summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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      The Old Curiosity Shop
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles Dickens

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: The Old Curiosity Shop

Author: Charles Dickens

Release Date: March 7, 2008 [EBook #700]
Last updated: May 7, 2015

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP ***










</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By Charles Dickens
    </h2>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0008m.jpg" alt="0008m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0008.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      CONTENTS
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <table width="100%">
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER 1</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER 2</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER 3</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER 4</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER 5</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER 6</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER 7</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER 8</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER 9</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER 10</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER 11</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER 12</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER 13</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER 14</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER 15</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER 16</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER 17</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER 18</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER 19</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER 20</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER 21</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER 22</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER 23</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER 24</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER 25</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER 26</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER 27</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER 28</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER 29</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER 30</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER 31</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER 32</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER 33</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER 34</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER 35</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER 36</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER 37</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER 38</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER 39</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER 40</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER 41</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER 42</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER 43</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER 44</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap45">CHAPTER 45</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap46">CHAPTER 46</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap47">CHAPTER 47</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap48">CHAPTER 48</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap49">CHAPTER 49</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap50">CHAPTER 50</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap51">CHAPTER 51</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap52">CHAPTER 52</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap53">CHAPTER 53</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap54">CHAPTER 54</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap55">CHAPTER 55</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap56">CHAPTER 56</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap57">CHAPTER 57</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap58">CHAPTER 58</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap59">CHAPTER 59</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap60">CHAPTER 60</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap61">CHAPTER 61</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap62">CHAPTER 62</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap63">CHAPTER 63</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap64">CHAPTER 64</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap65">CHAPTER 65</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap66">CHAPTER 66</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap67">CHAPTER 67</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap68">CHAPTER 68</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap69">CHAPTER 69</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap70">CHAPTER 70</a>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap71">CHAPTER 71</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap72">CHAPTER 72</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          <a href="#chap73">CHAPTER 73</a>
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          &nbsp;
        </td>
        <td align="left" valign="top">
          &nbsp;
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap01"></a>
    </p>



    <h3>
      CHAPTER 1
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ight is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave home
      early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or even
      escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the country, I seldom go
      out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its light and feel
      the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any creature living.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my
      infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating on
      the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The glare
      and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like mine; a
      glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp or a shop
      window is often better for my purpose than their full revelation in the
      daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is kinder in this respect
      than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle at the moment of
      its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse.
    </p>
    <p>
      That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that
      incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy&mdash;is
      it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear it!
      Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court, listening to
      the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness obliged, despite
      himself (as though it were a task he must perform) to detect the child's
      step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from the booted exquisite, the
      lounging from the busy, the dull heel of the sauntering outcast from the
      quick tread of an expectant pleasure-seeker&mdash;think of the hum and
      noise always being present to his sense, and of the stream of life that
      will not stop, pouring on, on, on, through all his restless dreams, as if
      he were condemned to lie, dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and
      had no hope of rest for centuries to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (on those
      which are free of toll at last), where many stop on fine evenings looking
      listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea that by and by it runs
      between green banks which grow wider and wider until at last it joins the
      broad vast sea&mdash;where some halt to rest from heavy loads and think as
      they look over the parapet that to smoke and lounge away one's life, and
      lie sleeping in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin, in a dull, slow, sluggish
      barge, must be happiness unalloyed&mdash;and where some, and a very
      different class, pause with heavier loads than they, remembering to have
      heard or read in old time that drowning was not a hard death, but of all
      means of suicide the easiest and best.
    </p>
    <p>
      Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when the
      fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even the
      unwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky
      thrush, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night long, half
      mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at all akin to the
      other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from the hot hands of
      drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already, while others,
      soddened by close contact, await the time when they shall be watered and
      freshened up to please more sober company, and make old clerks who pass
      them on their road to business, wonder what has filled their breasts with
      visions of the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The story I am
      about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, arose out of one
      of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak of them by way of
      preface.
    </p>
    <p>
      One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on in my
      usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an
      inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be
      addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that struck
      me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and found at my elbow a pretty
      little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at a
      considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very long
      way, for I came from there to-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I had
      lost my road.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are such
      a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the energy
      with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's clear eye,
      and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had known me from her
      cradle, and we trudged away together; the little creature accommodating
      her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to
      be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a curious
      look at my face, as if to make quite sure that I was not deceiving her,
      and that these glances (very sharp and keen they were too) seemed to
      increase her confidence at every repetition.
    </p>
    <p>
      For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the child's,
      for child she certainly was, although I thought it probably from what I
      could make out, that her very small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar
      youthfulness to her appearance. Though more scantily attired than she
      might have been she was dressed with perfect neatness, and betrayed no
      marks of poverty or neglect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what have you been doing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to look at
      the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise; for I
      wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be
      prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, for as
      it met mine she added that there was no harm in what she had been doing,
      but it was a great secret&mdash;a secret which she did not even know
      herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an
      unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as
      before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and talking
      cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home, beyond
      remarking that we were going quite a new road and asking if it were a
      short one.
    </p>
    <p>
      While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred different
      explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I really felt
      ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of the
      child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these little
      people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God,
      love us. As I had felt pleased at first by her confidence I determined to
      deserve it, and to do credit to the nature which had prompted her to
      repose it in me.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the person
      who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night and
      alone, and as it was not improbable that if she found herself near home
      she might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportunity, I avoided
      the most frequented ways and took the most intricate, and thus it was not
      until we arrived in the street itself that she knew where we were.
      Clapping her hands with pleasure and running on before me for a short
      distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door and remaining on the
      step till I came up knocked at it when I joined her.
    </p>
    <p>
      A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which I did
      not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and I was
      anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to our summons. When
      she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if some person were
      moving inside, and at length a faint light appeared through the glass
      which, as it approached very slowly, the bearer having to make his way
      through a great many scattered articles, enabled me to see both what kind
      of person it was who advanced and what kind of place it was through which
      he came.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he held
      the light above his head and looked before him as he approached, I could
      plainly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could recognize in
      his spare and slender form something of that delicate mould which I had
      noticed in the child. Their bright blue eyes were certainly alike, but his
      face was so deeply furrowed and so very full of care, that here all
      resemblance ceased.
    </p>
    <p>
      The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those
      receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd corners
      of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public eye in
      jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing like ghosts in
      armour here and there, fantastic carvings brought from monkish cloisters,
      rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures in china and wood and
      iron and ivory: tapestry and strange furniture that might have been
      designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little old man was
      wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among old churches
      and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils with his own
      hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with
      himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment
      which was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The door
      being opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told him the
      little story of our companionship.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, bless thee, child,' said the old man, patting her on the head, 'how
      couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would have found my way back to <i>you</i>, grandfather,' said the child
      boldly; 'never fear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to walk in, I
      did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the light, he
      led me through the place I had already seen from without, into a small
      sitting-room behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of
      closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it
      looked so very small and was so prettily arranged. The child took a candle
      and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the fire, 'how
      can I thank you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend,' I
      replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      'More care!' said the old man in a shrill voice, 'more care of Nelly! Why,
      who ever loved a child as I love Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what answer
      to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble and
      wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and anxious
      thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been at first
      inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think you consider&mdash;' I began.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't consider
      her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly, little Nelly!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech
      might be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did, in
      these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his chin
      upon his hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes upon the
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened, and
      the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her neck, and
      her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied
      herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was thus engaged I
      remarked that the old man took an opportunity of observing me more closely
      than he had done yet. I was surprised to see that all this time everything
      was done by the child, and that there appeared to be no other persons but
      ourselves in the house. I took advantage of a moment when she was absent
      to venture a hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there
      were few grown persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It always grieves me,' I observed, roused by what I took to be his
      selfishness, 'it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of
      children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than infants.
      It checks their confidence and simplicity&mdash;two of the best qualities
      that Heaven gives them&mdash;and demands that they share our sorrows
      before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will never check hers,' said the old man looking steadily at me, 'the
      springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but few
      pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid
      for.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But&mdash;forgive me for saying this&mdash;you are surely not so very
      poor'&mdash;said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is not my child, sir,' returned the old man. 'Her mother was, and she
      was poor. I save nothing&mdash;not a penny&mdash;though I live as you see,
      but'&mdash;he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to whisper&mdash;'she
      shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think ill of
      me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as you see, and it
      would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do for
      me what her little hands could undertake. I don't consider!'&mdash;he
      cried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God knows that this one child is
      the thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me&mdash;no,
      never!'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and the
      old man motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said no
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by
      which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was
      rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it was
      no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She always
      laughs at poor Kit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child laughed again more heartily than before, and I could not help
      smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and went
      to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide
      mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most comical
      expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on seeing a
      stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat without any
      vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and now on the other
      and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway, looking into the
      parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld. I entertained a
      grateful feeling towards the boy from that minute, for I felt that he was
      the comedy of the child's life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course you have come back hungry?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and
      thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at
      his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have amused
      one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity, and the
      relief it was to find that there was something she associated with
      merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite
      irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered by
      the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his
      gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open and
      his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no
      notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the
      child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the fullness
      of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after the little
      anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had been all the
      time one of that sort which very little would change into a cry) he
      carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer into a corner,
      and applied himself to disposing of them with great voracity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to
      him but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you tell me that I
      don't consider her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first
      appearances, my friend,' said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither, Nell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say&mdash;do I love thee, Nell, or no?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his
      breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him and
      glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and dost not
      like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well, well&mdash;then
      let us say I love thee dearly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great earnestness, 'Kit
      knows you do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing two-thirds
      of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a juggler, stopped
      short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and bawled 'Nobody
      isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after which he incapacitated
      himself for further conversation by taking a most prodigious sandwich at
      one bite.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is poor now'&mdash;said the old man, patting the child's cheek, 'but
      I say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a
      long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it
      surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and
      riot. When <i>will </i>it come to me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know&mdash;how
      should'st thou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time must
      come, I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late';
      and then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still
      holding the child between his knees appeared to be insensible to
      everything around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of
      midnight and I rose to go, which recalled him to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit&mdash;near midnight, boy, and you
      still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the morning,
      for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night, Nell, and
      let him be gone!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment and
      kindness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose care I
      might have lost my little girl to-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' cried the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet that
      I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as anybody,
      master. Ha, ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a
      stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he
      had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night, but
      I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks are
      better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and thought
      I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her&mdash;I am not
      indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may I
      ask you a question?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and intelligence&mdash;has
      she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other companion or
      advisor?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants no
      other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a charge so
      tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you know
      how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you, and I am
      actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and promising. Do
      you not think that what I have seen of you and this little creature
      to-night must have an interest not wholly free from pain?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence.' I have no right to
      feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the
      child, and she the grown person&mdash;that you have seen already. But
      waking or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one
      object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on me
      with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a weary life for an old
      man&mdash;a weary, weary life&mdash;but there is a great end to gain and
      that I keep before me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to
      put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room,
      purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing
      patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But he is not going out to-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to
      be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to the
      slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all the
      long, dreary night.
    </p>
    <p>
      She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the old
      man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to light us out.
      Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back with a
      smile and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that he plainly
      understood the cause of my hesitation, but he merely signed to me with an
      inclination of the head to pass out of the room before him, and remained
      silent. I had no resource but to comply.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned to say
      good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old man,
      who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard thy bed!
      Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel so happy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man. 'Bless thee
      a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me, even in
      the middle of a dream.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded by a
      shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house) and
      with another farewell whose clear and tender note I have recalled a
      thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a
      moment while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and
      satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At the
      street-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a troubled countenance
      said that our ways were widely different and that he must take his leave.
      I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than might have been
      expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away. I could see that twice
      or thrice he looked back as if to ascertain if I were still watching him,
      or perhaps to assure himself that I was not following at a distance. The
      obscurity of the night favoured his disappearance, and his figure was soon
      beyond my sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to depart,
      and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully into the
      street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my steps that way.
      I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and listened at the door; all
      was dark, and silent as the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all
      possible harm that might happen to the child&mdash;of fires and robberies
      and even murder&mdash;and feeling as if some evil must ensue if I turned
      my back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street
      brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed the road and
      looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise had not come from
      there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and pretty
      well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and now and
      then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled homewards,
      but these interruptions were not frequent and soon ceased. The clocks
      struck one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that every time
      should be the last, and breaking faith with myself on some new plea as
      often as I did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and
      bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had a
      strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I had
      only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and though
      the old man was by at the time, and saw my undisguised surprise, he had
      preserved a strange mystery upon the subject and offered no word of
      explanation. These reflections naturally recalled again more strongly than
      before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his restless anxious looks.
      His affection for the child might not be inconsistent with villany of the
      worst kind; even that very affection was in itself an extraordinary
      contradiction, or how could he leave her thus? Disposed as I was to think
      badly of him, I never doubted that his love for her was real. I could not
      admit the thought, remembering what had passed between us, and the tone of
      voice in which he had called her by her name.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my question, 'I
      always do!' What could take him from home by night, and every night! I
      called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret deeds
      committed in great towns and escaping detection for a long series of
      years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not find one adapted to
      this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable, in proportion as I
      sought to solve it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all tending to
      the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long hours; at
      length the rain began to descend heavily, and then over-powered by fatigue
      though no less interested than I had been at first, I engaged the nearest
      coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, the lamp
      burnt brightly, my clock received me with its old familiar welcome;
      everything was quiet, warm and cheering, and in happy contrast to the
      gloom and darkness I had quitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred and
      the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever before me the
      old dark murky rooms&mdash;the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly
      silent air&mdash;the faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone&mdash;the
      dust and rust and worm that lives in wood&mdash;and alone in the midst of
      all this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle
      slumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap02"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 2
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which impelled me to
      revisit the place I had quitted under the circumstances already detailed,
      I yielded to it at length; and determining that this time I would present
      myself by the light of day, bent my steps thither early in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      I walked past the house, and took several turns in the street, with that
      kind of hesitation which is natural to a man who is conscious that the
      visit he is about to pay is unexpected, and may not be very acceptable.
