand up for you when you was slighted, if she was to show herself
of a generous mind when you was oppressed, if she was to be
truest to you when you was poorest and friendliest, and all this
against her own seeming interest, how would that do?" "Do?" says
John, "it would raise me to the skies." "Then," says my Noddy,
"make your preparations for the ascent, John, it being my firm
belief that up you go!"'
Bella caught Mr Boffin's twinkling eye for half an instant; but he
got it away from her, and restored it to his broad brown hand.
'From the first, you was always a special favourite of Noddy's,' said
Mrs Boffin, shaking her head. 'O you were! And if I had been
inclined to be jealous, I don't know what I mightn't have done to
you. But as I wasn't--why, my beauty,' with a hearty laugh and an
embrace, 'I made you a special favourite of my own too. But the
horses is coming round the corner. Well! Then says my Noddy,
shaking his sides till he was fit to make 'em ache again: "Look out
for being slighted and oppressed, John, for if ever a man had a
hard master, you shall find me from this present time to be such to
you. And then he began!' cried Mrs Boffin, in an ecstacy of
admiration. 'Lord bless you, then he began! And how he DID
begin; didn't he!'
Bella looked half frightened, and yet half laughed.
'But, bless you,' pursued Mrs Boffin, 'if you could have seen him of
a night, at that time of it! The way he'd sit and chuckle over
himself! The way he'd say "I've been a regular brown bear to-day,"
and take himself in his arms and hug himself at the thoughts of the
brute he had pretended. But every night he says to me: "Better
and better, old lady. What did we say of her? She'll come through
it, the true golden gold. This'll be the happiest piece of work we
ever done." And then he'd say, "I'll be a grislier old growler tomorrow!"
and laugh, he would, till John and me was often forced
to slap his back, and bring it out of his windpipes with a little
water.'
Mr Boffin, with his face bent over his heavy hand, made no sound,
but rolled his shoulders when thus referred to, as if he were vastly
enjoying himself.
'And so, my good and pretty,' pursued Mrs Boffin, 'you was
married, and there was we hid up in the church-organ by this
husband of yours; for he wouldn't let us out with it then, as was
first meant. "No," he says, "she's so unselfish and contented, that
I can't afford to be rich yet. I must wait a little longer." Then,
when baby was expected, he says, "She is such a cheerful, glorious
housewife that I can't afford to be rich yet. I must wait a little
longer." Then when baby was born, he says, "She is so much
better than she ever was, that I can't afford to be rich yet. I must
wait a little longer." And so he goes on and on, till I says outright,
"Now, John, if you don't fix a time for setting her up in her own
house and home, and letting us walk out of it, I'll turn Informer."
Then he says he'll only wait to triumph beyond what we ever
thought possible, and to show her to us better than even we ever
supposed; and he says, "She shall see me under suspicion of
having murdered myself, and YOU shall see how trusting and how
true she'll be." Well! Noddy and me agreed to that, and he was
right, and here you are, and the horses is in, and the story is done,
and God bless you my Beauty, and God bless us all!'
The pile of hands dispersed, and Bella and Mrs Boffin took a good
long hug of one another: to the apparent peril of the inexhaustible
baby, lying staring in Bella's lap.
'But IS the story done?' said Bella, pondering. 'Is there no more of
it?'
'What more of it should there be, deary?' returned Mrs Boffin, full
of glee.
'Are you sure you have left nothing out of it?' asked Bella.
'I don't think I have,' said Mrs Boffin, archly.
'John dear,' said Bella, 'you're a good nurse; will you please hold
baby?' Having deposited the Inexhaustible in his arms with those
words, Bella looked hard at Mr Boffin, who had moved to a table
where he was leaning his head upon his hand with his face turned
away, and, quietly settling herself on her knees at his side, and
drawing one arm over his shoulder, said: 'Please I beg your pardon,
and I made a small mistake of a word when I took leave of you
last. Please I think you are better (not worse) than Hopkins, better
(not worse) than Dancer, better (not worse) than Blackberry Jones,
better (not worse) than any of them! Please something more!' cried
Bella, with an exultant ringing laugh as she struggled with him
and forced him to turn his delighted face to hers. 'Please I have
found out something not yet mentioned. Please I don't believe you
are a hard-hearted miser at all, and please I don't believe you ever
for one single minute were!'
At this, Mrs Boffin fairly screamed with rapture, and sat beating
her feet upon the floor, clapping her hands, and bobbing herself
backwards and forwards, like a demented member of some
Mandarin's family.
'O, I understand you now, sir!' cried Bella. 'I want neither you nor
any one else to tell me the rest of the story. I can tell it to YOU,
now, if you would like to hear it.'
'Can you, my dear?' said Mr Boffin. 'Tell it then.'
'What?' cried Bella, holding him prisoner by the coat with both
hands. 'When you saw what a greedy little wretch you were the
patron of, you determined to show her how much misused and
misprized riches could do, and often had done, to spoil people; did
you? Not caring what she thought of you (and Goodness knows
THAT was of no consequence!) you showed her, in yourself, the
most detestable sides of wealth, saying in your own mind, "This
shallow creature would never work the truth out of her own weak
soul, if she had a hundred years to do it in; but a glaring instance
kept before her may open even her eyes and set her thinking." That
was what you said to yourself, was it, sir?'
'I never said anything of the sort,' Mr Boffin declared in a state of
the highest enjoyment.
'Then you ought to have said it, sir,' returned Bella, giving him two
pulls and one kiss, 'for you must have thought and meant it. You
saw that good fortune was turning my stupid head and hardening
my silly heart--was making me grasping, calculating, insolent,
insufferable--and you took the pains to be the dearest and kindest
fingerpost that ever was set up anywhere, pointing out the road
that I was taking and the end it led to. Confess instantly!'
'John,' said Mr Boffin, one broad piece of sunshine from head to
foot, 'I wish you'd help me out of this.'
'You can't be heard by counsel, sir,' returned Bella. 'You must
speak for yourself. Confess instantly!'
'Well, my dear,' said Mr Boffin, 'the truth is, that when we did go
in for the little scheme that my old lady has pinted out, I did put it
to John, what did he think of going in for some such general
scheme as YOU have pinted out? But I didn't in any way so word
it, because I didn't in any way so mean it. I only said to John,
wouldn't it be more consistent, me going in for being a reg'lar
brown bear respecting him, to go in as a reg'lar brown bear all
round?'
'Confess this minute, sir,' said Bella, 'that you did it to correct and
amend me!'
'Certainly, my dear child,' said Mr Boffin, 'I didn't do it to harm
you; you may be sure of that. And I did hope it might just hint a
caution. Still, it ought to be mentioned that no sooner had my old
lady found out John, than John made known to her and me that he
had had his eye upon a thankless person by the name of Silas
Wegg. Partly for the punishment of which Wegg, by leading him
on in a very unhandsome and underhanded game that he was
playing, them books that you and me bought so many of together
(and, by-the-by, my dear, he wasn't Blackberry Jones, but
Blewberry) was read aloud to me by that person of the name of
Silas Wegg aforesaid.'
Bella, who was still on her knees at Mr Boffin's feet, gradually
sank down into a sitting posture on the ground, as she meditated
more and more thoughtfully, with her eyes upon his beaming face.
'Still,' said Bella, after this meditative pause, 'there remain two
things that I cannot understand. Mrs Boffin never supposed any
part of the change in Mr Boffin to be real; did she?--You never did;
did you?' asked Bella, turning to her.
'No!' returned Mrs Boffin, with a most rotund and glowing
negative.
'And yet you took it very much to heart,' said Bella. 'I remember
its making you very uneasy, indeed.'
'Ecod, you see Mrs John has a sharp eye, John!' cried Mr Boffin,
shaking his head with an admiring air. 'You're right, my dear.
The old lady nearly blowed us into shivers and smithers, many
times.'
'Why?' asked Bella. 'How did that happen, when she was in your
secret?'
'Why, it was a weakness in the old lady,' said Mr Boffin; 'and yet,
to tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I'm rather
proud of it. My dear, the old lady thinks so high of me that she
couldn't abear to see and hear me coming out as a reg'lar brown
one. Couldn't abear to make-believe as I meant it! In consequence
of which, we was everlastingly in danger with her.'
Mrs Boffin laughed heartily at herself; but a certain glistening in
her honest eyes revealed that she was by no means cured of that
dangerous propensity.
'I assure you, my dear,' said Mr Boffin, 'that on the celebrated day
when I made what has since been agreed upon to be my grandest
demonstration--I allude to Mew says the cat, Quack quack says the
duck, and Bow-wow-wow says the dog--I assure you, my dear,
that on that celebrated day, them flinty and unbeliving words hit
my old lady so hard on my account, that I had to hold her, to
prevent her running out after you, and defending me by saying I
was playing a part.'
Mrs Boffin laughed heartily again, and her eyes glistened again,
and it then appeared, not only that in that burst of sarcastic
eloquence Mr Boffin was considered by his two fellowconspirators
to have outdone himself, but that in his own opinion it
was a remarkable achievement. 'Never thought of it afore the
moment, my dear!' he observed to Bella. 'When John said, if he
had been so happy as to win your affections and possess your
heart, it come into my head to turn round upon him with "Win her
affections and possess her heart! Mew says the cat, Quack quack
says the duck, and Bow-wow-wow says the dog." I couldn't tell
you how it come into my head or where from, but it had so much
the sound of a rasper that I own to you it astonished myself. I was
awful nigh bursting out a laughing though, when it made John
stare!'
'You said, my pretty,' Mrs Boffin reminded Bella, 'that there was
one other thing you couldn't understand.'
'O yes!' cried Bella, covering her face with her hands; 'but that I
never shall be able to understand as long as I live. It is, how John
could love me so when I so little deserved it, and how you, Mr and
Mrs Boffin, could be so forgetful of yourselves, and take such
pains and trouble, to make me a little better, and after all to help
him to so unworthy a wife. But I am very very grateful.'
It was John Harmon's turn then--John Harmon now for good, and
John Rokesmith for nevermore--to plead with her (quite
unnecessarily) in behalf of his deception, and to tell her, over and
over again, that it had been prolonged by her own winning graces
in her supposed station of life. This led on to many interchanges of
endearment and enjoyment on all sides, in the midst of which the
Inexhaustible being observed staring, in a most imbecile manner,
on Mrs Boffin's breast, was pronounced to be supernaturally
intelligent as to the whole transaction, and was made to declare to
the ladies and gemplemorums, with a wave of the speckled fist
(with difficulty detached from an exceedingly short waist), 'I have
already informed my venerable Ma that I know all about it!'
Then, said John Harmon, would Mrs John Harmon come and see
her house? And a dainty house it was, and a tastefully beautiful;
and they went through it in procession; the Inexhaustible on Mrs
Boffin's bosom (still staring) occupying the middle station, and
Mr Boffin bringing up the rear. And on Bella's exquisite toilette
table was an ivory casket, and in the casket were jewels the like of
which she had never dreamed of, and aloft on an upper floor was a
nursery garnished as with rainbows; 'though we were hard put to
it,' said John Harmon, 'to get it done in so short a time.
The house inspected, emissaries removed the Inexhaustible, who
was shortly afterwards heard screaming among the rainbows;
whereupon Bella withdrew herself from the presence and
knowledge of gemplemorums, and the screaming ceased, and
smiling Peace associated herself with that young olive branch.
'Come and look in, Noddy!' said Mrs Boffin to Mr Boffin.
Mr Boffin, submitting to be led on tiptoe to the nursery door,
looked in with immense satisfaction, although there was nothing to
see but Bella in a musing state of happiness, seated in a little low
chair upon the hearth, with her child in her fair young arms, and
her soft eyelashes shading her eyes from the fire.
'It looks as if the old man's spirit had found rest at last; don't it?'
said Mrs Boffin.
'Yes, old lady.'
'And as if his money had turned bright again, after a long long rust
in the dark, and was at last a beginning to sparkle in the sunlight?'
'Yes, old lady.'
'And it makes a pretty and a promising picter; don't it?'
'Yes, old lady.'
But, aware at the instant of a fine opening for a point, Mr Boffin
quenched that observation in this--delivered in the grisliest
growling of the regular brown bear. 'A pretty and a hopeful picter?
Mew, Quack quack, Bow-wow!' And then trotted silently
downstairs, with his shoulders in a state of the liveliest
commotion.