      However, as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not appear likely
      that I should be recognized by those within, if I continued merely to pass
      up and down before it, I soon conquered this irresolution, and found
      myself in the Curiosity Dealer's warehouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man and another person were together in the back part, and there
      seemed to have been high words between them, for their voices which were
      raised to a very high pitch suddenly stopped on my entering, and the old
      man advancing hastily towards me, said in a tremulous tone that he was
      very glad I had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You interrupted us at a critical moment,' said he, pointing to the man
      whom I had found in company with him; 'this fellow will murder me one of
      these days. He would have done so, long ago, if he had dared.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bah! You would swear away my life if you could,' returned the other,
      after bestowing a stare and a frown on me; 'we all know that!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I almost think I could,' cried the old man, turning feebly upon him. 'If
      oaths, or prayers, or words, could rid me of you, they should. I would be
      quit of you, and would be relieved if you were dead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know it,' returned the other. 'I said so, didn't I? But neither oaths,
      or prayers, nor words, <i>will </i>kill me, and therefore I live, and mean to
      live.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And his mother died!' cried the old man, passionately clasping his hands
      and looking upward; 'and this is Heaven's justice!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The other stood lunging with his foot upon a chair, and regarded him with
      a contemptuous sneer. He was a young man of one-and-twenty or thereabouts;
      well made, and certainly handsome, though the expression of his face was
      far from prepossessing, having in common with his manner and even his
      dress, a dissipated, insolent air which repelled one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Justice or no justice,' said the young fellow, 'here I am and here I
      shall stop till such time as I think fit to go, unless you send for
      assistance to put me out&mdash;which you won't do, I know. I tell you
      again that I want to see my sister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Your </i>sister!' said the old man bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! You can't change the relationship,' returned the other. 'If you
      could, you'd have done it long ago. I want to see my sister, that you keep
      cooped up here, poisoning her mind with your sly secrets and pretending an
      affection for her that you may work her to death, and add a few scraped
      shillings every week to the money you can hardly count. I want to see her;
      and I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds! Here's a generous spirit to
      scorn scraped-up shillings!' cried the old man, turning from him to me. 'A
      profligate, sir, who has forfeited every claim not only upon those who
      have the misfortune to be of his blood, but upon society which knows
      nothing of him but his misdeeds. A liar too,' he added, in a lower voice
      as he drew closer to me, 'who knows how dear she is to me, and seeks to
      wound me even there, because there is a stranger nearby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather,' said the young fellow catching
      at the word, 'nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do, is to keep an
      eye to their business and leave me to mine. There's a friend of mine
      waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to wait some time, I'll
      call him in, with your leave.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying this, he stepped to the door, and looking down the street beckoned
      several times to some unseen person, who, to judge from the air of
      impatience with which these signals were accompanied, required a great
      quantity of persuasion to induce him to advance. At length there sauntered
      up, on the opposite side of the way&mdash;with a bad pretense of passing
      by accident&mdash;a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness, which
      after a great many frowns and jerks of the head, in resistance of the
      invitation, ultimately crossed the road and was brought into the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There. It's Dick Swiveller,' said the young fellow, pushing him in. 'Sit
      down, Swiveller.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But is the old min agreeable?' said Mr Swiveller in an undertone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller complied, and looking about him with a propitiatory smile,
      observed that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and this week was a
      fine week for the dust; he also observed that whilst standing by the post
      at the street-corner, he had observed a pig with a straw in his mouth
      issuing out of the tobacco-shop, from which appearance he augured that
      another fine week for the ducks was approaching, and that rain would
      certainly ensue. He furthermore took occasion to apologize for any
      negligence that might be perceptible in his dress, on the ground that last
      night he had had 'the sun very strong in his eyes'; by which expression he
      was understood to convey to his hearers in the most delicate manner
      possible, the information that he had been extremely drunk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what,' said Mr Swiveller with a sigh, 'what is the odds so long as
      the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the wing of
      friendship never moults a feather! What is the odds so long as the spirit
      is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present moment is the least
      happiest of our existence!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't act the chairman here,' said his friend, half aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fred!' cried Mr Swiveller, tapping his nose, 'a word to the wise is
      sufficient for them&mdash;we may be good and happy without riches, Fred.
      Say not another syllable. I know my cue; smart is the word. Only one
      little whisper, Fred&mdash;is the old min friendly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never you mind,' replied his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Right again, quite right,' said Mr Swiveller, 'caution is the word, and
      caution is the act.' with that, he winked as if in preservation of some
      deep secret, and folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, looked up
      at the ceiling with profound gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was perhaps not very unreasonable to suspect from what had already
      passed, that Mr Swiveller was not quite recovered from the effects of the
      powerful sunlight to which he had made allusion; but if no such suspicion
      had been awakened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull eyes, and sallow face
      would still have been strong witnesses against him. His attire was not, as
      he had himself hinted, remarkable for the nicest arrangement, but was in a
      state of disorder which strongly induced the idea that he had gone to bed
      in it. It consisted of a brown body-coat with a great many brass buttons
      up the front and only one behind, a bright check neckerchief, a plaid
      waistcoat, soiled white trousers, and a very limp hat, worn with the wrong
      side foremost, to hide a hole in the brim. The breast of his coat was
      ornamented with an outside pocket from which there peeped forth the
      cleanest end of a very large and very ill-favoured handkerchief; his dirty
      wristbands were pulled on as far as possible and ostentatiously folded
      back over his cuffs; he displayed no gloves, and carried a yellow cane
      having at the top a bone hand with the semblance of a ring on its little
      finger and a black ball in its grasp. With all these personal advantages
      (to which may be added a strong savour of tobacco-smoke, and a prevailing
      greasiness of appearance) Mr Swiveller leant back in his chair with his
      eyes fixed on the ceiling, and occasionally pitching his voice to the
      needful key, obliged the company with a few bars of an intensely dismal
      air, and then, in the middle of a note, relapsed into his former silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man sat himself down in a chair, and with folded hands, looked
      sometimes at his grandson and sometimes at his strange companion, as if he
      were utterly powerless and had no resource but to leave them to do as they
      pleased. The young man reclined against a table at no great distance from
      his friend, in apparent indifference to everything that had passed; and I&mdash;who
      felt the difficulty of any interference, notwithstanding that the old man
      had appealed to me, both by words and looks&mdash;made the best feint I
      could of being occupied in examining some of the goods that were disposed
      for sale, and paying very little attention to a person before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      The silence was not of long duration, for Mr Swiveller, after favouring us
      with several melodious assurances that his heart was in the Highlands, and
      that he wanted but his Arab steed as a preliminary to the achievement of
      great feats of valour and loyalty, removed his eyes from the ceiling and
      subsided into prose again.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0031m.jpg" alt="0031m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0031.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller stopping short, as if the idea had suddenly
      occurred to him, and speaking in the same audible whisper as before, 'is
      the old min friendly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does it matter?' returned his friend peevishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but <i>is</i> he?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, of course. What do I care whether he is or not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Emboldened as it seemed by this reply to enter into a more general
      conversation, Mr Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate our
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      He began by remarking that soda-water, though a good thing in the
      abstract, was apt to lie cold upon the stomach unless qualified with
      ginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which latter article he held to be
      preferable in all cases, saving for the one consideration of expense.
      Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he proceeded to observe that
      the human hair was a great retainer of tobacco-smoke, and that the young
      gentlemen of Westminster and Eton, after eating vast quantities of apples
      to conceal any scent of cigars from their anxious friends, were usually
      detected in consequence of their heads possessing this remarkable
      property; when he concluded that if the Royal Society would turn their
      attention to the circumstance, and endeavour to find in the resources of
      science a means of preventing such untoward revelations, they might indeed
      be looked upon as benefactors to mankind. These opinions being equally
      incontrovertible with those he had already pronounced, he went on to
      inform us that Jamaica rum, though unquestionably an agreeable spirit of
      great richness and flavour, had the drawback of remaining constantly
      present to the taste next day; and nobody being venturous enough to argue
      this point either, he increased in confidence and became yet more
      companionable and communicative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen,' said Mr Swiveller, 'when relations
      fall out and disagree. If the wing of friendship should never moult a
      feather, the wing of relationship should never be clipped, but be always
      expanded and serene. Why should a grandson and grandfather peg away at
      each other with mutual wiolence when all might be bliss and concord. Why
      not jine hands and forgit it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue,' said his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' replied Mr Swiveller, 'don't you interrupt the chair. Gentlemen,
      how does the case stand, upon the present occasion? Here is a jolly old
      grandfather&mdash;I say it with the utmost respect&mdash;and here is a
      wild, young grandson. The jolly old grandfather says to the wild young
      grandson, "I have brought you up and educated you, Fred; I have put you in
      the way of getting on in life; you have bolted a little out of course, as
      young fellows often do; and you shall never have another chance, nor the
      ghost of half a one." The wild young grandson makes answer to this and
      says, "You're as rich as rich can be; you have been at no uncommon expense
      on my account, you're saving up piles of money for my little sister that
      lives with you in a secret, stealthy, hugger-muggering kind of way and
      with no manner of enjoyment&mdash;why can't you stand a trifle for your
      grown-up relation?" The jolly old grandfather unto this, retorts, not only
      that he declines to fork out with that cheerful readiness which is always
      so agreeable and pleasant in a gentleman of his time of life, but that he
      will bow up, and call names, and make reflections whenever they meet. Then
      the plain question is, an't it a pity that this state of things should
      continue, and how much better would it be for the gentleman to hand over a
      reasonable amount of tin, and make it all right and comfortable?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having delivered this oration with a great many waves and flourishes of
      the hand, Mr Swiveller abruptly thrust the head of his cane into his mouth
      as if to prevent himself from impairing the effect of his speech by adding
      one other word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you hunt and persecute me, God help me!' said the old man turning
      to his grandson. 'Why do you bring your prolifigate companions here? How
      often am I to tell you that my life is one of care and self-denial, and
      that I am poor?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How often am I to tell you,' returned the other, looking coldly at him,
      'that I know better?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have chosen your own path,' said the old man. 'Follow it. Leave Nell
      and me to toil and work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nell will be a woman soon,' returned the other, 'and, bred in your faith,
      she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take care,' said the old man with sparkling eyes, 'that she does not
      forget you when you would have her memory keenest. Take care that the day
      don't come when you walk barefoot in the streets, and she rides by in a
      gay carriage of her own.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You mean when she has your money?' retorted the other. 'How like a poor
      man he talks!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet,' said the old man dropping his voice and speaking like one who
      thinks aloud, 'how poor we are, and what a life it is! The cause is a
      young child's guiltless of all harm or wrong, but nothing goes well with
      it! Hope and patience, hope and patience!'
    </p>
    <p>
      These words were uttered in too low a tone to reach the ears of the young
      men. Mr Swiveller appeared to think that they implied some mental struggle
      consequent upon the powerful effect of his address, for he poked his
      friend with his cane and whispered his conviction that he had administered
      'a clincher,' and that he expected a commission on the profits.
      Discovering his mistake after a while, he appeared to grow rather sleepy
      and discontented, and had more than once suggested the propriety of an
      immediate departure, when the door opened, and the child herself appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap03"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 3
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard
      features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be quite a
      dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a giant.
      His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his mouth and chin,
      bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard; and his complexion was
      one of that kind which never looks clean or wholesome. But what added most
      to the grotesque expression of his face was a ghastly smile, which,
      appearing to be the mere result of habit and to have no connection with
      any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly revealed the few
      discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his mouth, and gave him the
      aspect of a panting dog. His dress consisted of a large high-crowned hat,
      a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes, and a dirty white neckerchief
      sufficiently limp and crumpled to disclose the greater portion of his wiry
      throat. Such hair as he had was of a grizzled black, cut short and
      straight upon his temples, and hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears.
      His hands, which were of a rough, coarse grain, were very dirty; his
      fingernails were crooked, long, and yellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they were
      sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some moments elapsed
      before any one broke silence. The child advanced timidly towards her
      brother and put her hand in his, the dwarf (if we may call him so) glanced
      keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer, who plainly had not
      expected his uncouth visitor, seemed disconcerted and embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes had
      been surveying the young man attentively, 'that should be your grandson,
      neighbour!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say rather that he should not be,' replied the old man. 'But he is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that?' said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,' said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that?' inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight at
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night when
      she lost her way, coming from your house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his
      wonder, but as she was talking to the young man, held his peace, and bent
      his head to listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Nelly,' said the young fellow aloud. 'Do they teach you to hate me,
      eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no. For shame. Oh, no!' cried the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To love me, perhaps?' pursued her brother with a sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To do neither,' she returned. 'They never speak to me about you. Indeed
      they never do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare be bound for that,' he said, darting a bitter look at the
      grandfather. 'I dare be bound for that Nell. Oh! I believe you there!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I love you dearly, Fred,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No doubt!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do indeed, and always will,' the child repeated with great emotion,
      'but oh! If you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy, then I
      could love you more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see!' said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child, and
      having kissed her, pushed her from him: 'There&mdash;get you away now you
      have said your lesson. You needn't whimper. We part good friends enough,
      if that's the matter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained her
      little room and closed the door; and then turning to the dwarf, said
      abruptly,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Harkee, Mr&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meaning me?' returned the dwarf. 'Quilp is my name. You might remember.
      It's not a long one&mdash;Daniel Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Harkee, Mr Quilp, then,' pursued the other, 'You have some influence with
      my grandfather there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some,' said Mr Quilp emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A few,' replied Quilp, with equal dryness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then let me tell him once for all, through you, that I will come into and
      go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps Nell here;
      and that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of her. What
      have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned and dreaded as if I
      brought the plague? He'll tell you that I have no natural affection; and
      that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake, than I do for him. Let him
      say so. I care for the whim, then, of coming to and fro and reminding her
      of my existence. I <i>will </i>see her when I please. That's my point. I came
      here to-day to maintain it, and I'll come here again fifty times with the
      same object and always with the same success. I said I would stop till I
      had gained it. I have done so, and now my visit's ended. Come Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop!' cried Mr Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the door.
      'Sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir, I am your humble servant,' said Mr Quilp, to whom the monosyllable
      was addressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and halls of dazzling light,
      sir,' said Mr Swiveller, 'I will with your permission, attempt a slight
      remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old min
      was friendly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Proceed, sir,' said Daniel Quilp; for the orator had made a sudden stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling as
      a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying, was not the sort of
      thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social harmony of the
      contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a course which is <i>the</i>
      course to be adopted to the present occasion. Will you allow me to whisper
      half a syllable, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without waiting for the permission he sought, Mr Swiveller stepped up to
      the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to get at his
      ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all present,
    </p>
    <p>
      'The watch-word to the old min is&mdash;fork.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is what?' demanded Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is fork, sir, fork,' replied Mr Swiveller slapping his pocket. 'You are
      awake, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf nodded. Mr Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise, then drew a
      little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these means he in time
      reached the door, where he gave a great cough to attract the dwarf's
      attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in dumb show, the closest
      confidence and most inviolable secrecy. Having performed the serious
      pantomime that was necessary for the due conveyance of these idea, he cast
      himself upon his friend's track, and vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' said the dwarf with a sour look and a shrug of his shoulders, 'so
      much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge none! Nor need you
      either,' he added, turning to the old man, 'if you were not as weak as a
      reed, and nearly as senseless.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What would you have me do?' he retorted in a kind of helpless
      desperation. 'It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What would I do if I was in your case?' said the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Something violent, no doubt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're right there,' returned the little man, highly gratified by the
      compliment, for such he evidently considered it; and grinning like a devil
      as he rubbed his dirty hands together. 'Ask Mrs Quilp, pretty Mrs Quilp,
      obedient, timid, loving Mrs Quilp. But that reminds me&mdash;I have left
      her all alone, and she will be anxious and know not a moment's peace till
      I return. I know she's always in that condition when I'm away, thought she
      doesn't dare to say so, unless I lead her on and tell her she may speak
      freely and I won't be angry with her. Oh! well-trained Mrs Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and little
      body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, and round, and round again&mdash;with
      something fantastic even in his manner of performing this slight action&mdash;and,
      dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in the air, glanced upward
      with a stealthy look of exultation that an imp might have copied and
      appropriated to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here,' he said, putting his hand into his breast and sidling up to the
      old man as he spoke; 'I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as, being
      in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in her bag.