Chapter 14
CHECKMATE TO THE FRIENDLY MOVE
Mr and Mrs John Harmon had so timed their taking possession of
their rightful name and their London house, that the event befel on
the very day when the last waggon-load of the last Mound was
driven out at the gates of Boffin's Bower. As it jolted away, Mr
Wegg felt that the last load was correspondingly removed from his
mind, and hailed the auspicious season when that black sheep,
Boffin, was to be closely sheared.
Over the whole slow process of levelling the Mounds, Silas had
kept watch with rapacious eyes. But, eyes no less rapacious had
watched the growth of the Mounds in years bygone, and had
vigilantly sifted the dust of which they were composed. No
valuables turned up. How should there be any, seeing that the old
hard jailer of Harmony Jail had coined every waif and stray into
money, long before?
Though disappointed by this bare result, Mr Wegg felt too sensibly
relieved by the close of the labour, to grumble to any great extent.
A foreman-representative of the dust contractors, purchasers of the
Mounds, had worn Mr Wegg down to skin and bone. This
supervisor of the proceedings, asserting his employers' rights to
cart off by daylight, nightlight, torchlight, when they would, must
have been the death of Silas if the work had lasted much longer.
Seeming never to need sleep himself, he would reappear, with a
tied-up broken head, in fantail hat and velveteen smalls, like an
accursed goblin, at the most unholy and untimely hours. Tired out
by keeping close ward over a long day's work in fog and rain,
Silas would have just crawled to bed and be dozing, when a
horrid shake and rumble under his pillow would announce an
approaching train of carts, escorted by this Demon of Unrest, to
fall to work again. At another time, he would be rumbled up out of
his soundest sleep, in the dead of the night; at another, would be
kept at his post eight-and-forty hours on end. The more his
persecutor besought him not to trouble himself to turn out, the
more suspicious was the crafty Wegg that indications had been
observed of something hidden somewhere, and that attempts were
on foot to circumvent him. So continually broken was his rest
through these means, that he led the life of having wagered to keep
ten thousand dog-watches in ten thousand hours, and looked
piteously upon himself as always getting up and yet never going to
bed. So gaunt and haggard had he grown at last, that his wooden
leg showed disproportionate, and presented a thriving appearance
in contrast with the rest of his plagued body, which might almost
have been termed chubby.
However, Wegg's comfort was, that all his disagreeables were now
over, and that he was immediately coming into his property. Of
late, the grindstone did undoubtedly appear to have been whirling
at his own nose rather than Boffin's, but Boffin's nose was now to
be sharpened fine. Thus far, Mr Wegg had let his dusty friend off
lightly, having been baulked in that amiable design of frequently
dining with him, by the machinations of the sleepless dustman. He
had been constrained to depute Mr Venus to keep their dusty
friend, Boffin, under inspection, while he himself turned lank and
lean at the Bower.
To Mr Venus's museum Mr Wegg repaired when at length the
Mounds were down and gone. It being evening, he found that
gentleman, as he expected, seated over his fire; but did not find
him, as he expected, floating his powerful mind in tea.
'Why, you smell rather comfortable here!' said Wegg, seeming to
take it ill, and stopping and sniffing as he entered.
'I AM rather comfortable, sir,' said Venus.
'You don't use lemon in your business, do you?' asked Wegg,
sniffing again.
'No, Mr Wegg,' said Venus. 'When I use it at all, I mostly use it in
cobblers' punch.'
'What do you call cobblers' punch?' demanded Wegg, in a worse
humour than before.
'It's difficult to impart the receipt for it, sir,' returned Venus,
'because, however particular you may be in allotting your
materials, so much will still depend upon the individual gifts, and
there being a feeling thrown into it. But the groundwork is gin.'
'In a Dutch bottle?' said Wegg gloomily, as he sat himself down.
'Very good, sir, very good!' cried Venus. 'Will you partake, sir?'
'Will I partake?' returned Wegg very surlily. 'Why, of course I
will! WILL a man partake, as has been tormented out of his five
senses by an everlasting dustman with his head tied up! WILL he,
too! As if he wouldn't!'
'Don't let it put you out, Mr Wegg. You don't seem in your usual
spirits.'
'If you come to that, you don't seem in your usual spirits,' growled
Wegg. 'You seem to be setting up for lively.'
This circumstance appeared, in his then state of mind, to give Mr
Wegg uncommon offence.
'And you've been having your hair cut!' said Wegg, missing the
usual dusty shock.
'Yes, Mr Wegg. But don't let that put you out, either.'
'And I am blest if you ain't getting fat!' said Wegg, with
culminating discontent. 'What are you going to do next?'
'Well, Mr Wegg,' said Venus, smiling in a sprightly manner, 'I
suspect you could hardly guess what I am going to do next.'
'I don't want to guess,' retorted Wegg. 'All I've got to say is, that
it's well for you that the diwision of labour has been what it has
been. It's well for you to have had so light a part in this business,
when mine has been so heavy. You haven't had YOUR rest broke,
I'll be bound.'
'Not at all, sir,' said Venus. 'Never rested so well in all my life, I
thank you.'
'Ah!' grumbled Wegg, 'you should have been me. If you had been
me, and had been fretted out of your bed, and your sleep, and your
meals, and your mind, for a stretch of months together, you'd have
been out of condition and out of sorts.'
'Certainly, it has trained you down, Mr Wegg,' said Venus,
contemplating his figure with an artist's eye. 'Trained you down
very low, it has! So weazen and yellow is the kivering upon your
bones, that one might almost fancy you had come to give a look-in
upon the French gentleman in the corner, instead of me.'
Mr Wegg, glancing in great dudgeon towards the French
gentleman's corner, seemed to notice something new there, which
induced him to glance at the opposite corner, and then to put on his
glasses and stare at all the nooks and corners of the dim shop in
succession.
'Why, you've been having the place cleaned up!' he exclaimed.
'Yes, Mr Wegg. By the hand of adorable woman.'
'Then what you're going to do next, I suppose, is to get married?'
'That's it, sir.'
Silas took off his glasses again--finding himself too intensely
disgusted by the sprightly appearance of his friend and partner to
bear a magnified view of him and made the inquiry:
'To the old party?'
'Mr Wegg!' said Venus, with a sudden flush of wrath. 'The lady in
question is not a old party.'
'I meant,' exclaimed Wegg, testily, 'to the party as formerly
objected?'
'Mr Wegg,' said Venus, 'in a case of so much delicacy, I must
trouble you to say what you mean. There are strings that must not
be played upon. No sir! Not sounded, unless in the most
respectful and tuneful manner. Of such melodious strings is Miss
Pleasant Riderhood formed.'
'Then it IS the lady as formerly objected?' said Wegg.
'Sir,' returned Venus with dignity, 'I accept the altered phrase. It is
the lady as formerly objected.'
'When is it to come off?' asked Silas.
'Mr Wegg,' said Venus, with another flush. 'I cannot permit it to
be put in the form of a Fight. I must temperately but firmly call
upon you, sir, to amend that question.'
'When is the lady,' Wegg reluctantly demanded, constraining his ill
temper in remembrance of the partnership and its stock in trade,
'a going to give her 'and where she has already given her 'art?'
'Sir,' returned Venus, 'I again accept the altered phrase, and with
pleasure. The lady is a going to give her 'and where she has
already given her 'art, next Monday.'
'Then the lady's objection has been met?' said Silas.
'Mr Wegg,' said Venus, 'as I did name to you, I think, on a former
occasion, if not on former occasions--'
'On former occasions,' interrupted Wegg.
'--What,' pursued Venus, 'what the nature of the lady's objection
was, I may impart, without violating any of the tender confidences
since sprung up between the lady and myself, how it has been met,
through the kind interference of two good friends of mine: one,
previously acquainted with the lady: and one, not. The pint was
thrown out, sir, by those two friends when they did me the great
service of waiting on the lady to try if a union betwixt the lady and
me could not be brought to bear--the pint, I say, was thrown out by
them, sir, whether if, after marriage, I confined myself to the
articulation of men, children, and the lower animals, it might not
relieve the lady's mind of her feeling respecting being as a lady--
regarded in a bony light. It was a happy thought, sir, and it took
root.'
'It would seem, Mr Venus,' observed Wegg, with a touch of
distrust, 'that you are flush of friends?'
'Pretty well, sir,' that gentleman answered, in a tone of placid
mystery. 'So-so, sir. Pretty well.'
'However,' said Wegg, after eyeing him with another touch of
distrust, 'I wish you joy. One man spends his fortune in one way,
and another in another. You are going to try matrimony. I mean to
try travelling.'
'Indeed, Mr Wegg?'
'Change of air, sea-scenery, and my natural rest, I hope may bring
me round after the persecutions I have undergone from the
dustman with his head tied up, which I just now mentioned. The
tough job being ended and the Mounds laid low, the hour is come
for Boffin to stump up. Would ten to-morrow morning suit you,
partner, for finally bringing Boffin's nose to the grindstone?'
Ten to-morrow morning would quite suit Mr Venus for that
excellent purpose.
'You have had him well under inspection, I hope?' said Silas.
Mr Venus had had him under inspection pretty well every day.
'Suppose you was just to step round to-night then, and give him
orders from me--I say from me, because he knows I won't be
played with--to be ready with his papers, his accounts, and his
cash, at that time in the morning?' said Wegg. 'And as a matter of
form, which will be agreeable to your own feelings, before we go
out (for I'll walk with you part of the way, though my leg gives
under me with weariness), let's have a look at the stock in trade.'
Mr Venus produced it, and it was perfectly correct; Mr Venus
undertook to produce it again in the morning, and to keep tryst
with Mr Wegg on Boffin's doorstep as the clock struck ten. At a
certain point of the road between Clerkenwell and Boffin's house
(Mr Wegg expressly insisted that there should be no prefix to the
Golden Dustman's name) the partners separated for the night.
It was a very bad night; to which succeeded a very bad morning.
The streets were so unusually slushy, muddy, and miserable, in the
morning, that Wegg rode to the scene of action; arguing that a man
who was, as it were, going to the Bank to draw out a handsome
property, could well afford that trifling expense.
Venus was punctual, and Wegg undertook to knock at the door,
and conduct the conference. Door knocked at. Door opened.
'Boffin at home?'
The servant replied that MR Boffin was at home.
'He'll do,' said Wegg, 'though it ain't what I call him.'
The servant inquired if they had any appointment?
'Now, I tell you what, young fellow,' said Wegg, 'I won't have it.
This won't do for me. I don't want menials. I want Boffin.'
They were shown into a waiting-room, where the all-powerful
Wegg wore his hat, and whistled, and with his forefinger stirred up
a clock that stood upon the chimneypiece, until he made it strike.
In a few minutes they were shown upstairs into what used to be
Boffin's room; which, besides the door of entrance, had foldingdoors
in it, to make it one of a suite of rooms when occasion
required. Here, Boffin was seated at a library-table, and here Mr
Wegg, having imperiously motioned the servant to withdraw, drew
up a chair and seated himself, in his hat, close beside him. Here,
also, Mr Wegg instantly underwent the remarkable experience of
having his hat twitched off his head and thrown out of a window,
which was opened and shut for the purpose.
'Be careful what insolent liberties you take in that gentleman's
presence,' said the owner of the hand which had done this, 'or I will
throw you after it.'
Wegg involuntarily clapped his hand to his bare head, and stared
at the Secretary. For, it was he addressed him with a severe
countenance, and who had come in quietly by the folding-doors.
'Oh!' said Wegg, as soon as he recovered his suspended power of
speech. 'Very good! I gave directions for YOU to be dismissed.
And you ain't gone, ain't you? Oh! We'll look into this presently.
Very good!'
'No, nor I ain't gone,' said another voice.
Somebody else had come in quietly by the folding-doors. Turning
his head, Wegg beheld his persecutor, the ever-wakeful dustman,
accoutred with fantail hat and velveteen smalls complete. Who,
untying his tied-up broken head, revealed a head that was whole,
and a face that was Sloppy's.
'Ha, ha, ha, gentlemen!' roared Sloppy in a peal of laughter, and
with immeasureable relish. 'He never thought as I could sleep
standing, and often done it when I turned for Mrs Higden! He
never thought as I used to give Mrs Higden the Police-news in
different voices! But I did lead him a life all through it, gentlemen,
I hope I really and truly DID!' Here, Mr Sloppy opening his mouth
to a quite alarming extent, and throwing back his head to peal
again, revealed incalculable buttons.