      She need be accustomed to such loads betimes though, neighbor, for she
      will carry weight when you are dead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heaven send she may! I hope so,' said the old man with something like a
      groan.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hope so!' echoed the dwarf, approaching close to his ear; 'neighbour, I
      would I knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk. But you
      are a deep man, and keep your secret close.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My secret!' said the other with a haggard look. 'Yes, you're right&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;keep
      it close&mdash;very close.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow, uncertain
      step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and dejected man.
      The dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into the little
      sitting-room and locked it in an iron safe above the chimney-piece; and
      after musing for a short space, prepared to take his leave, observing that
      unless he made good haste, Mrs Quilp would certainly be in fits on his
      return.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so, neighbour,' he added, 'I'll turn my face homewards, leaving my
      love for Nelly and hoping she may never lose her way again, though her
      doing so <i>has </i>procured me an honour I didn't expect.' With that he bowed
      and leered at me, and with a keen glance around which seemed to comprehend
      every object within his range of vision, however, small or trivial, went
      his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always
      opposed it and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on our
      being left along, and adverted with many thanks to the former occasion of
      our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions, and sat down,
      pretending to examine some curious miniatures and a few old medals which
      he placed before me. It needed no great pressing to induce me to stay, for
      if my curiosity has been excited on the occasion of my first visit, it
      certainly was not diminished now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-work to the table,
      sat by the old man's side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh flowers in
      the room, the pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage, the
      breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle through the old dull
      house and hover round the child. It was curious, but not so pleasant, to
      turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to the stooping figure,
      care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As he grew weaker and
      more feeble, what would become of this lonely little creature; poor
      protector as he was, say that he died&mdash;what would be her fate, then?
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers, and
      spoke aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll be of better cheer, Nell,' he said; 'there must be good fortune in
      store for thee&mdash;I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries
      must fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but that,
      being tempted, it will come at last!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I think,' said he, 'of the many years&mdash;many in thy short life&mdash;that
      thou has lived with me; of my monotonous existence, knowing no companions
      of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the solitude in which thou
      has grown to be what thou art, and in which thou hast lived apart from
      nearly all thy kind but one old man; I sometimes fear I have dealt hardly
      by thee, Nell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Grandfather!' cried the child in unfeigned surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not in intention&mdash;no no,' said he. 'I have ever looked forward to
      the time that should enable thee to mix among the gayest and prettiest,
      and take thy station with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I
      still look forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, meanwhile,
      how have I fitted thee for struggles with the world? The poor bird yonder
      is as well qualified to encounter it, and be turned adrift upon its
      mercies&mdash;Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and put her arms about
      the old man's neck, then left him and hurried away again&mdash;but faster
      this time, to hide her falling tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A word in your ear, sir,' said the old man in a hurried whisper. 'I have
      been rendered uneasy by what you said the other night, and can only plead
      that I have done all for the best&mdash;that it is too late to retract, if
      I could (though I cannot)&mdash;and that I hope to triumph yet. All is for
      her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, and would spare her the
      sufferings that poverty carries with it. I would spare her the miseries
      that brought her mother, my own dear child, to an early grave. I would
      leave her&mdash;not with resources which could be easily spent or
      squandered away, but with what would place her beyond the reach of want
      for ever. You mark me sir? She shall have no pittance, but a fortune&mdash;Hush!
      I can say no more than that, now or at any other time, and she is here
      again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The eagerness with which all this was poured into my ear, the trembling of
      the hand with which he clasped my arm, the strained and starting eyes he
      fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and agitation of his manner, filled me
      with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a great part of what he
      had said himself, led me to suppose that he was a wealthy man. I could
      form no comprehension of his character, unless he were one of those
      miserable wretches who, having made gain the sole end and object of their
      lives and having succeeded in amassing great riches, are constantly
      tortured by the dread of poverty, and best by fears of loss and ruin. Many
      things he had said which I had been at a loss to understand, were quite
      reconcilable with the idea thus presented to me, and at length I concluded
      that beyond all doubt he was one of this unhappy race.
    </p>
    <p>
      The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, for which indeed
      there was no opportunity at that time, as the child came directly, and
      soon occupied herself in preparations for giving Kit a writing lesson, of
      which it seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on that
      evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both of himself and his
      instructress. To relate how it was a long time before his modesty could be
      so far prevailed upon as it admit of his sitting down in the parlour, in
      the presence of an unknown gentleman&mdash;how, when he did set down, he
      tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his face close to the
      copy-book and squinted horribly at the lines&mdash;how, from the very
      first moment of having the pen in his hand, he began to wallow in blots,
      and to daub himself with ink up to the very roots of his hair&mdash;how,
      if he did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately smeared it
      out again with his arm in his preparations to make another&mdash;how, at
      every fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst of merriment from the child
      and louder and not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself&mdash;and how
      there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a gentle wish on her part
      to teach, and an anxious desire on his to learn&mdash;to relate all these
      particulars would no doubt occupy more space and time than they deserve.
      It will be sufficient to say that the lesson was given&mdash;that evening
      passed and night came on&mdash;that the old man again grew restless and
      impatient&mdash;that he quitted the house secretly at the same hour as
      before&mdash;and that the child was once more left alone within its gloomy
      walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now that I have carried this history so far in my own character and
      introduced these personages to the reader, I shall for the convenience of
      the narrative detach myself from its further course, and leave those who
      have prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap04"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 4
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r and Mrs Quilp resided on Tower Hill; and in her bower on Tower Hill
      Mrs Quilp was left to pine the absence of her lord, when he quitted her on
      the business which he had already seen to transact.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp could scarcely be said to be of any particular trade or calling,
      though his pursuits were diversified and his occupations numerous. He
      collected the rents of whole colonies of filthy streets and alleys by the
      waterside, advanced money to the seamen and petty officers of merchant
      vessels, had a share in the ventures of divers mates of East Indiamen,
      smoked his smuggled cigars under the very nose of the Custom House, and
      made appointments on 'Change with men in glazed hats and round jackets
      pretty well every day. On the Surrey side of the river was a small
      rat-infested dreary yard called 'Quilp's Wharf,' in which were a little
      wooden counting-house burrowing all awry in the dust as if it had fallen
      from the clouds and ploughed into the ground; a few fragments of rusty
      anchors; several large iron rings; some piles of rotten wood; and two or
      three heaps of old sheet copper, crumpled, cracked, and battered. On
      Quilp's Wharf, Daniel Quilp was a ship-breaker, yet to judge from these
      appearances he must either have been a ship-breaker on a very small scale,
      or have broken his ships up very small indeed. Neither did the place
      present any extraordinary aspect of life or activity, as its only human
      occupant was an amphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of
      occupation was from sitting on the head of a pile and throwing stones into
      the mud when the tide was out, to standing with his hands in his pockets
      gazing listlessly on the motion and on the bustle of the river at
      high-water.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf's lodging on Tower hill comprised, besides the needful
      accommodation for himself and Mrs Quilp, a small sleeping-closet for that
      lady's mother, who resided with the couple and waged perpetual war with
      Daniel; of whom, notwithstanding, she stood in no slight dread. Indeed,
      the ugly creature contrived by some means or other&mdash;whether by his
      ugliness or his ferocity or his natural cunning is no great matter&mdash;to
      impress with a wholesome fear of his anger, most of those with whom he was
      brought into daily contact and communication. Over nobody had he such
      complete ascendance as Mrs Quilp herself&mdash;a pretty little,
      mild-spoken, blue-eyed woman, who having allied herself in wedlock to the
      dwarf in one of those strange infatuations of which examples are by no
      means scarce, performed a sound practical penance for her folly, every day
      of her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      It has been said that Mrs Quilp was pining in her bower. In her bower she
      was, but not alone, for besides the old lady her mother of whom mention
      has recently been made, there were present some half-dozen ladies of the
      neighborhood who had happened by a strange accident (and also by a little
      understanding among themselves) to drop in one after another, just about
      tea-time. This being a season favourable to conversation, and the room
      being a cool, shady, lazy kind of place, with some plants at the open
      window shutting out the dust, and interposing pleasantly enough between
      the tea table within and the old Tower without, it is no wonder that the
      ladies felt an inclination to talk and linger, especially when there are
      taken into account the additional inducements of fresh butter, new bread,
      shrimps, and watercresses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the ladies being together under these circumstances, it was extremely
      natural that the discourse should turn upon the propensity of mankind to
      tyrannize over the weaker sex, and the duty that developed upon the weaker
      sex to resist that tyranny and assert their rights and dignity. It was
      natural for four reasons: firstly, because Mrs Quilp being a young woman
      and notoriously under the dominion of her husband ought to be excited to
      rebel; secondly, because Mrs Quilp's parent was known to be laudably
      shrewish in her disposition and inclined to resist male authority;
      thirdly, because each visitor wished to show for herself how superior she
      was in this respect to the generality of her sex; and fourthly, because
      the company being accustomed to scandalise each other in pairs, were
      deprived of their usual subject of conversation now that they were all
      assembled in close friendship, and had consequently no better employment
      than to attack the common enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moved by these considerations, a stout lady opened the proceedings by
      inquiring, with an air of great concern and sympathy, how Mr Quilp was;
      whereunto Mr Quilp's wife's mother replied sharply, 'Oh! He was well
      enough&mdash;nothing much was every the matter with him&mdash;and ill
      weeds were sure to thrive.' All the ladies then sighed in concert, shook
      their heads gravely, and looked at Mrs Quilp as a martyr.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the spokeswoman, 'I wish you'd give her a little of your
      advice, Mrs Jiniwin'&mdash;Mrs Quilp had been a Miss Jiniwin it should be
      observed&mdash;'nobody knows better than you, ma'am, what us women owe to
      ourselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Owe indeed, ma'am!' replied Mrs Jiniwin. 'When my poor husband, her dear
      father, was alive, if he had ever ventured a cross word to me, I'd have&mdash;'
      The good old lady did not finish the sentence, but she twisted off the
      head of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed to imply that the
      action was in some degree a substitute for words. In this light it was
      clearly understood by the other party, who immediately replied with great
      approbation, 'You quite enter into my feelings, ma'am, and it's jist what
      I'd do myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you have no call to do it,' said Mrs Jiniwin. 'Luckily for you, you
      have no more occasion to do it than I had.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No woman need have, if she was true to herself,' rejoined the stout lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you hear that, Betsy?' said Mrs Jiniwin, in a warning voice. 'How
      often have I said the same words to you, and almost gone down my knees
      when I spoke 'em!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mrs Quilp, who had looked in a state of helplessness from one face of
      condolence to another, coloured, smiled, and shook her head doubtfully.
      This was the signal for a general clamour, which beginning in a low murmur
      gradually swelled into a great noise in which everybody spoke at once, and
      all said that she being a young woman had no right to set up her opinions
      against the experiences of those who knew so much better; that it was very
      wrong of her not to take the advice of people who had nothing at heart but
      her good; that it was next door to being downright ungrateful to conduct
      herself in that manner; that if she had no respect for herself she ought
      to have some for other women, all of whom she compromised by her meekness;
      and that if she had no respect for other women, the time would come when
      other women would have no respect for her; and she would be very sorry for
      that, they could tell her. Having dealt out these admonitions, the ladies
      fell to a more powerful assault than they had yet made upon the mixed tea,
      new bread, fresh butter, shrimps, and watercresses, and said that their
      vexation was so great to see her going on like that, that they could
      hardly bring themselves to eat a single morsel.
    </p>
    <p>
      It's all very fine to talk,' said Mrs Quilp with much simplicity, 'but I
      know that if I was to die to-morrow, Quilp could marry anybody he pleased&mdash;now
      that he could, I know!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was quite a scream of indignation at this idea. Marry whom he
      pleased! They would like to see him dare to think of marrying any of them;
      they would like to see the faintest approach to such a thing. One lady (a
      widow) was quite certain she should stab him if he hinted at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well,' said Mrs Quilp, nodding her head, 'as I said just now, it's
      very easy to talk, but I say again that I know&mdash;that I'm sure&mdash;Quilp
      has such a way with him when he likes, that the best looking woman here
      couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free, and he chose to make
      love to her. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Everybody bridled up at this remark, as much as to say, 'I know you mean
      me. Let him try&mdash;that's all.' and yet for some hidden reason they
      were all angry with the widow, and each lady whispered in her neighbour's
      ear that it was very plain that said widow thought herself the person
      referred to, and what a puss she was!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother knows,' said Mrs Quilp, 'that what I say is quite correct, for she
      often said so before we were married. Didn't you say so, mother?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This inquiry involved the respected lady in rather a delicate position,
      for she certainly had been an active party in making her daughter Mrs
      Quilp, and, besides, it was not supporting the family credit to encourage
      the idea that she had married a man whom nobody else would have. On the
      other hand, to exaggerate the captivating qualities of her son-in-law
      would be to weaken the cause of revolt, in which all her energies were
      deeply engaged. Beset by these opposing considerations, Mrs Jiniwin
      admitted the powers of insinuation, but denied the right to govern, and
      with a timely compliment to the stout lady brought back the discussion to
      the point from which it had strayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! It's a sensible and proper thing indeed, what Mrs George has said!'
      exclaimed the old lady. 'If women are only true to themselves!&mdash;But
      Betsy isn't, and more's the shame and pity.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Before I'd let a man order me about as Quilp orders her,' said Mrs
      George, 'before I'd consent to stand in awe of a man as she does of him,
      I'd&mdash;I'd kill myself, and write a letter first to say he did it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This remark being loudly commended and approved of, another lady (from the
      Minories) put in her word:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Quilp may be a very nice man,' said this lady, 'and I supposed there's
      no doubt he is, because Mrs Quilp says he is, and Mrs Jiniwin says he is,
      and they ought to know, or nobody does. But still he is not quite a&mdash;what
      one calls a handsome man, nor quite a young man neither, which might be a
      little excuse for him if anything could be; whereas his wife is young, and
      is good-looking, and is a woman&mdash;which is the greatest thing after
      all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This last clause being delivered with extraordinary pathos, elicited a
      corresponding murmer from the hearers, stimulated by which the lady went
      on to remark that if such a husband was cross and unreasonable with such a
      wife, then&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'If he is!' interposed the mother, putting down her tea-cup and brushing
      the crumbs out of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn declaration. 'If
      he is! He is the greatest tyrant that every lived, she daren't call her
      soul her own, he makes her tremble with a word and even with a look, he
      frightens her to death, and she hasn't the spirit to give him a word back,
      no, not a single word.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding that the fact had been notorious beforehand to all the
      tea-drinkers, and had been discussed and expatiated on at every
      tea-drinking in the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, this
      official communication was no sooner made than they all began to talk at
      once and to vie with each other in vehemence and volubility. Mrs George
      remarked that people would talk, that people had often said this to her
      before, that Mrs Simmons then and there present had told her so twenty
      times, that she had always said, 'No, Henrietta Simmons, unless I see it
      with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears, I never will believe it.'
      Mrs Simmons corroborated this testimony and added strong evidence of her
      own. The lady from the Minories recounted a successful course of treatment
      under which she had placed her own husband, who, from manifesting one
      month after marriage unequivocal symptoms of the tiger, had by this means
      become subdued into a perfect lamb. Another lady recounted her own
      personal struggle and final triumph, in the course whereof she had found
      it necessary to call in her mother and two aunts, and to weep incessantly
      night and day for six weeks. A third, who in the general confusion could
      secure no other listener, fastened herself upon a young woman still
      unmarried who happened to be amongst them, and conjured her, as she valued
      her own peace of mind and happiness to profit by this solemn occasion, to
      take example from the weakness of Mrs Quilp, and from that time forth to
      direct her whole thoughts to taming and subduing the rebellious spirit of
      man. The noise was at its height, and half the company had elevated their
      voices into a perfect shriek in order to drown the voices of the other
      half, when Mrs Jiniwin was seen to change colour and shake her forefinger
      stealthily, as if exhorting them to silence. Then, and not until then,
      Daniel Quilp himself, the cause and occasion of all this clamour, was
      observed to be in the room, looking on and listening with profound
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on, ladies, go on,' said Daniel. 'Mrs Quilp, pray ask the ladies to
      stop to supper, and have a couple of lobsters and something light and
      palatable.'
    </p><div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0044m.jpg" alt="0044m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0044.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      'I&mdash;I&mdash;didn't ask them to tea, Quilp,' stammered his wife. 'It's
      quite an accident.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So much the better, Mrs Quilp; these accidental parties are always the
      pleasantest,' said the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he seemed to
      be engaged in manufacturing, of the dirt with which they were encrusted,
      little charges for popguns. 'What! Not going, ladies, you are not going,
      surely!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His fair enemies tossed their heads slightly as they sought their
      respective bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal contention to Mrs
      Jiniwin, who finding herself in the position of champion, made a faint
      struggle to sustain the character.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And why not stop to supper, Quilp,' said the old lady, 'if my daughter
      had a mind?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' rejoined Daniel. 'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a supper, I hope?' said Mrs
      Jiniwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely not,' returned the dwarf. 'Why should there be? Nor anything
      unwholesome, either, unless there's lobster-salad or prawns, which I'm
      told are not good for digestion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you wouldn't like your wife to be attacked with that, or anything
      else that would make her uneasy would you?' said Mrs Jiniwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not for a score of worlds,' replied the dwarf with a grin. 'Not even to
      have a score of mothers-in-law at the same time&mdash;and what a blessing
      that would be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My daughter's your wife, Mr Quilp, certainly,' said the old lady with a
      giggle, meant for satirical and to imply that he needed to be reminded of
      the fact; 'your wedded wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So she is, certainly. So she is,' observed the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And she has a right to do as she likes, I hope, Quilp,' said the old
      lady trembling, partly with anger and partly with a secret fear of her
      impish son-in-law.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hope she has!' he replied. 'Oh! Don't you know she has? Don't you know
      she has, Mrs Jiniwin?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know she ought to have, Quilp, and would have, if she was of my way of
      thinking.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why an't you of your mother's way of thinking, my dear?' said the dwarf,
      turing round and addressing his wife, 'why don't you always imitate your
      mother, my dear? She's the ornament of her sex&mdash;your father said so
      every day of his life. I am sure he did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her father was a blessed creetur, Quilp, and worthy twenty thousand of
      some people,' said Mrs Jiniwin; 'twenty hundred million thousand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should like to have known him,' remarked the dwarf. 'I dare say he was
      a blessed creature then; but I'm sure he is now. It was a happy release. I
      believe he had suffered a long time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lady gave a gasp, but nothing came of it; Quilp resumed, with the
      same malice in his eye and the same sarcastic politeness on his tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You look ill, Mrs Jiniwin; I know you have been exciting yourself too
      much&mdash;talking perhaps, for it is your weakness. Go to bed. Do go to
      bed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall go when I please, Quilp, and not before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But please to do now. Do please to go now,' said the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman looked angrily at him, but retreated as he advanced, and
      falling back before him, suffered him to shut the door upon her and bolt
      her out among the guests, who were by this time crowding downstairs. Being
      left along with his wife, who sat trembling in a corner with her eyes
      fixed upon the ground, the little man planted himself before her, and
      folding his arms looked steadily at her for a long time without speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs Quilp,' he said at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Quilp,' she replead meekly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of pursing the theme he had in his mind, Quilp folded his arms
      again, and looked at her more sternly than before, while she averted her
      eyes and kept them on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If ever you listen to these beldames again, I'll bite you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this laconic threat, which he accompanied with a snarl that gave him
      the appearance of being particularly in earnest, Mr Quilp bade her clear
      the teaboard away, and bring the rum. The spirit being set before him in a
      huge case-bottle, which had originally come out of some ship's locker, he
      settled himself in an arm-chair with his large head and face squeezed up
      against the back, and his little legs planted on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, Mrs Quilp,' he said; 'I feel in a smoking humour, and shall probably
      blaze away all night. But sit where you are, if you please, in case I want
      you.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0048m.jpg" alt="0048m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0048.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      His wife returned no other reply than the necessary 'Yes, Quilp,' and the
      small lord of the creation took his first cigar and mixed his first glass
      of grog. The sun went down and the stars peeped out, the Tower turned from
      its own proper colours to grey and from grey to black, the room became
      perfectly dark and the end of the cigar a deep fiery red, but still Mr
      Quilp went on smoking and drinking in the same position, and staring
      listlessly out of window with the doglike smile always on his face, save
      when Mrs Quilp made some involuntary movement of restlessness or fatigue;
      and then it expanded into a grin of delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap05"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 5
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hether Mr Quilp took any sleep by snatches of a few winks at a time, or
      whether he sat with his eyes wide open all night long, certain it is that
      he kept his cigar alight, and kindled every fresh one from the ashes of
      that which was nearly consumed, without requiring the assistance of a
      candle. Nor did the striking of the clocks, hour after hour, appear to
      inspire him with any sense of drowsiness or any natural desire to go to
      rest, but rather to increase his wakefulness, which he showed, at every
      such indication of the progress of the night, by a suppressed cackling in
      his throat, and a motion of his shoulders, like one who laughs heartily
      but the same time slyly and by stealth.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the day broke, and poor Mrs Quilp, shivering with cold of early
      morning and harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was discovered sitting
      patiently on her chair, raising her eyes at intervals in mute appeal to
      the compassion and clemency of her lord, and gently reminding him by an
      occasion cough that she was still unpardoned and that her penance had been
      of long duration. But her dwarfish spouse still smoked his cigar and drank
      his rum without heeding her; and it was not until the sun had some time
      risen, and the activity and noise of city day were rife in the street,
      that he deigned to recognize her presence by any word or sign. He might
      not have done so even then, but for certain impatient tapping at the door
      he seemed to denote that some pretty hard knuckles were actively engaged
      upon the other side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why dear me!' he said looking round with a malicious grin, 'it's day.
      Open the door, sweet Mrs Quilp!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her lady mother entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Mrs Jiniwin bounced into the room with great impetuosity; for,
      supposing her son-in-law to be still a-bed, she had come to relieve her
      feelings by pronouncing a strong opinion upon his general conduct and
      character. Seeing that he was up and dressed, and that the room appeared
      to have been occupied ever since she quitted it on the previous evening,
      she stopped short, in some embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing escaped the hawk's eye of the ugly little man, who, perfectly
      understanding what passed in the old lady's mind, turned uglier still in
      the fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her good morning, with a leer or
      triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, Betsy,' said the old woman, 'you haven't been&mdash;you don't mean
      to say you've been a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sitting up all night?' said Quilp, supplying the conclusion of the
      sentence. 'Yes she has!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All night?' cried Mrs Jiniwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, all night. Is the dear old lady deaf?' said Quilp, with a smile of
      which a frown was part. 'Who says man and wife are bad company? Ha ha! The
      time has flown.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a brute!' exclaimed Mrs Jiniwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come come,' said Quilp, wilfully misunderstanding her, of course, 'you
      mustn't call her names. She's married now, you know. And though she did
      beguile the time and keep me from my bed, you must not be so tenderly
      careful of me as to be out of humour with her. Bless you for a dear old
      lady. Here's to your health!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am much obliged to you,' returned the old woman, testifying by a
      certain restlessness in her hands a vehement desire to shake her matronly
      fist at her son-in-law. 'Oh! I'm very much obliged to you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Grateful soul!' cried the dwarf. 'Mrs Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Quilp,' said the timid sufferer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs Quilp. I am going to the wharf
      this morning&mdash;the earlier the better, so be quick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of rebellion by sitting down in a
      chair near the door and folding her arms as if in a resolute determination
      to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her daughter, and a kind
      inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt faint, with a hint that there
      was abundance of cold water in the next apartment, routed these symptoms
      effectually, and she applied herself to the prescribed preparations with
      sullen diligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were in progress, Mr Quilp withdrew to the adjoining room, and,
      turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his countenance with a
      damp towel of very unwholesome appearance, which made his complexion
      rather more cloudy than it was before. But, while he was thus engaged, his
      caution and inquisitiveness did not forsake him, for with a face as sharp
      and cunning as ever, he often stopped, even in this short process, and
      stood listening for any conversation in the next room, of which he might
      be the theme.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' he said after a short effort of attention, 'it was not the towel
      over my ears, I thought it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a
      monster, am I, Mrs Jiniwin? Oh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The pleasure of this discovery called up the old doglike smile in full
      force. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very doglike
      manner, and rejoined the ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp now walked up to front of a looking-glass, and was standing there
      putting on his neckerchief, when Mrs Jiniwin happening to be behind him,
      could not resist the inclination she felt to shake her fist at her tyrant
      son-in-law. It was the gesture of an instant, but as she did so and
      accompanied the action with a menacing look, she met his eye in the glass,
      catching her in the very act. The same glance at the mirror conveyed to
      her the reflection of a horribly grotesque and distorted face with the
      tongue lolling out; and the next instant the dwarf, turning about with a
      perfectly bland and placid look, inquired in a tone of great affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How are you now, my dear old darling?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a
      little fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old woman
      felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered herself
      to be led with extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table. Here he by
      no means diminished the impression he had just produced, for he ate hard
      eggs, shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the heads and tails on,
      chewed tobacco and water-cresses at the same time and with extraordinary
      greediness, drank boiling tea without winking, bit his fork and spoon till
      they bent again, and in short performed so many horrifying and uncommon
      acts that the women were nearly frightened out of their wits, and began to
      doubt if he were really a human creature. At last, having gone through
      these proceedings and many others which were equally a part of his system,
      Mr Quilp left them, reduced to a very obedient and humbled state, and
      betook himself to the river-side, where he took boat for the wharf on
      which he had bestowed his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the ferry to cross
      to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on, some
      sideways, some head first, some stern first; all in a wrong-headed,
      dogged, obstinate way, bumping up against the larger craft, running under
      the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of nook and corner where
      they had no business, and being crunched on all sides like so many
      walnut-shells; while each with its pair of long sweeps struggling and
      splashing in the water looked like some lumbering fish in pain. In some of
      the vessels at anchor all hands were busily engaged in coiling ropes,
      spreading out sails to dry, taking in or discharging their cargoes; in
      others no life was visible but two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a
      barking dog running to and fro upon the deck or scrambling up to look over
      the side and bark the louder for the view. Coming slowly on through the
      forests of masts was a great steamship, beating the water in short
      impatient strokes with her heavy paddles as though she wanted room to
      breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a sea monster among the
      minnows of the Thames. On either hand were long black tiers of colliers;
      between them vessels slowly working out of harbour with sails glistening
      in the sun, and creaking noise on board, re-echoed from a hundred
      quarters. The water and all upon it was in active motion, dancing and
      buoyant and bubbling up; while the old grey Tower and piles of building on
      the shore, with many a church-spire shooting up between, looked coldly on,
      and seemed to disdain their chafing, restless neighbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright morning save in so far
      as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused himself to be
      put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither through a narrow lane
      which, partaking of the amphibious character of its frequenters, had as
      much water as mud in its composition, and a very liberal supply of both.
      Arrived at his destination, the first object that presented itself to his
      view was a pair of very imperfectly shod feet elevated in the air with the
      soles upwards, which remarkable appearance was referable to the boy, who
      being of an eccentric spirit and having a natural taste for tumbling, was
      now standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the river under
      these uncommon circumstances. He was speedily brought on his heels by the
      sound of his master's voice, and as soon as his head was in its right
      position, Mr Quilp, to speak expressively in the absence of a better verb,
      'punched it' for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, you let me alone,' said the boy, parrying Quilp's hand with both
      his elbows alternatively. 'You'll get something you won't like if you
      don't and so I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You dog,' snarled Quilp, 'I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch
      you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me&mdash;I
      will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously diving in
      between the elbows and catching the boy's head as it dodged from side to
      side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having now carried his point
      and insisted on it, he left off.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't do it agin,' said the boy, nodding his head and drawing back,
      with the elbows ready in case of the worst; 'now&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stand still, you dog,' said Quilp. 'I won't do it again, because I've
      done it as often as I want. Here. Take the key.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why don't you hit one of your size?' said the boy approaching very
      slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where is there one of my size, you dog?' returned Quilp. 'Take the key,
      or I'll brain you with it'&mdash;indeed he gave him a smart tap with the
      handle as he spoke. 'Now, open the counting-house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he looked
      round and saw that Quilp was following him with a steady look. And here it
      may be remarked, that between this boy and the dwarf there existed a
      strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, and or nourished upon
      blows and threats on one side, and retorts and defiances on the other, is
      not to the purpose. Quilp would certainly suffer nobody to contract him
      but the boy, and the boy would assuredly not have submitted to be so
      knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had the power to run away at
      any time he chose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting-house, 'you mind the
      wharf. Stand upon your head agin, and I'll cut one of your feet off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut himself in, stood on
      his head before the door, then walked on his hands to the back and stood
      on his head there, and then to the opposite side and repeated the
      performance. There were indeed four sides to the counting-house, but he
      avoided that one where the window was, deeming it probable that Quilp
      would be looking out of it. This was prudent, for in point of fact, the
      dwarf, knowing his disposition, was lying in wait at a little distance
      from the sash armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough and
      jagged and studded in many parts with broken nails, might possibly have
      hurt him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but an
      old ricketty desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanack, an
      inkstand with no ink, and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock
      which hadn't gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the
      minute-hand had been twisted off for a tooth-pick. Daniel Quilp pulled his
      hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk (which had a flat top) and
      stretching his short length upon it went to sleep with ease of an old
      practitioner; intending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the
      deprivation of last night's rest, by a long and sound nap.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0053m.jpg" alt="0053m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0053.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been asleep
      a quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust in his head,
      which was like a bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a light sleeper
      and started up directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's somebody for you,' said the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ask!' said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and
      throwing it at him with such dexterity that it was well the boy
      disappeared before it reached the spot on which he had stood. 'Ask, you
      dog.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Not caring to venture within range of such missles again, the boy
      discreetly sent in his stead the first cause of the interruption, who now
      presented herself at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What, Nelly!' cried Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the
      dwarf just roused, with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him and a
      yellow handkerchief over his head, was something fearful to behold; it's
      only me, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in,' said Quilp, without getting off the desk. 'Come in. Stay. Just
      look out into the yard, and see whether there's a boy standing on his
      head.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir,' replied Nell. 'He's on his feet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're sure he is?' said Quilp. 'Well. Now, come in and shut the door.