'Oh!' said Wegg, slightly discomfited, but not much as yet: 'one
and one is two not dismissed, is it? Bof--fin! Just let me ask a
question. Who set this chap on, in this dress, when the carting
began? Who employed this fellow?'
'I say!' remonstrated Sloppy, jerking his head forward. 'No fellows,
or I'll throw you out of winder!'
Mr Boffin appeased him with a wave of his hand, and said: 'I
employed him, Wegg.'
'Oh! You employed him, Boffin? Very good. Mr Venus, we raise
our terms, and we can't do better than proceed to business. Bof--
fin! I want the room cleared of these two scum.'
'That's not going to be done, Wegg,' replied Mr Boffin, sitting
composedly on the library-table, at one end, while the Secretary sat
composedly on it at the other.
'Bof--fin! Not going to be done?' repeated Wegg. 'Not at your
peril?'
'No, Wegg,' said Mr Boffin, shaking his head good-humouredly.
'Not at my peril, and not on any other terms.'
Wegg reflected a moment, and then said: 'Mr Venus, will you be
so good as hand me over that same dockyment?'
'Certainly, sir,' replied Venus, handing it to him with much
politeness. 'There it is. Having now, sir, parted with it, I wish to
make a small observation: not so much because it is anyways
necessary, or expresses any new doctrine or discovery, as because
it is a comfort to my mind. Silas Wegg, you are a precious old
rascal.'
Mr Wegg, who, as if anticipating a compliment, had been beating
time with the paper to the other's politeness until this unexpected
conclusion came upon him, stopped rather abruptly.
'Silas Wegg,' said Venus, 'know that I took the liberty of taking Mr
Boffin into our concern as a sleeping partner, at a very early period
of our firm's existence.
'Quite true,' added Mr Boffin; 'and I tested Venus by making him a
pretended proposal or two; and I found him on the whole a very
honest man, Wegg.'
'So Mr Boffin, in his indulgence, is pleased to say,' Venus
remarked: 'though in the beginning of this dirt, my hands were not,
for a few hours, quite as clean as I could wish. But I hope I made
early and full amends.'
'Venus, you did,' said Mr Boffin. 'Certainly, certainly, certainly.'
Venus inclined his head with respect and gratitude. 'Thank you,
sir. I am much obliged to you, sir, for all. For your good opinion
now, for your way of receiving and encouraging me when I first
put myself in communication with you, and for the influence since
so kindly brought to bear upon a certain lady, both by yourself and
by Mr John Harmon.' To whom, when thus making mention of
him, he also bowed.
Wegg followed the name with sharp ears, and the action with
sharp eyes, and a certain cringing air was infusing itself into his
bullying air, when his attention was re-claimed by Venus.
'Everything else between you and me, Mr Wegg,' said Venus, 'now
explains itself, and you can now make out, sir, without further
words from me. But totally to prevent any unpleasantness or
mistake that might arise on what I consider an important point, to
be made quite clear at the close of our acquaintance, I beg the leave
of Mr Boffin and Mr John Harmon to repeat an observation which
I have already had the pleasure of bringing under your notice. You
are a precious old rascal!'
'You are a fool,' said Wegg, with a snap of his fingers, 'and I'd
have got rid of you before now, if I could have struck out any way
of doing it. I have thought it over, I can tell you. You may go, and
welcome. You leave the more for me. Because, you know,' said
Wegg, dividing his next observation between Mr Boffin and Mr
Harmon, 'I am worth my price, and I mean to have it. This getting
off is all very well in its way, and it tells with such an anatomical
Pump as this one,' pointing out Mr Venus, 'but it won't do with a
Man. I am here to be bought off, and I have named my figure.
Now, buy me, or leave me.'
'I'll leave you, Wegg, said Mr Boffin, laughing, 'as far as I am
concerned.'
'Bof--fin!' replied Wegg, turning upon him with a severe air, 'I
understand YOUR new-born boldness. I see the brass underneath
YOUR silver plating. YOU have got YOUR nose out of joint.
Knowing that you've nothing at stake, you can afford to come the
independent game. Why, you're just so much smeary glass to see
through, you know! But Mr Harmon is in another sitiwation.
What Mr Harmon risks, is quite another pair of shoes. Now, I've
heerd something lately about this being Mr Harmon--I make out
now, some hints that I've met on that subject in the newspaper--
and I drop you, Bof--fin, as beneath my notice. I ask Mr Harmon
whether he has any idea of the contents of this present paper?'
'It is a will of my late father's, of more recent date than the will
proved by Mr Boffin (address whom again, as you have addressed
him already, and I'll knock you down), leaving the whole of his
property to the Crown,' said John Harmon, with as much
indifference as was compatible with extreme sternness.
'Bight you are!' cried Wegg. 'Then,' screwing the weight of his
body upon his wooden leg, and screwing his wooden head very
much on one side, and screwing up one eye: 'then, I put the
question to you, what's this paper worth?'
'Nothing,' said John Harmon.
Wegg had repeated the word with a sneer, and was entering on
some sarcastic retort, when, to his boundless amazement, he found
himself gripped by the cravat; shaken until his teeth chattered;
shoved back, staggering, into a corner of the room; and pinned
there.
'You scoundrel!' said John Harmon, whose seafaring hold was like
that of a vice.
'You're knocking my head against the wall,' urged Silas faintly.
'I mean to knock your head against the wall,' neturned John
Harmon, suiting his action to his words, with the heartiest good
will; 'and I'd give a thousand pounds for leave to knock your brains
out. Listen, you scoundrel, and look at that Dutch bottle.'
Sloppy held it up, for his edification.
'That Dutch bottle, scoundrel, contained the latest will of the many
wills made by my unhappy self-tormenting father. That will gives
everything absolutely to my noble benefactor and yours, Mr Boffin,
excluding and reviling me, and my sister (then already dead of a
broken heart), by name. That Dutch bottle was found by my noble
benefactor and yours, after he entered on possession of the estate.
That Dutch bottle distressed him beyond measure, because, though
I and my sister were both no more, it cast a slur upon our memory
which he knew we had done nothing in our miserable youth, to
deserve. That Dutch bottle, therefore, he buried in the Mound
belonging to him, and there it lay while you, you thankless wretch,
were prodding and poking--often very near it, I dare say. His
intention was, that it should never see the light; but he was afraid
to destroy it, lest to destroy such a document, even with his great
generous motive, might be an offence at law. After the discovery
was made here who I was, Mr Boffin, still restless on the subject,
told me, upon certain conditions impossible for such a hound as
you to appreciate, the secret of that Dutch bottle. I urged upon him
the necessity of its being dug up, and the paper being legally
produced and established. The first thing you saw him do, and the
second thing has been done without your knowledge.
Consequently, the paper now rattling in your hand as I shake you--
and I should like to shake the life out of you--is worth less than the
rotten cork of the Dutch bottle, do you understand?'
Judging from the fallen countenance of Silas as his head wagged
backwards and forwards in a most uncomfortable manner, he did
understand.
Now, scoundrel,' said John Harmon, taking another sailor-like turn
on his cravat and holding him in his corner at arms' length, 'I shall
make two more short speeches to you, because I hope they will
torment you. Your discovery was a genuine discovery (such as it
was), for nobody had thought of looking into that place. Neither
did we know you had made it, until Venus spoke to Mr Boffin,
though I kept you under good observation from my first appearance
here, and though Sloppy has long made it the chief occupation and
delight of his life, to attend you like your shadow. I tell you this,
that you may know we knew enough of you to persuade Mr Boffin
to let us lead you on, deluded, to the last possible moment, in order
that your disappointment might be the heaviest possible
disappointment. That's the first short speech, do you understand?'
Here, John Harmon assisted his comprehension with another
shake.
'Now, scoundrel,' he pursued, 'I am going to finish. You supposed
me just now, to be the possessor of my father's property.--So I am.
But through any act of my father's, or by any right I have? No.
Through the munificence of Mr Boffin. The conditions that he
made with me, before parting with the secret of the Dutch bottle,
were, that I should take the fortune, and that he should take his
Mound and no more. I owe everything I possess, solely to the
disinterestedness, uprightness, tenderness, goodness (there are no
words to satisfy me) of Mr and Mrs Boffin. And when, knowing
what I knew, I saw such a mud-worm as you presume to rise in
this house against this noble soul, the wonder is,' added John
Harmon through his clenched teeth, and with a very ugly turn
indeed on Wegg's cravat, 'that I didn't try to twist your head off,
and fling THAT out of window! So. That's the last short speech,
do you understand?'
Silas, released, put his hand to his throat, cleared it, and looked as
if he had a rather large fishbone in that region. Simultaneously
with this action on his part in his corner, a singular, and on the
surface an incomprehensible, movement was made by Mr Sloppy:
who began backing towards Mr Wegg along the wall, in the
manner of a porter or heaver who is about to lift a sack of flour or
coals.
'I am sorry, Wegg,' said Mr Boffin, in his clemency, 'that my old
lady and I can't have a better opinion of you than the bad one we
are forced to entertain. But I shouldn't like to leave you, after all
said and done, worse off in life than I found you. Therefore say in
a word, before we part, what it'll cost to set you up in another
stall.'
'And in another place,' John Harmon struck in. 'You don't come
outside these windows.'
'Mr Boffin,' returned Wegg in avaricious humiliation: 'when I first
had the honour of making your acquaintance, I had got together a
collection of ballads which was, I may say, above price.'
'Then they can't be paid for,' said John Harmon, 'and you had better
not try, my dear sir.'
'Pardon me, Mr Boffin,' resumed Wegg, with a malignant glance in
the last speaker's direction, 'I was putting the case to you, who, if
my senses did not deceive me, put the case to me. I had a very
choice collection of ballads, and there was a new stock of
gingerbread in the tin box. I say no more, but would rather leave it
to you.'
'But it's difficult to name what's right,' said Mr Boffin uneasily,
with his hand in his pocket, 'and I don't want to go beyond what's
right, because you really have turned out such a very bad fellow.
So artful, and so ungrateful you have been, Wegg; for when did I
ever injure you?'
'There was also,' Mr Wegg went on, in a meditative manner, 'a
errand connection, in which I was much respected. But I would
not wish to be deemed covetous, and I would rather leave it to you,
Mr Boffin.'
'Upon my word, I don't know what to put it at,' the Golden
Dustman muttered.
'There was likewise,' resumed Wegg, 'a pair of trestles, for which
alone a Irish person, who was deemed a judge of trestles, offered
five and six--a sum I would not hear of, for I should have lost by it-
-and there was a stool, a umbrella, a clothes-horse, and a tray. But
I leave it to you, Mr Boffin.'
The Golden Dustman seeming to be engaged in some abstruse
calculation, Mr Wegg assisted him with the following additional
items.
'There was, further, Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane,
and Uncle Parker. Ah! When a man thinks of the loss of such
patronage as that; when a man finds so fair a garden rooted up by
pigs; he finds it hard indeed, without going high, to work it into
money. But I leave it wholly to you, sir.'
Mr Sloppy still continued his singular, and on the surface his
incomprehensible, movement.
'Leading on has been mentioned,' said Wegg with a melancholy
air, 'and it's not easy to say how far the tone of my mind may have
been lowered by unwholesome reading on the subject of Misers,
when you was leading me and others on to think you one yourself,
sir. All I can say is, that I felt my tone of mind a lowering at the
time. And how can a man put a price upon his mind! There was
likewise a hat just now. But I leave the ole to you, Mr Boffin.'
'Come!' said Mr Boffin. 'Here's a couple of pound.'
'In justice to myself, I couldn't take it, sir.'
The words were but out of his mouth when John Harmon lifted his
finger, and Sloppy, who was now close to Wegg, backed to Wegg's
back, stooped, grasped his coat collar behind with both hands, and
deftly swung him up like the sack of flour or coals before
mentioned. A countenance of special discontent and amazement
Mr Wegg exhibited in this position, with his buttons almost as
prominently on view as Sloppy's own, and with his wooden leg in
a highly unaccommodating state. But, not for many seconds was
his countenance visible in the room; for, Sloppy lightly trotted out
with him and trotted down the staircase, Mr Venus attending to
open the street door. Mr Sloppy's instructions had been to deposit
his burden in the road; but, a scavenger's cart happening to stand
unattended at the corner, with its little ladder planted against the
wheel, Mr S. found it impossible to resist the temptation of
shooting Mr Silas Wegg into the cart's contents. A somewhat
difficult feat, achieved with great dexterity, and with a prodigious
splash.