      What's your message, Nelly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child handed him a letter. Mr Quilp, without changing his position
      further than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his chin on
      his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0054m.jpg" alt="0054m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0054.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap06"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 6
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ittle Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to the countenance of
      Mr Quilp as he read the letter, plainly showing by her looks that while
      she entertained some fear and distrust of the little man, she was much
      inclined to laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque attitude. And
      yet there was visible on the part of the child a painful anxiety for his
      reply, and consciousness of his power to render it disagreeable or
      distressing, which was strongly at variance with this impulse and
      restrained it more effectually than she could possibly have done by any
      efforts of her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      That Mr Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no small degree, by the
      contents of the letter, was sufficiently obvious. Before he had got
      through the first two or three lines he began to open his eyes very wide
      and to frown most horribly, the next two or three caused him to scratch
      his head in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when he came to the
      conclusion he gave a long dismal whistle indicative of surprise and
      dismay. After folding and laying it down beside him, he bit the nails of
      all of his ten fingers with extreme voracity; and taking it up sharply,
      read it again. The second perusal was to all appearance as unsatisfactory
      as the first, and plunged him into a profound reverie from which he
      awakened to another assault upon his nails and a long stare at the child,
      who with her eyes turned towards the ground awaited his further pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Halloa here!' he said at length, in a voice, and with a suddenness, which
      made the child start as though a gun had been fired off at her ear.
      'Nelly!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your soul?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite sure, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey?' said the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed I don't know,' returned the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look. 'I believe you.
      Humph! Gone already? Gone in four-and-twenty hours! What the devil has he
      done with it, that's the mystery!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This reflection set him scratching his head and biting his nails once
      more. While he was thus employed his features gradually relaxed into what
      was with him a cheerful smile, but which in any other man would have been
      a ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked up again she found that
      he was regarding her with extraordinary favour and complacency.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charmingly pretty. Are you tired,
      Nelly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be anxious while I am
      away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all,' said Quilp. 'How should
      you like to be my number two, Nelly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be what, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My number two, Nelly, my second, my Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child looked frightened, but seemed not to understand him, which Mr
      Quilp observing, hastened to make his meaning more distinctly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be Mrs Quilp the second, when Mrs Quilp the first is dead, sweet
      Nell,' said Quilp, wrinkling up his eyes and luring her towards him with
      his bent forefinger, 'to be my wife, my little cherry-cheeked, red-lipped
      wife. Say that Mrs Quilp lives five year, or only four, you'll be just the
      proper age for me. Ha ha! Be a good girl, Nelly, a very good girl, and see
      if one of these days you don't come to be Mrs Quilp of Tower Hill.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So far from being sustained and stimulated by this delightful prospect,
      the child shrank from him in great agitation, and trembled violently. Mr
      Quilp, either because frightening anybody afforded him a constitutional
      delight, or because it was pleasant to contemplate the death of Mrs Quilp
      number one, and the elevation of Mrs Quilp number two to her post and
      title, or because he was determined from purposes of his own to be
      agreeable and good-humoured at that particular time, only laughed and
      feigned to take no heed of her alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall come with me to Tower Hill and see Mrs Quilp that is,
      directly,' said the dwarf. 'She's very fond of you, Nell, though not so
      fond as I am. You shall come home with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must go back indeed,' said the child. 'He told me to return directly I
      had the answer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you haven't it, Nelly,' retorted the dwarf, 'and won't have it, and
      can't have it, until I have been home, so you see that to do your errand,
      you must go with me. Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go directly.'
      With that, Mr Quilp suffered himself to roll gradually off the desk until
      his short legs touched the ground, when he got upon them and led the way
      from the counting-house to the wharf outside, when the first objects that
      presented themselves were the boy who had stood on his head and another
      young gentleman of about his own stature, rolling in the mud together,
      locked in a tight embrace, and cuffing each other with mutual heartiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's Kit!' cried Nelly, clasping her hand, 'poor Kit who came with me!
      Oh, pray stop them, Mr Quilp!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll stop 'em,' cried Quilp, diving into the little counting-house and
      returning with a thick stick, 'I'll stop 'em. Now, my boys, fight away.
      I'll fight you both. I'll take both of you, both together, both together!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel, and dancing round
      the combatants and treading upon them and skipping over them, in a kind of
      frenzy, laid about him, now on one and now on the other, in a most
      desperate manner, always aiming at their heads and dealing such blows as
      none but the veriest little savage would have inflicted. This being warmer
      work than they had calculated upon, speedily cooled the courage of the
      belligerents, who scrambled to their feet and called for quarter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll beat you to a pulp, you dogs,' said Quilp, vainly endeavoring to get
      near either of them for a parting blow. 'I'll bruise you until you're
      copper-coloured, I'll break your faces till you haven't a profile between
      you, I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you,' said his boy,
      dodging round him and watching an opportunity to rush in; 'you drop that
      stick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull, you dog,' said
      Quilp, with gleaming eyes; 'a little nearer&mdash;nearer yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But the boy declined the invitation until his master was apparently a
      little off his guard, when he darted in and seizing the weapon tried to
      wrest it from his grasp. Quilp, who was as strong as a lion, easily kept
      his hold until the boy was tugging at it with his utmost power, when he
      suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that he fell
      violently upon his head. The success of this manoeuvre tickled Mr Quilp
      beyond description, and he laughed and stamped upon the ground as at a
      most irresistible jest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind,' said the boy, nodding his head and rubbing it at the same
      time; 'you see if ever I offer to strike anybody again because they say
      you're an uglier dwarf than can be seen anywheres for a penny, that's
      all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you mean to say, I'm not, you dog?' returned Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' retorted the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because he said so,' replied to boy, pointing to Kit, 'not because you
      an't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why did he say,' bawled Kit, 'that Miss Nelly was ugly, and that she
      and my master was obliged to do whatever his master liked? Why did he say
      that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said what you did
      because you're very wise and clever&mdash;almost too clever to live,
      unless you're very careful of yourself, Kit.' said Quilp, with great
      suavity in his manner, but still more of quiet malice about his eyes and
      mouth. 'Here's sixpence for you, Kit. Always speak the truth. At all
      times, Kit, speak the truth. Lock the counting-house, you dog, and bring
      me the key.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The other boy, to whom this order was addressed, did as he was told, and
      was rewarded for his partizanship in behalf of his master, by a dexterous
      rap on the nose with the key, which brought the water into his eyes. Then
      Mr Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat, and the boy revenged
      himself by dancing on his head at intervals on the extreme verge of the
      wharf, during the whole time they crossed the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was only Mrs Quilp at home, and she, little expecting the return of
      her lord, was just composing herself for a refreshing slumber when the
      sound of his footsteps roused her. She had barely time to seem to be
      occupied in some needle-work, when he entered, accompanied by the child;
      having left Kit downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs Quilp,' said her husband. 'A glass of wine,
      my dear, and a biscuit, for she has had a long walk. She'll sit with you,
      my soul, while I write a letter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to know what this
      unusual courtesy might portend, and obedient to the summons she saw in his
      gesture, followed him into the next room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind what I say to you,' whispered Quilp. 'See if you can get out of her
      anything about her grandfather, or what they do, or how they live, or what
      he tells her. I've my reasons for knowing, if I can. You women talk more
      freely to one another than you do to us, and you have a soft, mild way
      with you that'll win upon her. Do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go then. What's the matter now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Quilp,' faltered his wife. 'I love the child&mdash;if you could do
      without making me deceive her&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf muttering a terrible oath looked round as if for some weapon
      with which to inflict condign punishment upon his disobedient wife. The
      submissive little woman hurriedly entreated him not to be angry, and
      promised to do as he bade her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you hear me,' whispered Quilp, nipping and pinching her arm; 'worm
      yourself into her secrets; I know you can. I'm listening, recollect. If
      you're not sharp enough, I'll creak the door, and woe betide you if I have
      to creak it much. Go!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Quilp departed according to order, and her amiable husband, ensconcing
      himself behind the partly opened door, and applying his ear close to it,
      began to listen with a face of great craftiness and attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mrs Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner to begin or what kind
      of inquiries she could make; and it was not until the door, creaking in a
      very urgent manner, warned her to proceed without further consideration,
      that the sound of her voice was heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How very often you have come backwards and forwards lately to Mr Quilp,
      my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times,' returned Nell
      innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what has he said to that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so sad and wretched that if
      you could have seen him I am sure you must have cried; you could not have
      helped it more than I, I know. How that door creaks!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It often does.' returned Mrs Quilp, with an uneasy glance towards it.
      'But your grandfather&mdash;he used not to be so wretched?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no!' said the child eagerly, 'so different! We were once so happy and
      he so cheerful and contented! You cannot think what a sad change has
      fallen on us since.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my dear!' said Mrs
      Quilp. And she spoke the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you,' returned the child, kissing her cheek, 'you are always kind
      to me, and it is a pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one else
      about him, but poor Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel happier
      perhaps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me sometimes to see
      him alter so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll alter again, Nelly,' said Mrs Quilp, 'and be what he was before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, if God would only let that come about!' said the child with streaming
      eyes; 'but it is a long time now, since he first began to&mdash;I thought
      I saw that door moving!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the wind,' said Mrs Quilp, faintly. 'Began to&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way of spending
      the time in the long evenings,' said the child. 'I used to read to him by
      the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped and we began to
      talk, he told me about my mother, and how she once looked and spoke just
      like me when she was a little child. Then he used to take me on his knee,
      and try to make me understand that she was not lying in her grave, but had
      flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky where nothing died or ever
      grew old&mdash;we were very happy once!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nelly, Nelly!' said the poor woman, 'I can't bear to see one as young as
      you so sorrowful. Pray don't cry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do so very seldom,' said Nell, 'but I have kept this to myself a long
      time, and I am not quite well, I think, for the tears come into my eyes
      and I cannot keep them back. I don't mind telling you my grief, for I know
      you will not tell it to any one again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said the child, 'we often walked in the fields and among the green
      trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for being tired,
      and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark and rather dull, we
      used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made us remember our
      last walk with greater pleasure, and look forward to our next one. But now
      we never have these walks, and though it is the same house it is darker
      and much more gloomy than it used to be, indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs Quilp
      said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind you don't suppose,' said the child earnestly, 'that grandfather is
      less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day, and is
      kinder and more affectionate than he was the day before. You do not know
      how fond he is of me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure he loves you dearly,' said Mrs Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, indeed he does!' cried Nell, 'as dearly as I love him. But I have
      not told you the greatest change of all, and this you must never breathe
      again to any one. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day
      in his easy chair; for every night and nearly all night long he is away
      from home.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nelly!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking round.
      'When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just before day, I
      let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I saw
      that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were bloodshot, and that his
      legs trembled as he walked. When I had gone to bed again, I heard him
      groan. I got up and ran back to him, and heard him say, before he knew
      that I was there, that he could not bear his life much longer, and if it
      was not for the child, would wish to die. What shall I do! Oh! What shall
      I do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by the
      weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she had ever
      shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been received, hid
      her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst into a passion of
      tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few minutes Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost surprise to
      find her in this condition, which he did very naturally and with admirable
      effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered familiar to him by long
      practice, and he was quite at home in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's tired you see, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf, squinting in a hideous
      manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead. 'It's a long way
      from her home to the wharf, and then she was alarmed to see a couple of
      young scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the water besides. All this
      together has been too much for her. Poor Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means he could have devised
      for the recovery of his young visitor, by patting her on the head. Such an
      application from any other hand might not have produced a remarkable
      effect, but the child shrank so quickly from his touch and felt such an
      instinctive desire to get out of his reach, that she rose directly and
      declared herself ready to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs Quilp and me.' said the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been away too long, sir, already,' returned Nell, drying her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Mr Quilp, 'if you will go, you will, Nelly. Here's the note.
      It's only to say that I shall see him to-morrow or maybe next day, and
      that I couldn't do that little business for him this morning. Good-bye,
      Nelly. Here, you sir; take care of her, d'ye hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make no reply to so needless
      an injunction, and after staring at Quilp in a threatening manner, as if
      he doubted whether he might not have been the cause of Nelly shedding
      tears, and felt more than half disposed to revenge the fact upon him on
      the mere suspicion, turned about and followed his young mistress, who had
      by this time taken her leave of Mrs Quilp and departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs Quilp?' said the dwarf, turning
      upon her as soon as they were left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What more could I do?' returned his wife mildly?
    </p>
    <p>
      'What more could you do!' sneered Quilp, 'couldn't you have done something
      less? Couldn't you have done what you had to do, without appearing in your
      favourite part of the crocodile, you minx?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,' said his wife. 'Surely I've done
      enough. I've led her on to tell her secret she supposed we were alone; and
      you were by, God forgive me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You led her on! You did a great deal truly!' said Quilp. 'What did I tell
      you about making me creak the door? It's lucky for you that from what she
      let fall, I've got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have visited the
      failure upon you, I can tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Quilp being fully persuaded of this, made no reply. Her husband added
      with some exultation,
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you may thank your fortunate stars&mdash;the same stars that made you
      Mrs Quilp&mdash;you may thank them that I'm upon the old gentleman's
      track, and have got a new light. So let me hear no more about this matter
      now or at any other time, and don't get anything too nice for dinner, for
      I shan't be home to it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs Quilp,
      who was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the part she had
      just acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and smothering her head in the
      bed-clothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many less tender-hearted
      persons would have mourned a much greater offence; for, in the majority of
      cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible article, which will bear
      a deal of stretching and adapt itself to a great variety of circumstances.