Chapter 15
WHAT WAS CAUGHT IN THE TRAPS THAT WERE SET
How Bradley Headstone had been racked and riven in his mind
since the quiet evening when by the river-side he had risen, as it
were, out of the ashes of the Bargeman, none but he could have
told. Not even he could have told, for such misery can only be felt.
First, he had to bear the combined weight of the knowledge of
what he had done, of that haunting reproach that he might have
done it so much better, and of the dread of discovery. This was
load enough to crush him, and he laboured under it day and night.
It was as heavy on him in his scanty sleep, as in his red-eyed
waking hours. It bore him down with a dread unchanging
monotony, in which there was not a moment's variety. The
overweighted beast of burden, or the overweighted slave, can for
certain instants shift the physical load, and find some slight respite
even in enforcing additional pain upon such a set of muscles or
such a limb. Not even that poor mockery of relief could the
wretched man obtain, under the steady pressure of the infernal
atmosphere into which he had entered.
Time went by, and no visible suspicion dogged him; time went by,
and in such public accounts of the attack as were renewed at
intervals, he began to see Mr Lightwood (who acted as lawyer for
the injured man) straying further from the fact, going wider of the
issue, and evidently slackening in his zeal. By degrees, a
glimmering of the cause of this began to break on Bradley's sight.
Then came the chance meeting with Mr Milvey at the railway
station (where he often lingered in his leisure hours, as a place
where any fresh news of his deed would be circulated, or any
placard referring to it would be posted), and then he saw in the
light what he had brought about.
For, then he saw that through his desperate attempt to separate
those two for ever, he had been made the means of uniting them.
That he had dipped his hands in blood, to mark himself a
miserable fool and tool. That Eugene Wrayburn, for his wife's
sake, set him aside and left him to crawl along his blasted course.
He thought of Fate, or Providence, or be the directing Power what
it might, as having put a fraud upon him--overreached him--and in
his impotent mad rage bit, and tore, and had his fit.
New assurance of the truth came upon him in the next few
following days, when it was put forth how the wounded man had
been married on his bed, and to whom, and how, though always in
a dangerous condition, he was a shade better. Bradley would far
rather have been seized for his murder, than he would have read
that passage, knowing himself spared, and knowing why.
But, not to be still further defrauded and overreached--which he
would be, if implicated by Riderhood, and punished by the law for
his abject failure, as though it had been a success--he kept close in
his school during the day, ventured out warily at night, and went
no more to the railway station. He examined the advertisements in
the newspapers for any sign that Riderhood acted on his hinted
threat of so summoning him to renew their acquaintance, but found
none. Having paid him handsomely for the support and
accommodation he had had at the Lock House, and knowing him
to be a very ignorant man who could not write, he began to doubt
whether he was to be feared at all, or whether they need ever meet
again.
All this time, his mind was never off the rack, and his raging sense
of having been made to fling himself across the chasm which
divided those two, and bridge it over for their coming together,
never cooled down. This horrible condition brought on other fits.
He could not have said how many, or when; but he saw in the faces
of his pupils that they had seen him in that state, and that they
were possessed by a dread of his relapsing.
One winter day when a slight fall of snow was feathering the sills
and frames of the schoolroom windows, he stood at his black
board, crayon in hand, about to commence with a class; when,
reading in the countenances of those boys that there was something
wrong, and that they seemed in alarm for him, he turned his eyes
to the door towards which they faced. He then saw a slouching
man of forbidding appearance standing in the midst of the school,
with a bundle under his arm; and saw that it was Riderhood.
He sat down on a stool which one of his boys put for him, and he
had a passing knowledge that he was in danger of falling, and that
his face was becoming distorted. But, the fit went off for that time,
and he wiped his mouth, and stood up again.
'Beg your pardon, governor! By your leave!' said Riderhood,
knuckling his forehead, with a chuckle and a leer. 'What place
may this be?'
'This is a school.'
'Where young folks learns wot's right?' said Riderhood, gravely
nodding. 'Beg your pardon, governor! By your leave! But who
teaches this school?'
'I do.'
'You're the master, are you, learned governor?'
'Yes. I am the master.'
'And a lovely thing it must be,' said Riderhood, 'fur to learn young
folks wot's right, and fur to know wot THEY know wot you do it.
Beg your pardon, learned governor! By your leave!--That there
black board; wot's it for?'
'It is for drawing on, or writing on.'
'Is it though!' said Riderhood. 'Who'd have thought it, from the
looks on it! WOULD you be so kind as write your name upon it,
learned governor?' (In a wheedling tone.)
Bradley hesitated for a moment; but placed his usual signature,
enlarged, upon the board.
'I ain't a learned character myself,' said Riderhood, surveying the
class, 'but I do admire learning in others. I should dearly like to
hear these here young folks read that there name off, from the
writing.'
The arms of the class went up. At the miserable master's nod, the
shrill chorus arose: 'Bradley Headstone!'
'No?' cried Riderhood. 'You don't mean it? Headstone! Why,
that's in a churchyard. Hooroar for another turn!'
Another tossing of arms, another nod, and another shrill chorus:
'Bradley Headstone!'
'I've got it now!' said Riderhood, after attentively listening, and
internally repeating: 'Bradley. I see. Chris'en name, Bradley
sim'lar to Roger which is my own. Eh? Fam'ly name, Headstone,
sim'lar to Riderhood which is my own. Eh?'
Shrill chorus. 'Yes!'
'Might you be acquainted, learned governor,' said Riderhood, 'with
a person of about your own heighth and breadth, and wot 'ud pull
down in a scale about your own weight, answering to a name
sounding summat like Totherest?'
With a desperation in him that made him perfectly quiet, though
his jaw was heavily squared; with his eyes upon Riderhood; and
with traces of quickened breathing in his nostrils; the schoolmaster
replied, in a suppressed voice, after a pause: 'I think I know the
man you mean.'
'I thought you knowed the man I mean, learned governor. I want
the man.'
With a half glance around him at his pupils, Bradley returned:
'Do you suppose he is here?'
'Begging your pardon, learned governor, and by your leave,' said
Riderhood, with a laugh, 'how could I suppose he's here, when
there's nobody here but you, and me, and these young lambs wot
you're a learning on? But he is most excellent company, that man,
and I want him to come and see me at my Lock, up the river.'
'I'll tell him so.'
'D'ye think he'll come?' asked Riderhood.
'I am sure he will.'
'Having got your word for him,' said Riderhood, 'I shall count
upon him. P'raps you'd so fur obleege me, learned governor, as tell
him that if he don't come precious soon, I'll look him up.'
'He shall know it.'
'Thankee. As I says a while ago,' pursued Riderhood, changing his
hoarse tone and leering round upon the class again, 'though not a
learned character my own self, I do admire learning in others, to be
sure! Being here and having met with your kind attention, Master,
might I, afore I go, ask a question of these here young lambs of
yourn?'
'If it is in the way of school,' said Bradley, always sustaining his
dark look at the other, and speaking in his suppressed voice, 'you
may.'
'Oh! It's in the way of school!' cried Riderhood. 'I'll pound it,
Master, to be in the way of school. Wot's the diwisions of water,
my lambs? Wot sorts of water is there on the land?'
Shrill chorus: 'Seas, rivers, lakes, and ponds.'
'Seas, rivers, lakes, and ponds,' said Riderhood. 'They've got all
the lot, Master! Blowed if I shouldn't have left out lakes, never
having clapped eyes upon one, to my knowledge. Seas, rivers,
lakes, and ponds. Wot is it, lambs, as they ketches in seas, rivers,
lakes, and ponds?'
Shrill chorus (with some contempt for the ease of the question):
'Fish!'
'Good a-gin!' said Riderhood. 'But wot else is it, my lambs, as they
sometimes ketches in rivers?'
Chorus at a loss. One shrill voice: 'Weed!'
'Good agin!' cried Riderhood. 'But it ain't weed neither. You'll
never guess, my dears. Wot is it, besides fish, as they sometimes
ketches in rivers? Well! I'll tell you. It's suits o' clothes.'
Bradley's face changed.
'Leastways, lambs,' said Riderhood, observing him out of the
corners of his eyes, 'that's wot I my own self sometimes ketches in
rivers. For strike me blind, my lambs, if I didn't ketch in a river
the wery bundle under my arm!'
The class looked at the master, as if appealing from the irregular
entrapment of this mode of examination. The master looked at the
examiner, as if he would have torn him to pieces.
'I ask your pardon, learned governor,' said Riderhood, smearing his
sleeve across his mouth as he laughed with a relish, 'tain't fair to
the lambs, I know. It wos a bit of fun of mine. But upon my soul I
drawed this here bundle out of a river! It's a Bargeman's suit of
clothes. You see, it had been sunk there by the man as wore it, and
I got it up.'
'How do you know it was sunk by the man who wore it?' asked
Bradley.
'Cause I see him do it,' said Riderhood.
They looked at each other. Bradley, slowly withdrawing his eyes,
turned his face to the black board and slowly wiped his name out.
'A heap of thanks, Master,' said Riderhood, 'for bestowing so much
of your time, and of the lambses' time, upon a man as hasn't got no
other recommendation to you than being a honest man. Wishing to
see at my Lock up the river, the person as we've spoke of, and as
you've answered for, I takes my leave of the lambs and of their
learned governor both.'
With those words, he slouched out of the school, leaving the
master to get through his weary work as he might, and leaving the
whispering pupils to observe the master's face until he fell into the
fit which had been long impending.
The next day but one was Saturday, and a holiday. Bradley rose
early, and set out on foot for Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. He rose
so early that it was not yet light when he began his journey. Before
extinguishing the candle by which he had dressed himself, he
made a little parcel of his decent silver watch and its decent guard,
and wrote inside the paper: 'Kindly take care of these for me.' He
then addressed the parcel to Miss Peecher, and left it on the most
protected corner of the little seat in her little porch.
It was a cold hard easterly morning when he latched the garden
gate and turned away. The light snowfall which had feathered his
schoolroom windows on the Thursday, still lingered in the air, and
was falling white, while the wind blew black. The tardy day did
not appear until he had been on foot two hours, and had traversed a
greater part of London from east to west. Such breakfast as he
had, he took at the comfortless public-house where he had parted
from Riderhood on the occasion of their night-walk. He took it,
standing at the littered bar, and looked loweringly at a man who
stood where Riderhood had stood that early morning.
He outwalked the short day, and was on the towing-path by the
river, somewhat footsore, when the night closed in. Still two or
three miles short of the Lock, he slackened his pace then, but went
steadily on. The ground was now covered with snow, though
thinly, and there were floating lumps of ice in the more exposed
parts of the river, and broken sheets of ice under the shelter of the
banks. He took heed of nothing but the ice, the snow, and the
distance, until he saw a light ahead, which he knew gleamed from
the Lock House window. It arrested his steps, and he looked all
around. The ice, and the snow, and he, and the one light, had
absolute possession of the dreary scene. In the distance before
him, lay the place where he had struck the worse than useless
blows that mocked him with Lizzie's presence there as Eugene's
wife. In the distance behind him, lay the place where the children
with pointing arms had seemed to devote him to the demons in
crying out his name. Within there, where the light was, was the
man who as to both distances could give him up to ruin. To these
limits had his world shrunk.
He mended his pace, keeping his eyes upon the light with a strange
intensity, as if he were taking aim at it. When he approached it so
nearly as that it parted into rays, they seemed to fasten themselves
to him and draw him on. When he struck the door with his hand,
his foot followed so quickly on his hand, that he was in the room
before he was bidden to enter.
The light was the joint product of a fire and a candle. Between the
two, with his feet on the iron fender, sat Riderhood, pipe in mouth.
He looked up with a surly nod when his visitor came in. His
visitor looked down with a surly nod. His outer clothing removed,
the visitor then took a seat on the opposite side of the fire.
'Not a smoker, I think?' said Riderhood, pushing a bottle to him
across the table.
'No.'
They both lapsed into silence, with their eyes upon the fire.
'You don't need to be told I am here,' said Bradley at length. 'Who
is to begin?'