      Some people by prudent management and leaving it off piece by piece like a
      flannel waistcoat in warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dispense
      with it altogether; but there be others who can assume the garment and
      throw it off at pleasure; and this, being the greatest and most convenient
      improvement, is the one most in vogue.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap07"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 7
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>red,' said Mr Swiveller, 'remember the once popular melody of Begone
      dull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship;
      and pass the rosy wine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Richard Swiveller's apartments were in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane,
      and in addition to this convenience of situation had the advantage of
      being over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled to procure a
      refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out upon the staircase,
      and was saved the trouble and expense of maintaining a snuff-box. It was
      in these apartments that Mr Swiveller made use of the expressions above
      recorded for the consolation and encouragement of his desponding friend;
      and it may not be uninteresting or improper to remark that even these
      brief observations partook in a double sense of the figurative and
      poetical character of Mr Swiveller's mind, as the rosy wine was in fact
      represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water, which was replenished as
      occasion required from a bottle and jug upon the table, and was passed
      from one to another, in a scarcity of tumblers which, as Mr Swiveller's
      was a bachelor's establishment, may be acknowledged without a blush. By a
      like pleasant fiction his single chamber was always mentioned in a plural
      number. In its disengaged times, the tobacconist had announced it in his
      window as 'apartments' for a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following
      up the hint, never failed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or
      his chambers, conveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and
      leaving their imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty halls,
      at pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive piece of
      furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase, which
      occupied a prominent situation in his chamber and seemed to defy suspicion
      and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that by day Mr Swiveller firmly
      believed this secret convenience to be a bookcase and nothing more; that
      he closed his eyes to the bed, resolutely denied the existence of the
      blankets, and spurned the bolster from his thoughts. No word of its real
      use, no hint of its nightly service, no allusion to its peculiar
      properties, had ever passed between him and his most intimate friends.
      Implicit faith in the deception was the first article of his creed. To be
      the friend of Swiveller you must reject all circumstantial evidence, all
      reason, observation, and experience, and repose a blind belief in the
      bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he cherished it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fred!' said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had been
      productive of no effect. 'Pass the rosy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Trent with an impatient gesture pushed the glass towards him, and
      fell again in the moody attitude from which he had been unwillingly
      roused.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll give you, Fred,' said his friend, stirring the mixture, 'a little
      sentiment appropriate to the occasion. Here's May the&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pshaw!' interposed the other. 'You worry me to death with your
      chattering. You can be merry under any circumstances.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, Mr Trent,' returned Dick, 'there is a proverb which talks about
      being merry and wise. There are some people who can be merry and can't be
      wise, and some who can be wise (or think they can) and can't be merry. I'm
      one of the first sort. If the proverb's a good 'un, I suppose it's better
      to keep to half of it than none; at all events, I'd rather be merry and
      not wise, than like you, neither one nor t'other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bah!' muttered his friend, peevishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With all my heart,' said Mr Swiveller. 'In the polite circles I believe
      this sort of thing isn't usually said to a gentleman in his own
      apartments, but never mind that. Make yourself at home,' adding to this
      retort an observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be rather
      'cranky' in point of temper, Richard Swiveller finished the rosy and
      applied himself to the composition of another glassful, in which, after
      tasting it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an imaginary company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen, I'll give you, if you please, Success to the ancient family of
      the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr Richard in particular&mdash;Mr
      Richard, gentlemen,' said Dick with great emphasis, 'who spends all his
      money on his friends and is Bah!'d for his pains. Hear, hear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick!' said the other, returning to his seat after having paced the room
      twice or thrice, 'will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I show you a
      way to make your fortune with very little trouble?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've shown me so many,' returned Dick; 'and nothing has come of any one
      of 'em but empty pockets&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll tell a different story of this one, before a very long time is
      over,' said his companion, drawing his chair to the table. 'You saw my
      sister Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What about her?' returned Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She has a pretty face, has she not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, certainly,' replied Dick. 'I must say for her that there's not any
      very strong family likeness between her and you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has she a pretty face,' repeated his friend impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Dick, 'she has a pretty face, a very pretty face. What of
      that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll tell you,' returned his friend. 'It's very plain that the old man
      and I will remain at daggers drawn to the end of our lives, and that I
      have nothing to expect from him. You see that, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A bat might see that, with the sun shining,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's equally plain that the money which the old flint&mdash;rot him&mdash;first
      taught me to expect that I should share with her at his death, will all be
      hers, is it not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should said it was,' replied Dick; 'unless the way in which I put the
      case to him, made an impression. It may have done so. It was powerful,
      Fred. 'Here is a jolly old grandfather'&mdash;that was strong, I thought&mdash;very
      friendly and natural. Did it strike you in that way?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It didn't strike him,' returned the other, 'so we needn't discuss it. Now
      look here. Nell is nearly fourteen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fine girl of her age, but small,' observed Richard Swiveller
      parenthetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute,' returned Trent, fretting at
      the slight interest the other appeared to take in the conversation. 'Now
      I'm coming to the point.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The girl has strong affections, and brought up as she has been, may, at
      her age, be easily influenced and persuaded. If I take her in hand, I will
      be bound by a very little coaxing and threatening to bend her to my will.
      Not to beat about the bush (for the advantages of the scheme would take a
      week to tell) what's to prevent your marrying her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Swiveller, who had been looking over the rim of the tumbler while
      his companion addressed the foregoing remarks to him with great energy and
      earnestness of manner, no sooner heard these words than he evinced the
      utmost consternation, and with difficulty ejaculated the monosyllable:
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, what's to prevent,' repeated the other with a steadiness of
      manner, of the effect of which upon his companion he was well assured by
      long experience, 'what's to prevent your marrying her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And she "nearly fourteen"!' cried Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't mean marrying her now'&mdash;returned the brother angrily; 'say
      in two year's time, in three, in four. Does the old man look like a
      long-liver?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He don't look like it,' said Dick shaking his head, 'but these old people&mdash;there's
      no trusting them, Fred. There's an aunt of mine down in Dorsetshire that
      was going to die when I was eight years old, and hasn't kept her word yet.
      They're so aggravating, so unprincipled, so spiteful&mdash;unless there's
      apoplexy in the family, Fred, you can't calculate upon 'em, and even then
      they deceive you just as often as not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look at the worst side of the question then,' said Trent as steadily as
      before, and keeping his eyes upon his friend. 'Suppose he lives.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' said Dick. 'There's the rub.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' resumed his friend, 'suppose he lives, and I persuaded, or if the
      word sounds more feasible, forced Nell to a secret marriage with you. What
      do you think would come of that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A family and an annual income of nothing, to keep 'em on,' said Richard
      Swiveller after some reflection.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you,' returned the other with an increased earnestness, which,
      whether it were real or assumed, had the same effect on his companion,
      'that he lives for her, that his whole energies and thoughts are bound up
      in her, that he would no more disinherit her for an act of disobedience
      than he would take me into his favour again for any act of obedience or
      virtue that I could possibly be guilty of. He could not do it. You or any
      other man with eyes in his head may see that, if he chooses.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems improbable certainly,' said Dick, musing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems improbable because it is improbable,' his friend returned. 'If
      you would furnish him with an additional inducement to forgive you, let
      there be an irreconcilable breach, a most deadly quarrel, between you and
      me&mdash;let there be a pretense of such a thing, I mean, of course&mdash;and
      he'll do fast enough. As to Nell, constant dropping will wear away a
      stone; you know you may trust to me as far as she is concerned. So,
      whether he lives or dies, what does it come to? That you become the sole
      inheritor of the wealth of this rich old hunks, that you and I spend it
      together, and that you get into the bargain a beautiful young wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose there's no doubt about his being rich'&mdash;said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Doubt! Did you hear what he left fall the other day when we were there?
      Doubt! What will you doubt next, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be tedious to pursue the conversation through all its artful
      windings, or to develope the gradual approaches by which the heart of
      Richard Swiveller was gained. It is sufficient to know that vanity,
      interest, poverty, and every spendthrift consideration urged him to look
      upon the proposal with favour, and that where all other inducements were
      wanting, the habitual carelessness of his disposition stepped in and still
      weighed down the scale on the same side. To these impulses must be added
      the complete ascendancy which his friend had long been accustomed to
      exercise over him&mdash;an ascendancy exerted in the beginning sorely at
      the expense of his friend's vices, and was in nine cases out of ten looked
      upon as his designing tempter when he was indeed nothing but his
      thoughtless, light-headed tool.
    </p>
    <p>
      The motives on the other side were something deeper than any which Richard
      Swiveller entertained or understood, but these being left to their own
      development, require no present elucidation. The negotiation was concluded
      very pleasantly, and Mr Swiveller was in the act of stating in flowery
      terms that he had no insurmountable objection to marrying anybody
      plentifully endowed with money or moveables, who could be induced to take
      him, when he was interrupted in his observations by a knock at the door,
      and the consequent necessity of crying 'Come in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The door was opened, but nothing came in except a soapy arm and a strong
      gush of tobacco. The gush of tobacco came from the shop downstairs, and
      the soapy arm proceeded from the body of a servant-girl, who being then
      and there engaged in cleaning the stairs had just drawn it out of a warm
      pail to take in a letter, which letter she now held in her hand,
      proclaiming aloud with that quick perception of surnames peculiar to her
      class that it was for Mister Snivelling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick looked rather pale and foolish when he glanced at the direction, and
      still more so when he came to look at the inside, observing that it was
      one of the inconveniences of being a lady's man, and that it was very easy
      to talk as they had been talking, but he had quite forgotten her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her. Who?' demanded Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sophy Wackles,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who's she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's all my fancy painted her, sir, that's what she is,' said Mr
      Swiveller, taking a long pull at 'the rosy' and looking gravely at his
      friend. 'She's lovely, she's divine. You know her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember,' said his companion carelessly. 'What of her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, sir,' returned Dick, 'between Miss Sophia Wackles and the humble
      individual who has now the honor to address you, warm and tender
      sentiments have been engendered, sentiments of the most honourable and
      inspiring kind. The Goddess Diana, sir, that calls aloud for the chase, is
      not more particular in her behavior than Sophia Wackles; I can tell you
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Am I to believe there's anything real in what you say?' demanded his
      friend; 'you don't mean to say that any love-making has been going on?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Love-making, yes. Promising, no,' said Dick. 'There can be no action for
      breach, that's one comfort. I've never committed myself in writing, Fred.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what's in the letter, pray?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A reminder, Fred, for to-night&mdash;a small party of twenty, making two
      hundred light fantastic toes in all, supposing every lady and gentleman to
      have the proper complement. I must go, if it's only to begin breaking off
      the affair&mdash;I'll do it, don't you be afraid. I should like to know
      whether she left this herself. If she did, unconscious of any bar to her
      happiness, it's affecting, Fred.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To solve this question, Mr Swiveller summoned the handmaid and ascertained
      that Miss Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with her own hands; and
      that she had come accompanied, for decorum's sake no doubt, by a younger
      Miss Wackles; and that on learning that Mr Swiveller was at home and being
      requested to walk upstairs, she was extremely shocked and professed that
      she would rather die. Mr Swiveller heard this account with a degree of
      admiration not altogether consistent with the project in which he had just
      concurred, but his friend attached very little importance to his behavior
      in this respect, probably because he knew that he had influence sufficient
      to control Richard Swiveller's proceedings in this or any other matter,
      whenever he deemed it necessary, for the advancement of his own purposes,
      to exert it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap08"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 8
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>usiness disposed of, Mr Swiveller was inwardly reminded of its being nigh
      dinner-time, and to the intent that his health might not be endangered by
      longer abstinence, dispatched a message to the nearest eating-house
      requiring an immediate supply of boiled beef and greens for two. With this
      demand, however, the eating-house (having experience of its customer)
      declined to comply, churlishly sending back for answer that if Mr
      Swiveller stood in need of beef perhaps he would be so obliging as to come
      there and eat it, bringing with him, as grace before meat, the amount of a
      certain small account which had long been outstanding. Not at all
      intimidated by this rebuff, but rather sharpened in wits and appetite, Mr
      Swiveller forwarded the same message to another and more distant
      eating-house, adding to it by way of rider that the gentleman was induced
      to send so far, not only by the great fame and popularity its beef had
      acquired, but in consequence of the extreme toughness of the beef retailed
      at the obdurant cook's shop, which rendered it quite unfit not merely for
      gentlemanly food, but for any human consumption. The good effect of this
      politic course was demonstrated by the speedy arrival of a small pewter
      pyramid, curiously constructed of platters and covers, whereof the
      boiled-beef-plates formed the base, and a foaming quart-pot the apex; the
      structure being resolved into its component parts afforded all things
      requisite and necessary for a hearty meal, to which Mr Swiveller and his
      friend applied themselves with great keenness and enjoyment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May the present moment,' said Dick, sticking his fork into a large
      carbuncular potato, 'be the worst of our lives! I like the plan of sending
      'em with the peel on; there's a charm in drawing a potato from its native
      element (if I may so express it) to which the rich and powerful are
      strangers. Ah! "Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little
      long!" How true that is!&mdash;after dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope the eating-house keeper will want but little and that he may not
      want that little long,' returned his companion; but I suspect you've no
      means of paying for this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be passing present, and I'll call,' said Dick, winking his eye
      significantly. 'The waiter's quite helpless. The goods are gone, Fred, and
      there's an end of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome truth,
      for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was informed by
      Mr Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would call and settle
      when he should be passing presently, he displayed some perturbation of
      spirit and muttered a few remarks about 'payment on delivery' and 'no
      trust,' and other unpleasant subjects, but was fain to content himself
      with inquiring at what hour it was likely that the gentleman would call,
      in order that being presently responsible for the beef, greens, and
      sundries, he might take to be in the way at the time. Mr Swiveller, after
      mentally calculating his engagements to a nicety, replied that he should
      look in at from two minutes before six and seven minutes past; and the man
      disappearing with this feeble consolation, Richard Swiveller took a greasy
      memorandum-book from his pocket and made an entry therein.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call?' said Trent with a
      sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not exactly, Fred,' replied the imperturbable Richard, continuing to
      write with a businesslike air. 'I enter in this little book the names of
      the streets that I can't go down while the shops are open. This dinner
      today closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen Street
      last week, and made that no throughfare too. There's only one avenue to
      the Strand left often now, and I shall have to stop up that to-night with
      a pair of gloves. The roads are closing so fast in every direction, that
      in a month's time, unless my aunt sends me a remittance, I shall have to
      go three or four miles out of town to get over the way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no fear of failing, in the end?' said Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I hope not,' returned Mr Swiveller, 'but the average number of
      letters it take to soften her is six, and this time we have got as far as
      eight without any effect at all. I'll write another to-morrow morning. I
      mean to blot it a good deal and shake some water over it out of the
      pepper-castor to make it look penitent. "I'm in such a state of mind that
      I hardly know what I write"&mdash;blot&mdash;"if you could see me at this
      minute shedding tears for my past misconduct"&mdash;pepper-castor&mdash;my
      hand trembles when I think"&mdash;blot again&mdash;if that don't produce
      the effect, it's all over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time, Mr Swiveller had finished his entry, and he now replaced his
      pencil in its little sheath and closed the book, in a perfectly grave and
      serious frame of mind. His friend discovered that it was time for him to
      fulfil some other engagement, and Richard Swiveller was accordingly left
      alone, in company with the rosy wine and his own meditations touching Miss
      Sophy Wackles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's rather sudden,' said Dick shaking his head with a look of infinite
      wisdom, and running on (as he was accustomed to do) with scraps of verse
      as if they were only prose in a hurry; 'when the heart of a man is
      depressed with fears, the mist is dispelled when Miss Wackles appears;
      she's a very nice girl. She's like the red red rose that's newly sprung in
      June&mdash;there's no denying that&mdash;she's also like a melody that's
      sweetly played in tune. It's really very sudden. Not that there's any
      need, on account of Fred's little sister, to turn cool directly, but its
      better not to go too far. If I begin to cool at all I must begin at once,
      I see that. There's the chance of an action for breach, that's another.