'I'll begin,' said Riderhood, 'when I've smoked this here pipe out.'
He finished it with great deliberation, knocked out the ashes on the
hob, and put it by.
'I'll begin,' he then repeated, 'Bradley Headstone, Master, if you
wish it.'
'Wish it? I wish to know what you want with me.'
'And so you shall.' Riderhood had looked hard at his hands and
his pockets, apparently as a precautionary measure lest he should
have any weapon about him. But, he now leaned forward, turning
the collar of his waistcoat with an inquisitive finger, and asked,
'Why, where's your watch?'
'I have left it behind.'
'I want it. But it can be fetched. I've took a fancy to it.'
Bradley answered with a contemptuous laugh.
'I want it,' repeated Riderhood, in a louder voice, 'and I mean to
have it.'
'That is what you want of me, is it?'
'No,' said Riderhood, still louder; 'it's on'y part of what I want of
you. I want money of you.'
'Anything else?'
'Everythink else!' roared Riderhood, in a very loud and furious
way. 'Answer me like that, and I won't talk to you at all.'
Bradley looked at him.
'Don't so much as look at me like that, or I won't talk to you at all,'
vociferated Riderhood. 'But, instead of talking, I'll bring my hand
down upon you with all its weight,' heavily smiting the table with
great force, 'and smash you!'
'Go on,' said Bradley, after moistening his lips.
'O! I'm a going on. Don't you fear but I'll go on full-fast enough
for you, and fur enough for you, without your telling. Look here,
Bradley Headstone, Master. You might have split the T'other
governor to chips and wedges, without my caring, except that I
might have come upon you for a glass or so now and then. Else
why have to do with you at all? But when you copied my clothes,
and when you copied my neckhankercher, and when you shook
blood upon me after you had done the trick, you did wot I'll be
paid for and paid heavy for. If it come to be throw'd upon you, you
was to be ready to throw it upon me, was you? Where else but in
Plashwater Weir Mill Lock was there a man dressed according as
described? Where else but in Plashwater Weir Mill Lock was
there a man as had had words with him coming through in his
boat? Look at the Lock-keeper in Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, in
them same answering clothes and with that same answering red
neckhankercher, and see whether his clothes happens to be bloody
or not. Yes, they do happen to be bloody. Ah, you sly devil!'
Bradley, very white, sat looking at him in silence.
'But two could play at your game,' said Riderhood, snapping his
fingers at him half a dozen times, 'and I played it long ago; long
afore you tried your clumsy hand at it; in days when you hadn't
begun croaking your lecters or what not in your school. I know to
a figure how you done it. Where you stole away, I could steal
away arter you, and do it knowinger than you. I know how you
come away from London in your own clothes, and where you
changed your clothes, and hid your clothes. I see you with my own
eyes take your own clothes from their hiding-place among them
felled trees, and take a dip in the river to account for your dressing
yourself, to any one as might come by. I see you rise up Bradley
Headstone, Master, where you sat down Bargeman. I see you pitch
your Bargeman's bundle into the river. I hooked your Bargeman's
bundle out of the river. I've got your Bargeman's clothes, tore this
way and that way with the scuffle, stained green with the grass,
and spattered all over with what bust from the blows. I've got
them, and I've got you. I don't care a curse for the T'other
governor, alive or dead, but I care a many curses for my own self.
And as you laid your plots agin me and was a sly devil agin me, I'll
be paid for it--I'll be paid for it--I'll be paid for it--till I've drained
you dry!'
Bradley looked at the fire, with a working face, and was silent for a
while. At last he said, with what seemed an inconsistent
composure of voice and feature:
'You can't get blood out of a stone, Riderhood.'
'I can get money out of a schoolmaster though.'
'You can't get out of me what is not in me. You can't wrest from
me what I have not got. Mine is but a poor calling. You have had
more than two guineas from me, already. Do you know how long
it has taken me (allowing for a long and arduous training) to earn
such a sum?'
'I don't know, nor I don't care. Yours is a 'spectable calling. To
save your 'spectability, it's worth your while to pawn every article
of clothes you've got, sell every stick in your house, and beg and
borrow every penny you can get trusted with. When you've done
that and handed over, I'll leave you. Not afore.'
'How do you mean, you'll leave me?'
'I mean as I'll keep you company, wherever you go, when you go
away from here. Let the Lock take care of itself. I'll take care of
you, once I've got you.'
Bradley again looked at the fire. Eyeing him aside, Riderhood took
up his pipe, refilled it, lighted it, and sat smoking. Bradley leaned
his elbows on his knees, and his head upon his hands, and looked
at the fire with a most intent abstraction.
'Riderhood,' he said, raising himself in his chair, after a long
silence, and drawing out his purse and putting it on the table. 'Say
I part with this, which is all the money I have; say I let you have
my watch; say that every quarter, when I draw my salary, I pay you
a certain portion of it.'
'Say nothink of the sort,' retorted Riderhood, shaking his head as
he smoked. 'You've got away once, and I won't run the chance
agin. I've had trouble enough to find you, and shouldn't have
found you, if I hadn't seen you slipping along the street overnight,
and watched you till you was safe housed. I'll have one settlement
with you for good and all.'
'Riderhood, I am a man who has lived a retired life. I have no
resources beyond myself. I have absolutely no friends.'
'That's a lie,' said Riderhood. 'You've got one friend as I knows of;
one as is good for a Savings-Bank book, or I'm a blue monkey!'
Bradley's face darkened, and his hand slowly closed on the purse
and drew it back, as he sat listening for what the other should go
on to say.
'I went into the wrong shop, fust, last Thursday,' said Riderhood.
'Found myself among the young ladies, by George! Over the young
ladies, I see a Missis. That Missis is sweet enough upon you,
Master, to sell herself up, slap, to get you out of trouble. Make her
do it then.'
Bradley stared at him so very suddenly that Riderhood, not quite
knowing how to take it, affected to be occupied with the encircling
smoke from his pipe; fanning it away with his hand, and blowing
it off.
'You spoke to the mistress, did you?' inquired Bradley, with that
former composure of voice and feature that seemed inconsistent,
and with averted eyes.
'Poof! Yes,' said Riderhood, withdrawing his attention from the
smoke. 'I spoke to her. I didn't say much to her. She was put in a
fluster by my dropping in among the young ladies (I never did set
up for a lady's man), and she took me into her parlour to hope as
there was nothink wrong. I tells her, "O no, nothink wrong. The
master's my wery good friend." But I see how the land laid, and
that she was comfortable off.'
Bradley put the purse in his pocket, grasped his left wrist with his
right hand, and sat rigidly contemplating the fire.
'She couldn't live more handy to you than she does,' said
Riderhood, 'and when I goes home with you (as of course I am a
going), I recommend you to clean her out without loss of time.
You can marry her, arter you and me have come to a settlement.
She's nice-looking, and I know you can't be keeping company with
no one else, having been so lately disapinted in another quarter.'
Not one other word did Bradley utter all that night. Not once did
he change his attitude, or loosen his hold upon his wrist. Rigid
before the fire, as if it were a charmed flame that was turning him
old, he sat, with the dark lines deepening in his face, its stare
becoming more and more haggard, its surface turning whiter and
whiter as if it were being overspread with ashes, and the very
texture and colour of his hair degenerating.
Not until the late daylight made the window transparent, did this
decaying statue move. Then it slowly arose, and sat in the window
looking out.
Riderhood had kept his chair all night. In the earlier part of the
night he had muttered twice or thrice that it was bitter cold; or that
the fire burnt fast, when he got up to mend it; but, as he could elicit
from his companion neither sound nor movement, he had
afterwards held his peace. He was making some disorderly
preparations for coffee, when Bradley came from the window and
put on his outer coat and hat.
'Hadn't us better have a bit o' breakfast afore we start?' said
Riderhood. 'It ain't good to freeze a empty stomach, Master.'
Without a sign to show that he heard, Bradley walked out of the
Lock House. Catching up from the table a piece of bread, and
taking his Bargeman's bundle under his arm, Riderhood
immediately followed him. Bradley turned towards London.
Riderhood caught him up, and walked at his side.
The two men trudged on, side by side, in silence, full three miles.
Suddenly, Bradley turned to retrace his course. Instantly,
Riderhood turned likewise, and they went back side by side.
Bradley re-entered the Lock House. So did Riderhood. Bradley sat
down in the window. Riderhood warmed himself at the fire. After
an hour or more, Bradley abruptly got up again, and again went
out, but this time turned the other way. Riderhood was close after
him, caught him up in a few paces, and walked at his side.
This time, as before, when he found his attendant not to be shaken
off, Bradley suddenly turned back. This time, as before, Riderhood
turned back along with him. But, not this time, as before, did they
go into the Lock House, for Bradley came to a stand on the snowcovered
turf by the Lock, looking up the river and down the river.
Navigation was impeded by the frost, and the scene was a mere
white and yellow desert.
'Come, come, Master,' urged Riderhood, at his side. 'This is a dry
game. And where's the good of it? You can't get rid of me, except
by coming to a settlement. I am a going along with you wherever
you go.'
Without a word of reply, Bradley passed quickly from him over
the wooden bridge on the lock gates. 'Why, there's even less sense
in this move than t'other,' said Riderhood, following. 'The Weir's
there, and you'll have to come back, you know.'
Without taking the least notice, Bradley leaned his body against a
post, in a resting attitude, and there rested with his eyes cast down.
'Being brought here,' said Riderhood, gruffly, 'I'll turn it to some
use by changing my gates.' With a rattle and a rush of water, he
then swung-to the lock gates that were standing open, before
opening the others. So, both sets of gates were, for the moment,
closed.
'You'd better by far be reasonable, Bradley Headstone, Master,'
said Riderhood, passing him, 'or I'll drain you all the dryer for it,
when we do settle.--Ah! Would you!'
Bradley had caught him round the body. He seemed to be girdled
with an iron ring. They were on the brink of the Lock, about
midway between the two sets of gates.
'Let go!' said Riderhood, 'or I'll get my knife out and slash you
wherever I can cut you. Let go!'
Bradley was drawing to the Lock-edge. Riderhood was drawing
away from it. It was a strong grapple, and a fierce struggle, arm
and leg. Bradley got him round, with his back to the Lock, and
still worked him backward.
'Let go!' said Riderhood. 'Stop! What are you trying at? You can't
drown Me. Ain't I told you that the man as has come through
drowning can never be drowned? I can't be drowned.'
'I can be!' returned Bradley, in a desperate, clenched voice. 'I am
resolved to be. I'll hold you living, and I'll hold you dead. Come
down!'
Riderhood went over into the smooth pit, backward, and Bradley
Headstone upon him. When the two were found, lying under the
ooze and scum behind one of the rotting gates, Riderhood's hold
had relaxed, probably in falling, and his eyes were staring upward.
But, he was girdled still with Bradley's iron ring, and the rivets of
the iron ring held tight.
Chapter 16
PERSONS AND THINGS IN GENERAL
Mr and Mrs John Harmon's first delightful occupation was, to set
all matters right that had strayed in any way wrong, or that might,
could, would, or should, have strayed in any way wrong, while
their name was in abeyance. In tracing out affairs for which John's
fictitious death was to be considered in any way responsible, they
used a very broad and free construction; regarding, for instance, the
dolls' dressmaker as having a claim on their protection, because of
her association with Mrs Eugene Wrayburn, and because of Mrs
Eugene's old association, in her turn, with the dark side of the
story. It followed that the old man, Riah, as a good and
serviceable friend to both, was not to be disclaimed. Nor even Mr
Inspector, as having been trepanned into an industrious hunt on a
false scent. It may be remarked, in connexion with that worthy
officer, that a rumour shortly afterwards pervaded the Force, to the
effect that he had confided to Miss Abbey Potterson, over a jug of
mellow flip in the bar of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters, that he
'didn't stand to lose a farthing' through Mr Harmon's coming to
life, but was quite as well satisfied as if that gentleman had been
barbarously murdered, and he (Mr Inspector) had pocketed the
government reward.
In all their arrangements of such nature, Mr and Mrs John Harmon
derived much assistance from their eminent solicitor, Mr Mortimer
Lightwood; who laid about him professionally with such unwonted
despatch and intention, that a piece of work was vigorously
pursued as soon as cut out; whereby Young Blight was acted on as
by that transatlantic dram which is poetically named An Eye-
Opener, and found himself staring at real clients instead of out of
window. The accessibility of Riah proving very useful as to a few
hints towards the disentanglement of Eugene's affairs, Lightwood
applied himself with infinite zest to attacking and harassing Mr
Fledgeby: who, discovering himself in danger of being blown into
the air by certain explosive transactions in which he had been
engaged, and having been sufficiently flayed under his beating,
came to a parley and asked for quarter. The harmless Twemlow
profited by the conditions entered into, though he little thought it.
Mr Riah unaccountably melted; waited in person on him over the
stable yard in Duke Street, St James's, no longer ravening but mild,
to inform him that payment of interest as heretofore, but henceforth
at Mr Lightwood's offices, would appease his Jewish rancour; and
departed with the secret that Mr John Harmon had advanced the
money and become the creditor. Thus, was the sublime
Snigsworth's wrath averted, and thus did he snort no larger amount
of moral grandeur at the Corinthian column in the print over the
fireplace, than was normally in his (and the British) constitution.
Mrs Wilfer's first visit to the Mendicant's bride at the new abode of
Mendicancy, was a grand event. Pa had been sent for into the
City, on the very day of taking possession, and had been stunned
with astonishment, and brought-to, and led about the house by
one ear, to behold its various treasures, and had been enraptured
and enchanted. Pa had also been appointed Secretary, and had
been enjoined to give instant notice of resignation to Chicksey,
Veneering, and Stobbles, for ever and ever. But Ma came later,
and came, as was her due, in state.
The carriage was sent for Ma, who entered it with a bearing worthy
of the occasion, accompanied, rather than supported, by Miss
Lavinia, who altogether declined to recognize the maternal
majesty. Mr George Sampson meekly followed. He was received
in the vehicle, by Mrs Wilfer, as if admitted to the honour of
assisting at a funeral in the family, and she then issued the order,
'Onward!' to the Mendicant's menial.
'I wish to goodness, Ma,' said Lavvy, throwing herself back among
the cushions, with her arms crossed, 'that you'd loll a little.'
'How!' repeated Mrs Wilfer. 'Loll!'
'Yes, Ma.'
'I hope,' said the impressive lady, 'I am incapable of it.'
'I am sure you look so, Ma. But why one should go out to dine
with one's own daughter or sister, as if one's under-petticoat was
a blackboard, I do NOT understand.'
'Neither do I understand,' retorted Mrs Wilfer, with deep scorn,
'how a young lady can mention the garment in the name of which
you have indulged. I blush for you.'
'Thank you, Ma,' said Lavvy, yawning, 'but I can do it for myself, I
am obliged to you, when there's any occasion.'
Here, Mr Sampson, with the view of establishing harmony, which
he never under any circumstances succeeded in doing, said with an
agreeable smile: 'After all, you know, ma'am, we know it's there.'
And immediately felt that he had committed himself.
'We know it's there!' said Mrs Wilfer, glaring.
'Really, George,' remonstrated Miss Lavinia, 'I must say that I don't
understand your allusions, and that I think you might be more
delicate and less personal.'
'Go it!' cried Mr Sampson, becoming, on the shortest notice, a prey
to despair. 'Oh yes! Go it, Miss Lavinia Wilfer!'
'What you may mean, George Sampson, by your omnibus-driving
expressions, I cannot pretend to imagine. Neither,' said Miss
Lavinia, 'Mr George Sampson, do I wish to imagine. It is enough
for me to know in my own heart that I am not going to--' having
imprudently got into a sentence without providing a way out of it,
Miss Lavinia was constrained to close with 'going to it'. A weak
conclusion which, however, derived some appearance of strength
from disdain.
'Oh yes!' cried Mr Sampson, with bitterness. 'Thus it ever is. I
never--'
'If you mean to say,' Miss Lavvy cut him short, that you never
brought up a young gazelle, you may save yourself the trouble,
because nobody in this carriage supposes that you ever did. We
know you better.' (As if this were a home-thrust.)
'Lavinia,' returned Mr Sampson, in a dismal vein, I did not mean to
say so. What I did mean to say,was, that I never expected to retain
my favoured place in this family, after Fortune shed her beams
upon it. Why do you take me,' said Mr Sampson, 'to the glittering
halls with which I can never compete, and then taunt me with my
moderate salary? Is it generous? Is it kind?'
The stately lady, Mrs Wilfer, perceiving her opportunity of
delivering a few remarks from the throne, here took up the
altercation.
'Mr Sampson,' she began, 'I cannot permit you to misrepresent the
intentions of a child of mine.'
'Let him alone, Ma,' Miss Lavvy interposed with haughtiness. 'It
is indifferent to me what he says or does.'
'Nay, Lavinia,' quoth Mrs Wilfer, 'this touches the blood of the
family. If Mr George Sampson attributes, even to my youngest
daughter--'
('I don't see why you should use the word "even", Ma,' Miss Lavvy
interposed, 'because I am quite as important as any of the others.')
'Peace!' said Mrs Wilfer, solemnly. 'I repeat, if Mr George
Sampson attributes, to my youngest daughter, grovelling motives,
he attributes them equally to the mother of my youngest daughter.
That mother repudiates them, and demands of Mr George
Sampson, as a youth of honour, what he WOULD have? I may be
mistaken--nothing is more likely--but Mr George Sampson,'
proceeded Mrs Wilfer, majestically waving her gloves, 'appears to
me to be seated in a first-class equipage. Mr George Sampson
appears to me to be on his way, by his own admission, to a
residence that may be termed Palatial. Mr George Sampson
appears to me to be invited to participate in the--shall I say the--
Elevation which has descended on the family with which he is
ambitious, shall I say to Mingle? Whence, then, this tone on Mr
Sampson's part?'
'It is only, ma'am,' Mr Sampson explained, in exceedingly low
spirits, 'because, in a pecuniary sense, I am painfully conscious of
my unworthiness. Lavinia is now highly connected. Can I hope
that she will still remain the same Lavinia as of old? And is it not
pardonable if I feel sensitive, when I see a disposition on her part
to take me up short?'
'If you are not satisfied with your position, sir,' observed Miss
Lavinia, with much politeness, 'we can set you down at any turning
you may please to indicate to my sister's coachman.'
'Dearest Lavinia,' urged Mr Sampson, pathetically, 'I adore you.'
'Then if you can't do it in a more agreeable manner,' returned the
young lady, 'I wish you wouldn't.'
'I also,' pursued Mr Sampson, 'respect you, ma'am, to an extent
which must ever be below your merits, I am well aware, but still
up to an uncommon mark. Bear with a wretch, Lavinia, bear with
a wretch, ma'am, who feels the noble sacrifices you make for him,
but is goaded almost to madness,' Mr Sampson slapped his
forehead, 'when he thinks of competing with the rich and
influential.'
'When you have to compete with the rich and influential, it will
probably be mentioned to you,' said Miss Lavvy, 'in good time. At
least, it will if the case is MY case.'
Mr Sampson immediately expressed his fervent Opinion that this
was 'more than human', and was brought upon his knees at Miss
Lavinia's feet.
It was the crowning addition indispensable to the full enjoyment of
both mother and daughter, to bear Mr Sampson, a grateful captive,
into the glittering halls he had mentioned, and to parade him
through the same, at once a living witness of their glory, and a
bright instance of their condescension. Ascending the staircase,
Miss Lavinia permitted him to walk at her side, with the air of
saying: 'Notwithstanding all these surroundings, I am yours as yet,
George. How long it may last is another question, but I am yours
as yet.' She also benignantly intimated to him, aloud, the nature of
the objects upon which he looked, and to which he was
unaccustomed: as, 'Exotics, George,' 'An aviary, George,' 'An
ormolu clock, George,' and the like. While, through the whole of
the decorations, Mrs Wilfer led the way with the bearing of a
Savage Chief, who would feel himself compromised by
manifesting the slightest token of surprise or admiration.
Indeed, the bearing of this impressive woman, throughout the day,
was a pattern to all impressive women under similar
circumstances. She renewed the acquaintance of Mr and Mrs
Boffin, as if Mr and Mrs Boffin had said of her what she had said
of them, and as if Time alone could quite wear her injury out. She
regarded every servant who approached her, as her sworn enemy,
expressly intending to offer her affronts with the dishes, and to
pour forth outrages on her moral feelings from the decanters. She
sat erect at table, on the right hand of her son-in-law, as half
suspecting poison in the viands, and as bearing up with native
force of character against other deadly ambushes. Her carriage
towards Bella was as a carriage towards a young lady of good
position, whom she had met in society a few years ago. Even
when, slightly thawing under the influence of sparkling
champagne, she related to her son-in-law some passages of
domestic interest concerning her papa, she infused into the
narrative such Arctic suggestions of her having been an
unappreciated blessing to mankind, since her papa's days, and also
of that gentleman's having been a frosty impersonation of a frosty
race, as struck cold to the very soles of the feet of the hearers. The
Inexhaustible being produced, staring, and evidently intending a
weak and washy smile shortly, no sooner beheld her, than it was
stricken spasmodic and inconsolable. When she took her leave at
last, it would have been hard to say whether it was with the air of
going to the scaffold herself, or of leaving the inmates of the house
for immediate execution. Yet, John Harmon enjoyed it all merrily,
and told his wife, when he and she were alone, that her natural
ways had never seemed so dearly natural as beside this foil, and
that although he did not dispute her being her father's daughter, he
should ever remain stedfast in the faith that she could not be her
mother's.
This visit was, as has been said, a grand event. Another event, not
grand but deemed in the house a special one, occurred at about the
same period; and this was, the first interview between Mr Sloppy
and Miss Wren.
The dolls' dressmaker, being at work for the Inexhaustible upon a
full-dressed doll some two sizes larger than that young person, Mr
Sloppy undertook to call for it, and did so.
'Come in, sir,' said Miss Wren, who was working at her bench.
'And who may you be?'
Mr Sloppy introduced himself by name and buttons.
'Oh indeed!' cried Jenny. 'Ah! I have been looking forward to
knowing you. I heard of your distinguishing yourself.'
'Did you, Miss?' grinned Sloppy. 'I am sure I am glad to hear it,
but I don't know how.'
'Pitching somebody into a mud-cart,' said Miss Wren.
'Oh! That way!' cried Sloppy. 'Yes, Miss.' And threw back his
head and laughed.
'Bless us!' exclaimed Miss Wren, with a start. 'Don't open your
mouth as wide as that, young man, or it'll catch so, and not shut
again some day.'
Mr Sloppy opened it, if possible, wider, and kept it open until his
laugh was out.
'Why, you're like the giant,' said Miss Wren, 'when he came home
in the land of Beanstalk, and wanted Jack for supper.'
'Was he good-looking, Miss?' asked Sloppy.
'No,' said Miss Wren. 'Ugly.'
Her visitor glanced round the room--which had many comforts in it
now, that had not been in it before--and said: 'This is a pretty
place, Miss.'
'Glad you think so, sir,' returned Miss Wren. 'And what do you
think of Me?'
The honesty of Mr Sloppy being severely taxed by the question, he
twisted a button, grinned, and faltered.
'Out with it!' said Miss Wren, with an arch look. 'Don't you think
me a queer little comicality?' In shaking her head at him after
asking the question, she shook her hair down.
'Oh!' cried Sloppy, in a burst of admiration. 'What a lot, and what
a colour!'
Miss Wren, with her usual expressive hitch, went on with her
work. But, left her hair as it was; not displeased by the effect it
had made.
'You don't live here alone; do you, Miss?' asked Sloppy.
'No,' said Miss Wren, with a chop. 'Live here with my fairy
godmother.'
'With;' Mr Sloppy couldn't make it out; 'with who did you say,
Miss?'
'Well!' replied Miss Wren, more seriously. 'With my second father.
Or with my first, for that matter.' And she shook her head, and
drew a sigh. 'If you had known a poor child I used to have here,'
she added, 'you'd have understood me. But you didn't, and you
can't. All the better!'
'You must have been taught a long time,' said Sloppy, glancing at
the array of dolls in hand, 'before you came to work so neatly,
Miss, and with such a pretty taste.'
'Never was taught a stitch, young man!' returned the dress-maker,
tossing her head. 'Just gobbled and gobbled, till I found out how
to do it. Badly enough at first, but better now.'