      There's the chance of&mdash;no, there's no chance of that, but it's as
      well to be on the safe side.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This undeveloped was the possibility, which Richard Swiveller sought to
      conceal even from himself, of his not being proof against the charms of
      Miss Wackles, and in some unguarded moment, by linking his fortunes to
      hers forever, of putting it out of his own power to further their notable
      scheme to which he had so readily become a party. For all these reasons,
      he decided to pick a quarrel with Miss Wackles without delay, and casting
      about for a pretext determined in favour of groundless jealousy. Having
      made up his mind on this important point, he circulated the glass (from
      his right hand to left, and back again) pretty freely, to enable him to
      act his part with the greater discretion, and then, after making some
      slight improvements in his toilet, bent his steps towards the spot
      hallowed by the fair object of his meditations.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spot was at Chelsea, for there Miss Sophia Wackles resided with her
      widowed mother and two sisters, in conjunction with whom she maintained a
      very small day-school for young ladies of proportionate dimensions; a
      circumstance which was made known to the neighbourhood by an oval board
      over the front first-floor windows, whereupon appeared in circumambient
      flourishes the words 'Ladies' Seminary'; and which was further published
      and proclaimed at intervals between the hours of half-past nine and ten in
      the morning, by a straggling and solitary young lady of tender years
      standing on the scraper on the tips of her toes and making futile attempts
      to reach the knocker with a spelling-book. The several duties of
      instruction in this establishment were thus discharged. English grammar,
      composition, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells, by Miss Melissa
      Wackles; writing, arithmetic, dancing, music, and general fascination, by
      Miss Sophia Wackles; the art of needle-work, marking, and samplery, by
      Miss Jane Wackles; corporal punishment, fasting, and other tortures and
      terrors, by Mrs Wackles. Miss Melissa Wackles was the eldest daughter,
      Miss Sophy the next, and Miss Jane the youngest. Miss Melissa might have
      seen five-and-thirty summers or thereabouts, and verged on the autumnal;
      Miss Sophy was a fresh, good humoured, buxom girl of twenty; and Miss Jane
      numbered scarcely sixteen years. Mrs Wackles was an excellent but rather
      venomous old lady of three-score.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Ladies' Seminary, then, Richard Swiveller hied, with designs
      obnoxious to the peace of the fair Sophia, who, arrayed in virgin white,
      embellished by no ornament but one blushing rose, received him on his
      arrival, in the midst of very elegant not to say brilliant preparations;
      such as the embellishment of the room with the little flower-pots which
      always stood on the window-sill outside, save in windy weather when they
      blew into the area; the choice attire of the day-scholars who were allowed
      to grace the festival; the unwonted curls of Miss Jane Wackles who had
      kept her head during the whole of the preceding day screwed up tight in a
      yellow play-bill; and the solemn gentility and stately bearing of the old
      lady and her eldest daughter, which struck Mr Swiveller as being uncommon
      but made no further impression upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The truth is&mdash;and, as there is no accounting for tastes, even a taste
      so strange as this may be recorded without being looked upon as a wilful
      and malicious invention&mdash;the truth is that neither Mrs Wackles nor
      her eldest daughter had at any time greatly favoured the pretensions of Mr
      Swiveller, being accustomed to make slight mention of him as 'a gay young
      man' and to sigh and shake their heads ominously whenever his name was
      mentioned. Mr Swiveller's conduct in respect to Miss Sophy having been of
      that vague and dilatory kind which is usually looked upon as betokening no
      fixed matrimonial intentions, the young lady herself began in course of
      time to deem it highly desirable, that it should be brought to an issue
      one way or other. Hence she had at last consented to play off against
      Richard Swiveller a stricken market-gardner known to be ready with his
      offer on the smallest encouragement, and hence&mdash;as this occasion had
      been specially assigned for the purpose&mdash;that great anxiety on her
      part for Richard Swiveller's presence which had occasioned her to leave
      the note he has been seen to receive. 'If he has any expectations at all
      or any means of keeping a wife well,' said Mrs Wackles to her eldest
      daughter, 'he'll state 'em to us now or never.'&mdash;'If he really cares
      about me,' thought Miss Sophy, 'he must tell me so, to-night.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0072m.jpg" alt="0072m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0072.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      But all these sayings and doings and thinkings being unknown to Mr
      Swiveller, affected him not in the least; he was debating in his mind how
      he could best turn jealous, and wishing that Sophy were for that occasion
      only far less pretty than she was, or that she were her own sister, which
      would have served his turn as well, when the company came, and among them
      the market-gardener, whose name was Cheggs. But Mr Cheggs came not alone
      or unsupported, for he prudently brought along with him his sister, Miss
      Cheggs, who making straight to Miss Sophy and taking her by both hands,
      and kissing her on both cheeks, hoped in an audible whisper that they had
      not come too early.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Too early, no!' replied Miss Sophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, my dear,' rejoined Miss Cheggs in the same whisper as before, 'I've
      been so tormented, so worried, that it's a mercy we were not here at four
      o'clock in the afternoon. Alick has been in such a state of impatience to
      come! You'd hardly believe that he was dressed before dinner-time and has
      been looking at the clock and teasing me ever since. It's all your fault,
      you naughty thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Hereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and Mr Cheggs (who was bashful before ladies)
      blushed too, and Miss Sophy's mother and sisters, to prevent Mr Cheggs
      from blushing more, lavished civilities and attentions upon him, and left
      Richard Swiveller to take care of himself. Here was the very thing he
      wanted, here was good cause reason and foundation for pretending to be
      angry; but having this cause reason and foundation which he had come
      expressly to seek, not expecting to find, Richard Swiveller was angry in
      sound earnest, and wondered what the devil Cheggs meant by his impudence.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Mr Swiveller had Miss Sophy's hand for the first quadrille
      (country-dances being low, were utterly proscribed) and so gained an
      advantage over his rival, who sat despondingly in a corner and
      contemplated the glorious figure of the young lady as she moved through
      the mazy dance. Nor was this the only start Mr Swiveller had of the
      market-gardener, for determining to show the family what quality of man
      they trifled with, and influenced perhaps by his late libations, he
      performed such feats of agility and such spins and twirls as filled the
      company with astonishment, and in particular caused a very long gentleman
      who was dancing with a very short scholar, to stand quite transfixed by
      wonder and admiration. Even Mrs Wackles forgot for the moment to snub
      three small young ladies who were inclined to be happy, and could not
      repress a rising thought that to have such a dancer as that in the family
      would be a pride indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this momentous crisis, Miss Cheggs proved herself a vigourous and
      useful ally, for not confining herself to expressing by scornful smiles a
      contempt for Mr Swiveller's accomplishments, she took every opportunity of
      whispering into Miss Sophy's ear expressions of condolence and sympathy on
      her being worried by such a ridiculous creature, declaring that she was
      frightened to death lest Alick should fall upon, and beat him, in the
      fulness of his wrath, and entreating Miss Sophy to observe how the eyes of
      the said Alick gleamed with love and fury; passions, it may be observed,
      which being too much for his eyes rushed into his nose also, and suffused
      it with a crimson glow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must dance with Miss Cheggs,' said Miss Sophy to Dick Swiviller, after
      she had herself danced twice with Mr Cheggs and made great show of
      encouraging his advances. 'She's a nice girl&mdash;and her brother's quite
      delightful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite delightful, is he?' muttered Dick. 'Quite delighted too, I should
      say, from the manner in which he's looking this way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Miss Jane (previously instructed for the purpose) interposed her many
      curls and whispered her sister to observe how jealous Mr Cheggs was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Jealous! Like his impudence!' said Richard Swiviller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His impudence, Mr Swiviller!' said Miss Jane, tossing her head. 'Take
      care he don't hear you, sir, or you may be sorry for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, pray, Jane&mdash;' said Miss Sophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense!' replied her sister. 'Why shouldn't Mr Cheggs be jealous if he
      likes? I like that, certainly. Mr Cheggs has a good a right to be jealous
      as anyone else has, and perhaps he may have a better right soon if he
      hasn't already. You know best about that, Sophy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Though this was a concerted plot between Miss Sophy and her sister,
      originating in humane intentions and having for its object the inducing Mr
      Swiviller to declare himself in time, it failed in its effect; for Miss
      Jane being one of those young ladies who are prematurely shrill and
      shrewish, gave such undue importance to her part that Mr Swiviller retired
      in dudgeon, resigning his mistress to Mr Cheggs and conveying a defiance
      into his looks which that gentleman indignantly returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you speak to me, sir?' said Mr Cheggs, following him into a corner.
      'Have the kindness to smile, sir, in order that we may not be suspected.
      Did you speak to me, sir'?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiviller looked with a supercilious smile at Mr Chegg's toes, then
      raised his eyes from them to his ankles, from that to his shin, from that
      to his knee, and so on very gradually, keeping up his right leg, until he
      reached his waistcoat, when he raised his eyes from button to button until
      he reached his chin, and travelling straight up the middle of his nose
      came at last to his eyes, when he said abruptly,
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir, I didn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      `'Hem!' said Mr Cheggs, glancing over his shoulder, 'have the goodness to
      smile again, sir. Perhaps you wished to speak to me, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir, I didn't do that, either.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps you may have nothing to say to me now, sir,' said Mr Cheggs
      fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words Richard Swiviller withdrew his eyes from Mr Chegg's face,
      and travelling down the middle of his nose and down his waistcoat and down
      his right leg, reached his toes again, and carefully surveyed him; this
      done, he crossed over, and coming up the other leg, and thence approaching
      by the waistcoat as before, said when had got to his eyes, 'No sir, I
      haven't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed, sir!' said Mr Cheggs. 'I'm glad to hear it. You know where
      I'm to be found, I suppose, sir, in case you should have anything to say
      to me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can easily inquire, sir, when I want to know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's nothing more we need say, I believe, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing more, sir'&mdash;With that they closed the tremendous dialog by
      frowning mutually. Mr Cheggs hastened to tender his hand to Miss Sophy,
      and Mr Swiviller sat himself down in a corner in a very moody state.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hard by this corner, Mrs Wackles and Miss Wackles were seated, looking on
      at the dance; and unto Mrs and Miss Wackles, Miss Cheggs occasionally
      darted when her partner was occupied with his share of the figure, and
      made some remark or other which was gall and wormwood to Richard
      Swiviller's soul. Looking into the eyes of Mrs and Miss Wackles for
      encouragement, and sitting very upright and uncomfortable on a couple of
      hard stools, were two of the day-scholars; and when Miss Wackles smiled,
      and Mrs Wackles smiled, the two little girls on the stools sought to curry
      favour by smiling likewise, in gracious acknowledgement of which attention
      the old lady frowned them down instantly, and said that if they dared to
      be guilty of such an impertinence again, they should be sent under convoy
      to their respective homes. This threat caused one of the young ladies, she
      being of a weak and trembling temperament, to shed tears, and for this
      offense they were both filed off immediately, with a dreadful promptitude
      that struck terror into the souls of all the pupils.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've got such news for you,' said Miss Cheggs approaching once more,
      'Alick has been saying such things to Sophy. Upon my word, you know, it's
      quite serious and in earnest, that's clear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's he been saying, my dear?' demanded Mrs Wackles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All manner of things,' replied Miss Cheggs, 'you can't think how out he
      has been speaking!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Swiviller considered it advisable to hear no more, but taking
      advantage of a pause in the dancing, and the approach of Mr Cheggs to pay
      his court to the old lady, swaggered with an extremely careful assumption
      of extreme carelessness toward the door, passing on the way Miss Jane
      Wackles, who in all the glory of her curls was holding a flirtation, (as
      good practice when no better was to be had) with a feeble old gentleman
      who lodged in the parlour. Near the door sat Miss Sophy, still fluttered
      and confused by the attentions of Mr Cheggs, and by her side Richard
      Swiveller lingered for a moment to exchange a few parting words.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My boat is on the shore and my bark is on the sea, but before I pass this
      door I will say farewell to thee,' murmured Dick, looking gloomily upon
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you going?' said Miss Sophy, whose heart sank within her at the
      result of her stratagem, but who affected a light indifference
      notwithstanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Am I going!' echoed Dick bitterly. 'Yes, I am. What then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, except that it's very early,' said Miss Sophy; 'but you are your
      own master, of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would that I had been my own mistress too,' said Dick, 'before I had
      ever entertained a thought of you. Miss Wackles, I believed you true, and
      I was blest in so believing, but now I mourn that e'er I knew, a girl so
      fair yet so deceiving.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sophy bit her lip and affected to look with great interest after Mr
      Cheggs, who was quaffing lemonade in the distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I came here,' said Dick, rather oblivious of the purpose with which he
      had really come, 'with my bosom expanded, my heart dilated, and my
      sentiments of a corresponding description. I go away with feelings that
      may be conceived but cannot be described, feeling within myself that
      desolating truth that my best affections have experienced this night a
      stifler!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Swiviller,' said Miss Sophy with
      downcast eyes. 'I'm very sorry if&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sorry, Ma'am!' said Dick, 'sorry in the possession of a Cheggs! But I
      wish you a very good night, concluding with this slight remark, that there
      is a young lady growing up at this present moment for me, who has not only
      great personal attractions but great wealth, and who has requested her
      next of kin to propose for my hand, which, having a regard for some
      members of her family, I have consented to promise. It's a gratifying
      circumstance which you'll be glad to hear, that a young and lovely girl is
      growing into a woman expressly on my account, and is now saving up for me.