'And here have I,' said Sloppy, in something of a self-reproachful
tone, 'been a learning and a learning, and here has Mr Boffin been
a paying and a paying, ever so long!'
'I have heard what your trade is,' observed Miss Wren; 'it's
cabinet-making.'
Mr Sloppy nodded. 'Now that the Mounds is done with, it is. I'll
tell you what, Miss. I should like to make you something.'
'Much obliged. But what?'
'I could make you,' said Sloppy, surveying the room, 'I could make
you a handy set of nests to lay the dolls in. Or I could make you a
handy little set of drawers, to keep your silks and threads and
scraps in. Or I could turn you a rare handle for that crutch-stick, if
it belongs to him you call your father.'
'It belongs to me,' returned the little creature, with a quick flush of
her face and neck. 'I am lame.'
Poor Sloppy flushed too, for there was an instinctive delicacy
behind his buttons, and his own hand had struck it. He said,
perhaps, the best thing in the way of amends that could be said. 'I
am very glad it's yours, because I'd rather ornament it for you than
for any one else. Please may I look at it?'
Miss Wren was in the act of handing it to him over her bench,
when she paused. 'But you had better see me use it,' she said,
sharply. 'This is the way. Hoppetty, Kicketty, Pep-peg-peg. Not
pretty; is it?'
'It seems to me that you hardly want it at all,' said Sloppy.
The little dressmaker sat down again, and gave it into his hand,
saying, with that better look upon her, and with a smile: 'Thank
you!'
'And as concerning the nests and the drawers,' said Sloppy, after
measuring the handle on his sleeve, and softly standing the stick
aside against the wall, 'why, it would be a real pleasure to me. I've
heerd tell that you can sing most beautiful; and I should be better
paid with a song than with any money, for I always loved the likes
of that, and often giv' Mrs Higden and Johnny a comic song
myself, with "Spoken" in it. Though that's not your sort, I'll
wager.'
'You are a very kind young man,' returned the dressmaker; 'a really
kind young man. I accept your offer.--I suppose He won't mind,'
she added as an afterthought, shrugging her shoulders; 'and if he
does, he may!'
'Meaning him that you call your father, Miss,' asked Sloppy.
'No, no,' replied Miss Wren. 'Him, Him, Him!'
'Him, him, him?' repeated Sloppy; staring about, as if for Him.
'Him who is coming to court and marry me,' returned Miss Wren.
'Dear me, how slow you are!'
'Oh! HIM!' said Sloppy. And seemed to turn thoughtful and a little
troubled. 'I never thought of him. When is he coming, Miss?'
'What a question!' cried Miss Wren. 'How should I know!'
'Where is he coming from, Miss?'
'Why, good gracious, how can I tell! He is coming from
somewhere or other, I suppose, and he is coming some day or
other, I suppose. I don't know any more about him, at present.'
This tickled Mr Sloppy as an extraordinarily good joke, and he
threw back his head and laughed with measureless enjoyment. At
the sight of him laughing in that absurd way, the dolls' dressmaker
laughed very heartily indeed. So they both laughed, till they were
tired.
'There, there, there!' said Miss Wren. 'For goodness' sake, stop,
Giant, or I shall be swallowed up alive, before I know it. And to
this minute you haven't said what you've come for.'
'I have come for little Miss Harmonses doll,' said Sloppy.
'I thought as much,' remarked Miss Wren, 'and here is little Miss
Harmonses doll waiting for you. She's folded up in silver paper,
you see, as if she was wrapped from head to foot in new Bank
notes. Take care of her, and there's my hand, and thank you again.'
'I'll take more care of her than if she was a gold image,' said
Sloppy, 'and there's both MY hands, Miss, and I'll soon come back
again.'
But, the greatest event of all, in the new life of Mr and Mrs John
Harmon, was a visit from Mr and Mrs Eugene Wrayburn. Sadly
wan and worn was the once gallant Eugene, and walked resting on
his wife's arm, and leaning heavily upon a stick. But, he was daily
growing stronger and better, and it was declared by the medical
attendants that he might not be much disfigured by-and-by. It was
a grand event, indeed, when Mr and Mrs Eugene Wrayburn came
to stay at Mr and Mrs John Harmon's house: where, by the way,
Mr and Mrs Boffin (exquisitely happy, and daily cruising about, to
look at shops,) were likewise staying indefinitely.
To Mr Eugene Wrayburn, in confidence, did Mrs John Harmon
impart what she had known of the state of his wife's affections, in
his reckless time. And to Mrs John Harmon, in confidence, did Mr
Eugene Wrayburn impart that, please God, she should see how his
wife had changed him!
'I make no protestations,' said Eugene; '--who does, who means
them!--I have made a resolution.'
'But would you believe, Bella,' interposed his wife, coming to
resume her nurse's place at his side, for he never got on well
without her: 'that on our wedding day he told me he almost
thought the best thing he could do, was to die?'
'As I didn't do it, Lizzie,' said Eugene, 'I'll do that better thing you
suggested--for your sake.'
That same afternoon, Eugene lying on his couch in his own room
upstairs, Lightwood came to chat with him, while Bella took his
wife out for a ride. 'Nothing short of force will make her go,
Eugene had said; so, Bella had playfully forced her.
'Dear old fellow,' Eugene began with Lightwood, reaching up his
hand, 'you couldn't have come at a better time, for my mind is full,
and I want to empty it. First, of my present, before I touch upon
my future. M. R. F., who is a much younger cavalier than I, and a
professed admirer of beauty, was so affable as to remark the other
day (he paid us a visit of two days up the river there, and much
objected to the accommodation of the hotel), that Lizzie ought to
have her portrait painted. Which, coming from M. R. F., may be
considered equivalent to a melodramatic blessing.'
'You are getting well,' said Mortimer, with a smile.
'Really,' said Eugene, 'I mean it. When M. R. F. said that, and
followed it up by rolling the claret (for which he called, and I
paid), in his mouth, and saying, "My dear son, why do you drink
this trash?" it was tantamount in him--to a paternal benediction
on our union, accompanied with a gush of tears. The coolness of
M. R. F. is not to be measured by ordinary standards.'
'True enough,' said Lightwood.
'That's all,' pursued Eugene, 'that I shall ever hear from M. R. F.
on the subject, and he will continue to saunter through the world
with his hat on one side. My marriage being thus solemnly
recognized at the family altar, I have no further trouble on that
score. Next, you really have done wonders for me, Mortimer, in
easing my money-perplexities, and with such a guardian and
steward beside me, as the preserver of my life (I am hardly strong
yet, you see, for I am not man enough to refer to her without a
trembling voice--she is so inexpressibly dear to me, Mortimer!),
the little that I can call my own will be more than it ever has been.
It need be more, for you know what it always has been in my
hands. Nothing.'
'Worse than nothing, I fancy, Eugene. My own small income (I
devoutly wish that my grandfather had left it to the Ocean rather
than to me!) has been an effective Something, in the way of
preventing me from turning to at Anything. And I think yours has
been much the same.'
'There spake the voice of wisdom,' said Eugene. 'We are shepherds
both. In turning to at last, we turn to in earnest. Let us say no
more of that, for a few years to come. Now, I have had an idea,
Mortimer, of taking myself and my wife to one of the colonies, and
working at my vocation there.'
'I should be lost without you, Eugene; but you may be right.'
'No,' said Eugene, emphatically. 'Not right. Wrong!'
He said it with such a lively--almost angry--flash, that Mortimer
showed himself greatly surprised.
'You think this thumped head of mine is excited?' Eugene went on,
with a high look; 'not so, believe me. I can say to you of the
healthful music of my pulse what Hamlet said of his. My blood is
up, but wholesomely up, when I think of it. Tell me! Shall I turn
coward to Lizzie, and sneak away with her, as if I were ashamed of
her! Where would your friend's part in this world be, Mortimer, if
she had turned coward to him, and on immeasurably better
occasion?'
'Honourable and stanch,' said Lightwood. 'And yet, Eugene--'
'And yet what, Mortimer?'
'And yet, are you sure that you might not feel (for her sake, I say
for her sake) any slight coldness towards her on the part of--
Society?'
'O! You and I may well stumble at the word,' returned Eugene,
laughing. 'Do we mean our Tippins?'
'Perhaps we do,' said Mortimer, laughing also.
'Faith, we DO!' returned Eugene, with great animation. 'We may
hide behind the bush and beat about it, but we DO! Now, my wife
is something nearer to my heart, Mortimer, than Tippins is, and I
owe her a little more than I owe to Tippins, and I am rather
prouder of her than I ever was of Tippins. Therefore, I will fight it
out to the last gasp, with her and for her, here, in the open field.
When I hide her, or strike for her, faint-heartedly, in a hole or a
corner, do you whom I love next best upon earth, tell me what I
shall most righteously deserve to be told:--that she would have
done well to turn me over with her foot that night when I lay
bleeding to death, and spat in my dastard face.'
The glow that shone upon him as he spoke the words, so irradiated
his features that he looked, for the time, as though he had never
been mutilated. His friend responded as Eugene would have had
him respond, and they discoursed of the future until Lizzie came
back. After resuming her place at his side, and tenderly touching
his hands and his head, she said:
'Eugene, dear, you made me go out, but I ought to have stayed with
you. You are more flushed than you have been for many days.
What have you been doing?'
'Nothing,' replied Eugene, 'but looking forward to your coming
back.'
'And talking to Mr Lightwood,' said Lizzie, turning to him with a
smile. 'But it cannot have been Society that disturbed you.'
'Faith, my dear love!' retorted Eugene, in his old airy manner, as he
laughed and kissed her, 'I rather think it WAS Society though!'
The word ran so much in Mortimer Lightwood's thoughts as he
went home to the Temple that night, that he resolved to take a look
at Society, which he had not seen for a considerable period.
Chapter 17
THE VOICE OF SOCIETY
Behoves Mortimer Lightwood, therefore, to answer a dinner card
from Mr and Mrs Veneering requesting the honour, and to signify
that Mr Mortimer Lightwood will be happy to have the other
honour. The Veneerings have been, as usual, indefatigably dealing
dinner cards to Society, and whoever desires to take a hand had
best be quick about it, for it is written in the Books of the Insolvent
Fates that Veneering shall make a resounding smash next week.
Yes. Having found out the clue to that great mystery how people
can contrive to live beyond their means, and having over-jobbed
his jobberies as legislator deputed to the Universe by the pure
electors of Pocket-Breaches, it shall come to pass next week that
Veneering will accept the Chiltern Hundreds, that the legal
gentleman in Britannia's confidence will again accept the Pocket-
Breaches Thousands, and that the Veneerings will retire to Calais,
there to live on Mrs Veneering's diamonds (in which Mr
Veneering, as a good husband, has from time to time invested
considerable sums), and to relate to Neptune and others, how that,
before Veneering retired from Parliament, the House of Commons
was composed of himself and the six hundred and fifty-seven
dearest and oldest friends he had in the world. It shall likewise
come to pass, at as nearly as possible the same period, that Society
will discover that it always did despise Veneering, and distrust
Veneering, and that when it went to Veneering's to dinner it
always had misgivings--though very secretly at the time, it would
seem, and in a perfectly private and confidential manner.
The next week's books of the Insolvent Fates, however, being not
yet opened, there is the usual rush to the Veneerings, of the people
who go to their house to dine with one another and not with them.
There is Lady Tippins. There are Podsnap the Great, and Mrs
Podsnap. There is Twemlow. There are Buffer, Boots, and
Brewer. There is the Contractor, who is Providence to five
hundred thousand men. There is the Chairman, travelling three
thousand miles per week. There is the brilliant genius who turned
the shares into that remarkably exact sum of three hundred and
seventy five thousand pounds, no shillings, and nopence.
To whom, add Mortimer Lightwood, coming in among them with
a reassumption of his old languid air, founded on Eugene, and
belonging to the days when he told the story of the man from
Somewhere.
That fresh fairy, Tippins, all but screams at sight of her false
swain. She summons the deserter to her with her fan; but the
deserter, predetermined not to come, talks Britain with Podsnap.
Podsnap always talks Britain, and talks as if he were a sort of
Private Watchman employed, in the British interests, against the
rest of the world. 'We know what Russia means, sir,' says
Podsnap; 'we know what France wants; we see what America is up
to; but we know what England is. That's enough for us.'
However, when dinner is served, and Lightwood drops into his old
place over against Lady Tippins, she can be fended off no longer.
'Long banished Robinson Crusoe,' says the charmer, exchanging
salutations, 'how did you leave the Island?'
'Thank you,' says Lightwood. 'It made no complaint of being in
pain anywhere.'
'Say, how did you leave the savages?' asks Lady Tippins.
'They were becoming civilized when I left Juan Fernandez,' says
Lightwood. 'At least they were eating one another, which looked
like it.'
'Tormentor!' returns the dear young creature. 'You know what I
mean, and you trifle with my impatience. Tell me something,
immediately, about the married pair. You were at the wedding.'
'Was I, by-the-by?' Mortimer pretends, at great leisure, to consider.
'So I was!'
'How was the bride dressed? In rowing costume?'
Mortimer looks gloomy, and declines to answer.
'I hope she steered herself, skiffed herself, paddled herself,
larboarded and starboarded herself, or whatever the technical term
may be, to the ceremony?' proceeds the playful Tippins.
'However she got to it, she graced it,' says Mortimer.
Lady Tippins with a skittish little scream, attracts the general
attention. 'Graced it! Take care of me if I faint, Veneering. He
means to tell us, that a horrid female waterman is graceful!'
'Pardon me. I mean to tell you nothing, Lady Tippins,' replies
Lightwood. And keeps his word by eating his dinner with a show
of the utmost indifference.
'You shall not escape me in this way, you morose
backwoodsman,' retorts Lady Tippins. 'You shall not evade the
question, to screen your friend Eugene, who has made this
exhibition of himself. The knowledge shall be brought home to
you that such a ridiculous affair is condemned by the voice of
Society. My dear Mrs Veneering, do let us resolve ourselves into
a Committee of the whole House on the subject.'
Mrs Veneering, always charmed by this rattling sylph, cries. 'Oh
yes! Do let us resolve ourselves into a Committee of the whole
House! So delicious!' Veneering says, 'As many as are of that
opinion, say Aye,--contrary, No--the Ayes have it.' But nobody
takes the slightest notice of his joke.
'Now, I am Chairwoman of Committees!' cries Lady Tippins.
('What spirits she has!' exclaims Mrs Veneering; to whom likewise
nobody attends.)
'And this,' pursues the sprightly one, 'is a Committee of the whole
House to what-you-may-call-it--elicit, I suppose--the voice of
Society. The question before the Committee is, whether a young
man of very fair family, good appearance, and some talent, makes
a fool or a wise man of himself in marrying a female waterman,
turned factory girl.'
'Hardly so, I think,' the stubborn Mortimer strikes in. 'I take the
question to be, whether such a man as you describe, Lady Tippins,
does right or wrong in marrying a brave woman (I say nothing of
her beauty), who has saved his life, with a wonderful energy and
address; whom he knows to be virtuous, and possessed of
remarkable qualities; whom he has long admired, and who is
deeply attached to him.'
'But, excuse me,' says Podsnap, with his temper and his shirt-collar
about equally rumpled; 'was this young woman ever a female
waterman?'
'Never. But she sometimes rowed in a boat with her father, I
believe.'
General sensation against the young woman. Brewer shakes his
head. Boots shakes his head. Buffer shakes his head.
'And now, Mr Lightwood, was she ever,' pursues Podsnap, with
his indignation rising high into those hair-brushes of his, 'a factory
girl?'
'Never. But she had some employment in a paper mill, I believe.'
General sensation repeated. Brewer says, 'Oh dear!' Boots says,
'Oh dear!' Buffer says, 'Oh dear!' All, in a rumbling tone of
protest.
'Then all I have to say is,' returns Podsnap, putting the thing away
with his right arm, 'that my gorge rises against such a marriage--
that it offends and disgusts me--that it makes me sick--and that I
desire to know no more about it.'
('Now I wonder,' thinks Mortimer, amused, 'whether YOU are the
Voice of Society!')
'Hear, hear, hear!' cries Lady Tippins. 'Your opinion of this
MESALLIANCE, honourable colleagues of the honourable
member who has just sat down?'
Mrs Podsnap is of opinion that in these matters there should be an
equality of station and fortune, and that a man accustomed to
Society should look out for a woman accustomed to Society and
capable of bearing her part in it with--an ease and elegance of
carriage--that.' Mrs Podsnap stops there, delicately intimating
that every such man should look out for a fine woman as nearly
resembling herself as he may hope to discover.
('Now I wonder,' thinks Mortimer, 'whether you are the Voice!')
Lady Tippins next canvasses the Contractor, of five hundred
thousand power. It appears to this potentate, that what the man in
question should have done, would have been, to buy the young
woman a boat and a small annuity, and set her up for herself.
These things are a question of beefsteaks and porter. You buy the
young woman a boat. Very good. You buy her, at the same time,
a small annuity. You speak of that annuity in pounds sterling, but
it is in reality so many pounds of beefsteaks and so many pints of
porter. On the one hand, the young woman has the boat. On the
other hand, she consumes so many pounds of beefsteaks and so
many pints of porter. Those beefsteaks and that porter are the fuel
to that young woman's engine. She derives therefrom a certain
amount of power to row the boat; that power will produce so much
money; you add that to the small annuity; and thus you get at the
young woman's income. That (it seems to the Contractor) is the
way of looking at it.
The fair enslaver having fallen into one of her gentle sleeps during
the last exposition, nobody likes to wake her. Fortunately, she
comes awake of herself, and puts the question to the Wandering
Chairman. The Wanderer can only speak of the case as if it were
his own. If such a young woman as the young woman described,
had saved his own life, he would have been very much obliged to
her, wouldn't have married her, and would have got her a berth in
an Electric Telegraph Office, where young women answer very
well.
What does the Genius of the three hundred and seventy-five
thousand pounds, no shillings, and nopence, think? He can't say
what he thinks, without asking: Had the young woman any
money?
'No,' says Lightwood, in an uncompromising voice; 'no money.'
'Madness and moonshine,' is then the compressed verdict of the
Genius. 'A man may do anything lawful, for money. But for no
money!--Bosh!'
What does Boots say?
Boots says he wouldn't have done it under twenty thousand pound.
What does Brewer say?
Brewer says what Boots says.
What does Buffer say?
Buffer says he knows a man who married a bathing-woman, and
bolted.
Lady Tippins fancies she has collected the suffrages of the whole
Committee (nobody dreaming of asking the Veneerings for their
opinion), when, looking round the table through her eyeglass, she
perceives Mr Twemlow with his hand to his forehead.
Good gracious! My Twemlow forgotten! My dearest! My own!
What is his vote?
Twemlow has the air of being ill at ease, as he takes his hand from
his forehead and replies.
'I am disposed to think,' says he, 'that this is a question of the
feelings of a gentleman.'
'A gentleman can have no feelings who contracts such a marriage,'
flushes Podsnap.
'Pardon me, sir,' says Twemlow, rather less mildly than usual, 'I
don't agree with you. If this gentleman's feelings of gratitude, of
respect, of admiration, and affection, induced him (as I presume
they did) to marry this lady--'
'This lady!' echoes Podsnap.
'Sir,' returns Twemlow, with his wristbands bristling a little, 'YOU
repeat the word; I repeat the word. This lady. What else would
you call her, if the gentleman were present?'
This being something in the nature of a poser for Podsnap, he
merely waves it away with a speechless wave.
'I say,' resumes Twemlow, 'if such feelings on the part of this
gentleman, induced this gentleman to marry this lady, I think he is
the greater gentleman for the action, and makes her the greater
lady. I beg to say, that when I use the word, gentleman, I use it in
the sense in which the degree may be attained by any man. The
feelings of a gentleman I hold sacred, and I confess I am not
comfortable when they are made the subject of sport or general
discussion.'
'I should like to know,' sneers Podsnap, 'whether your noble
relation would be of your opinion.'
'Mr Podsnap,' retorts Twemlow, 'permit me. He might be, or he
might not be. I cannot say. But, I could not allow even him to
dictate to me on a point of great delicacy, on which I feel very
strongly.'
Somehow, a canopy of wet blanket seems to descend upon the
company, and Lady Tippins was never known to turn so very
greedy or so very cross. Mortimer Lightwood alone brightens.
He has been asking himself, as to every other member of the
Committee in turn, 'I wonder whether you are the Voice!' But he
does not ask himself the question after Twemlow has spoken, and
he glances in Twemlow's direction as if he were grateful. When
the company disperse--by which time Mr and Mrs Veneering have
had quite as much as they want of the honour, and the guests have
had quite as much as THEY want of the other honour--Mortimer
sees Twemlow home, shakes hands with him cordially at parting,
and fares to the Temple, gaily.
POSTSCRIPT
IN LIEU OF PREFACE
When I devised this story, I foresaw the likelihood that a class of
readers and commentators would suppose that I was at great pains
to conceal exactly what I was at great pains to suggest: namely,
that Mr John Harmon was not slain, and that Mr John Rokesmith
was he. Pleasing myself with the idea that the supposition might
in part arise out of some ingenuity in the story, and thinking it
worth while, in the interests of art, to hint to an audience that an
artist (of whatever denomination) may perhaps be trusted to know
what he is about in his vocation, if they will concede him a little
patience, I was not alarmed by the anticipation.
To keep for a long time unsuspected, yet always working itself out,
another purpose originating in that leading incident, and turning it
to a pleasant and useful account at last, was at once the most
interesting and the most difficult part of my design. Its difficulty
was much enhanced by the mode of publication; for, it would be
very unreasonable to expect that many readers, pursuing a story in
portions from month to month through nineteen months, will, until
they have it before them complete, perceive the relations of its finer
threads to the whole pattern which is always before the eyes of the
story-weaver at his loom. Yet, that I hold the advantages of the
mode of publication to outweigh its disadvantages, may be easily
believed of one who revived it in the Pickwick Papers after long
disuse, and has pursued it ever since.
There is sometimes an odd disposition in this country to dispute as
improbable in fiction, what are the commonest experiences in fact.
Therefore, I note here, though it may not be at all necessary, that
there are hundreds of Will Cases (as they are called), far more
remarkable than that fancied in this book; and that the stores of the
Prerogative Office teem with instances of testators who have made,
changed, contradicted, hidden, forgotten, left cancelled, and left
uncancelled, each many more wills than were ever made by the
elder Mr Harmon of Harmony Jail.
In my social experiences since Mrs Betty Higden came upon the
scene and left it, I have found Circumlocutional champions
disposed to be warm with me on the subject of my view of the Poor
Law. Mr friend Mr Bounderby could never see any difference
between leaving the Coketown 'hands' exactly as they were, and
requiring them to be fed with turtle soup and venison out of gold
spoons. Idiotic propositions of a parallel nature have been freely
offered for my acceptance, and I have been called upon to admit
that I would give Poor Law relief to anybody, anywhere, anyhow.
Putting this nonsense aside, I have observed a suspicious tendency
in the champions to divide into two parties; the one, contending
that there are no deserving Poor who prefer death by slow
starvation and bitter weather, to the mercies of some Relieving
Officers and some Union Houses; the other, admitting that there
are such Poor, but denying that they have any cause or reason for
what they do. The records in our newspapers, the late exposure by
THE LANCET, and the common sense and senses of common
people, furnish too abundant evidence against both defences. But,
that my view of the Poor Law may not be mistaken or
misrepresented, I will state it. I believe there has been in England,
since the days of the STUARTS, no law so often infamously
administered, no law so often openly violated, no law habitually so
ill-supervised. In the majority of the shameful cases of disease
and death from destitution, that shock the Public and disgrace the
country, the illegality is quite equal to the inhumanity--and known
language could say no more of their lawlessness.
On Friday the Ninth of June in the present year, Mr and Mrs
Boffin (in their manuscript dress of receiving Mr and Mrs Lammle
at breakfast) were on the South Eastern Railway with me, in a
terribly destructive accident. When I had done what I could to help
others, I climbed back into my carriage--nearly turned over a
viaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn--to extricate the worthy
couple. They were much soiled, but otherwise unhurt. The same
happy result attended Miss Bella Wilfer on her wedding day, and
Mr Riderhood inspecting Bradley Headstone's red neckerchief as
he lay asleep. I remember with devout thankfulness that I can
never be much nearer parting company with my readers for ever,
than I was then, until there shall be written against my life, the two
words with which I have this day closed this book:--THE END.
September 2nd, 1865.