      I thought I'd mention it. I have now merely to apologize for trespassing
      so long upon your attention. Good night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's one good thing springs out of all this,' said Richard Swiviller
      to himself when he had reached home and was hanging over the candle with
      the extinguisher in his hand, 'which is, that I now go heart and soul,
      neck and heels, with Fred in all his scheme about little Nelly, and right
      glad he'll be to find me so strong upon it. He shall know all about that
      to-morrow, and in the meantime, as it's rather late, I'll try and get a
      wink of the balmy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The balmy' came almost as soon as it was courted. In a very few minutes
      Mr Swiviller was fast asleep, dreaming that he had married Nelly Trent and
      come into the property, and that his first act of power was to lay waste
      the market-garden of Mr Cheggs and turn it into a brick-field.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap09"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 9
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he child, in her confidence with Mrs Quilp, had but feebly described the
      sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness of the cloud which
      overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its hearth. Besides that it
      was very difficult to impart to any person not intimately acquainted with
      the life she led, an adequate sense of its gloom and loneliness, a
      constant fear of in some way committing or injuring the old man to whom
      she was so tenderly attached, had restrained her, even in the midst of her
      heart's overflowing, and made her timid of allusion to the main cause of
      her anxiety and distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by variety and uncheered
      by pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary evenings or the long
      solitary nights, it was not the absence of every slight and easy pleasure
      for which young hearts beat high, or the knowing nothing of childhood but
      its weakness and its easily wounded spirit, that had wrung such tears from
      Nell. To see the old man struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden
      grief, to mark his wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated at times
      with a dreadful fear that his mind was wandering, and to trace in his
      words and looks the dawning of despondent madness; to watch and wait and
      listen for confirmation of these things day after day, and to feel and
      know that, come what might, they were alone in the world with no one to
      help or advise or care about them&mdash;these were causes of depression
      and anxiety that might have sat heavily on an older breast with many
      influences at work to cheer and gladden it, but how heavily on the mind of
      a young child to whom they were ever present, and who was constantly
      surrounded by all that could keep such thoughts in restless action!
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. When he could,
      for a moment, disengage his mind from the phantom that haunted and brooded
      on it always, there was his young companion with the same smile for him,
      the same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same love and care that,
      sinking deep into his soul, seemed to have been present to him through his
      whole life. And so he went on, content to read the book of her heart from
      the page first presented to him, little dreaming of the story that lay
      hidden in its other leaves, and murmuring within himself that at least the
      child was happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had been once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms, and moving
      with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures, making them older
      by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and cheerful
      presence. But, now, the chambers were cold and gloomy, and when she left
      her own little room to while away the tedious hours, and sat in one of
      them, she was still and motionless as their inanimate occupants, and had
      no heart to startle the echoes&mdash;hoarse from their long silence&mdash;with
      her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street, where the
      child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night,
      alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch and wait; at
      these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her mind, in crowds.
    </p>
    <p>
      She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as they
      passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the opposite
      houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that in which
      she sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her sitting
      there, as she did only to see them look out and draw in their heads again.
      There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the roofs, in which, by
      often looking at them, she had fancied ugly faces that were frowning over
      at her and trying to peer into the room; and she felt glad when it grew
      too dark to make them out, though she was sorry too, when the man came to
      light the lamps in the street&mdash;for it made it late, and very dull
      inside. Then, she would draw in her head to look round the room and see
      that everything was in its place and hadn't moved; and looking out into
      the street again, would perhaps see a man passing with a coffin on his
      back, and two or three others silently following him to a house where
      somebody lay dead; which made her shudder and think of such things until
      they suggested afresh the old man's altered face and manner, and a new
      train of fears and speculations. If he were to die&mdash;if sudden illness
      had happened to him, and he were never to come home again, alive&mdash;if,
      one night, he should come home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and after
      she had gone to bed and had fallen asleep and was perhaps dreaming
      pleasantly, and smiling in her sleep, he should kill himself and his blood
      come creeping, creeping, on the ground to her own bed-room door! These
      thoughts were too terrible to dwell upon, and again she would have
      recourse to the street, now trodden by fewer feet, and darker and more
      silent than before. The shops were closing fast, and lights began to shine
      from the upper windows, as the neighbours went to bed. By degrees, these
      dwindled away and disappeared or were replaced, here and there, by a
      feeble rush-candle which was to burn all night. Still, there was one late
      shop at no great distance which sent forth a ruddy glare upon the pavement
      even yet, and looked bright and companionable. But, in a little time, this
      closed, the light was extinguished, and all was gloomy and quiet, except
      when some stray footsteps sounded on the pavement, or a neighbour, out
      later than his wont, knocked lustily at his house-door to rouse the
      sleeping inmates.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it had) the
      child would close the window, and steal softly down stairs, thinking as
      she went that if one of those hideous faces below, which often mingled
      with her dreams, were to meet her by the way, rendering itself visible by
      some strange light of its own, how terrified she would be. But these fears
      vanished before a well-trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect of her own
      room. After praying fervently, and with many bursting tears, for the old
      man, and the restoration of his peace of mind and the happiness they had
      once enjoyed, she would lay her head upon the pillow and sob herself to
      sleep: often starting up again, before the day-light came, to listen for
      the bell and respond to the imaginary summons which had roused her from
      her slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs Quilp, the old man,
      who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not leave home. The
      child's eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her joy subsided when they
      reverted to his worn and sickly face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two days,' he said, 'two whole, clear, days have passed, and there is no
      reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True,' said the old man, faintly. 'Yes. But tell me again, Nell. My head
      fails me. What was it that he told thee? Nothing more than that he would
      see me to-morrow or next day? That was in the note.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing more,' said the child. 'Shall I go to him again to-morrow, dear
      grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back, before breakfast.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her towards him.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he deserts me,
      Nell, at this moment&mdash;if he deserts me now, when I should, with his
      assistance, be recompensed for all the time and money I have lost, and all
      the agony of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, I am
      ruined, and&mdash;worse, far worse than that&mdash;have ruined thee, for
      whom I ventured all. If we are beggars&mdash;!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What if we are?' said the child boldly. 'Let us be beggars, and be
      happy.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0081m.jpg" alt="0081m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0081.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Beggars&mdash;and happy!' said the old man. 'Poor child!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear grandfather,' cried the girl with an energy which shone in her
      flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, 'I am not a child
      in that I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may beg, or
      work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather than live as
      we do now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nelly!' said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now,' the child repeated, more
      earnestly than before. 'If you are sorrowful, let me know why and be
      sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every day, let
      me be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be poor
      together; but let me be with you, do let me be with you; do not let me see
      such change and not know why, or I shall break my heart and die. Dear
      grandfather, let us leave this sad place to-morrow, and beg our way from
      door to door.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the pillow of
      the couch on which he lay.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us be beggars,' said the child passing an arm round his neck, 'I have
      no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall. Let us walk through
      country places, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of
      money again, or anything that can make you sad, but rest at nights, and
      have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day, and thank God together!
      Let us never set foot in dark rooms or melancholy houses, any more, but
      wander up and down wherever we like to go; and when you are tired, you
      shall stop to rest in the pleasantest place that we can find, and I will
      go and beg for both.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old man's neck;
      nor did she weep alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for other eyes.
      And yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in all that
      passed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no less a person than
      Mr Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child first placed
      herself at the old man's side, refrained&mdash;actuated, no doubt, by
      motives of the purest delicacy&mdash;from interrupting the conversation,
      and stood looking on with his accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a
      tiresome attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the
      dwarf being one of that kind of persons who usually make themselves at
      home, he soon cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped with
      uncommon agility, and perching himself on the back with his feet upon the
      seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort to
      himself, besides gratifying at the same time that taste for doing
      something fantastic and monkey-like, which on all occasions had strong
      possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over the
      other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his head turned a little
      on one side, and his ugly features twisted into a complacent grimace. And
      in this position the old man, happening in course of time to look that
      way, at length chanced to see him: to his unbounded astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this agreeable figure;
      in their first surprise both she and the old man, not knowing what to say,
      and half doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. Not at all
      disconcerted by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the same attitude,
      merely nodding twice or thrice with great condescension. At length, the
      old man pronounced his name, and inquired how he came there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Through the door,' said Quilp pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.
      'I'm not quite small enough to get through key-holes. I wish I was. I want
      to have some talk with you, particularly, and in private. With nobody
      present, neighbour. Good-bye, little Nelly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed her
      cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the dwarf, smacking his lips, 'what a nice kiss that was&mdash;just
      upon the rosy part. What a capital kiss!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark. Quilp looked
      after her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the door, fell to
      complimenting the old man upon her charms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbour,' said Quilp,
      nursing his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much; 'such a
      chubby, rosy, cosy, little Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly struggling with a
      feeling of the keenest and most exquisite impatience. It was not lost upon
      Quilp, who delighted in torturing him, or indeed anybody else, when he
      could.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's so,' said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be quite
      absorbed in the subject, 'so small, so compact, so beautifully modelled,
      so fair, with such blue veins and such a transparent skin, and such little
      feet, and such winning ways&mdash;but bless me, you're nervous! Why
      neighbour, what's the matter? I swear to you,' continued the dwarf
      dismounting from the chair and sitting down in it, with a careful slowness
      of gesture very different from the rapidity with which he had sprung up
      unheard, 'I swear to you that I had no idea old blood ran so fast or kept
      so warm. I thought it was sluggish in its course, and cool, quite cool. I
      am pretty sure it ought to be. Yours must be out of order, neighbour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe it is,' groaned the old man, clasping his head with both hands.
      'There's burning fever here, and something now and then to which I fear to
      give a name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced
      restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his seat. Here
      he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for some time, and then
      suddenly raising it, said,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' returned Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said the old man, clenching his hands desperately, and looking
      upwards, 'the child and I are lost!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Neighbour,' said Quilp glancing sternly at him, and beating his hand
      twice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering attention, 'let me
      be plain with you, and play a fairer game than when you held all the
      cards, and I saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret from
      me now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man looked up, trembling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are surprised,' said Quilp. 'Well, perhaps that's natural. You have
      no secret from me now, I say; no, not one. For now, I know, that all those
      sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and supplies that you have
      had from me, have found their way to&mdash;shall I say the word?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye!' replied the old man, 'say it, if you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the gaming-table,' rejoined Quilp, 'your nightly haunt. This was the
      precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the secret certain
      source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my money (if I had been the
      fool you took me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of gold, your El
      Dorado, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes, 'it was. It
      is. It will be, till I die.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I should have been blinded,' said Quilp looking contemptuously at
      him, 'by a mere shallow gambler!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am no gambler,' cried the old man fiercely. 'I call Heaven to witness
      that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play; that at every piece
      I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's name and called on Heaven to
      bless the venture;&mdash;which it never did. Whom did it prosper? Who were
      those with whom I played? Men who lived by plunder, profligacy, and riot;
      squandering their gold in doing ill, and propagating vice and evil. My
      winnings would have been from them, my winnings would have been bestowed
      to the last farthing on a young sinless child whose life they would have
      sweetened and made happy. What would they have contracted? The means of
      corruption, wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have hoped in such a
      cause? Tell me that! Who would not have hoped as I did?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When did you first begin this mad career?' asked Quilp, his taunting
      inclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief and wildness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When did I first begin?' he rejoined, passing his hand across his brow.
      'When was it, that I first began? When should it be, but when I began to
      think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all, how
      short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she would be left to
      the rough mercies of the world, with barely enough to keep her from the
      sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was that I began to think about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed off to
      sea?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shortly after that,' replied the old man. 'I thought of it a long time,
      and had it in my sleep for months. Then I began. I found no pleasure in
      it, I expected none. What has it ever brought me but anxious days and
      sleepless nights; but loss of health and peace of mind, and gain of
      feebleness and sorrow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to me. While I
      thought you were making your fortune (as you said you were) you were
      making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear me! And so it comes to pass that I hold
      every security you could scrape together, and a bill of sale upon the&mdash;upon
      the stock and property,' said Quilp standing up and looking about him, as
      if to assure himself that none of it had been taken away. 'But did you
      never win?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never!' groaned the old man. 'Never won back my loss!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought,' sneered the dwarf, 'that if a man played long enough he was
      sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off a loser.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so he is,' cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from his state
      of despondency, and lashed into the most violent excitement, 'so he is; I
      have felt that from the first, I have always known it, I've seen it, I
      never felt it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed,
      three nights, of winning the same large sum, I never could dream that
      dream before, though I have often tried. Do not desert me, now I have this
      chance. I have no resource but you, give me some help, let me try this one
      last hope.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp,' said the old man, drawing some
      scraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand, and clasping the
      dwarf's arm, 'only see here. Look at these figures, the result of long
      calculation, and painful and hard experience. I <i>must </i>win. I only want a
      little help once more, a few pounds, but two score pounds, dear Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The last advance was seventy,' said the dwarf; 'and it went in one
      night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know it did,' answered the old man, 'but that was the very worst
      fortune of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp, consider,
      consider,' the old man cried, trembling so much the while, that the papers
      in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind, 'that orphan
      child! If I were alone, I could die with gladness&mdash;perhaps even
      anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally: coming, as it does,
      on the proud and happy in their strength, and shunning the needy and
      afflicted, and all who court it in their despair&mdash;but what I have
      done, has been for her. Help me for her sake I implore you; not for mine;
      for hers!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city,' said Quilp, looking at
      his watch with perfect self-possession, 'or I should have been very glad
      to have spent half an hour with you while you composed yourself, very
      glad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,' gasped the old man, catching at his skirts, 'you
      and I have talked together, more than once, of her poor mother's story.
      The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that. Do
      not be hard upon me, but take that into account. You are a great gainer by
      me. Oh spare me the money for this one last hope!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't do it really,' said Quilp with unusual politeness, 'though I
      tell you what&mdash;and this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind as
      showing how the sharpest among us may be taken in sometimes&mdash;I was so
      deceived by the penurious way in which you lived, alone with Nelly&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All done to save money for tempting fortune, and to make her triumph
      greater,' cried the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, I understand that now,' said Quilp; 'but I was going to say, I
      was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation you had among
      those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated assurances that you
      would make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest you paid me,
      that I'd have advanced you, even now, what you want, on your simple note
      of hand, if I hadn't unexpectedly become acquainted with your secret way
      of life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is it,' retorted the old man desperately, 'that, notwithstanding all
      my caution, told you? Come. Let me know the name&mdash;the person.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child would
      lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed, which, as nothing
      was to be gained by it, it was well to conceal, stopped short in his
      answer and said, 'Now, who do you think?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy, and you
      tampered with him?' said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How came you to think of him?' said the dwarf in a tone of great
      commiseration. 'Yes, it was Kit. Poor Kit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave: stopping
      when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and grinning with
      extraordinary delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor Kit!' muttered Quilp. 'I think it was Kit who said I was an uglier
      dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it. Ha ha ha! Poor
      Kit!'
</p>
    <p>
And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he went.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap10"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 10
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>aniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's house, unobserved. In
      the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to one of the many
      passages which diverged from the main street, there lingered one, who,
      having taken up his position when the twilight first came on, still
      maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning against the wall
      with the manner of a person who had a long time to wait, and being well
      used to it was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude for the hour
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      This patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those who
      passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His eyes were constantly
      directed towards one object; the window at which the child was accustomed
      to sit. If he withdrew them for a moment, it was only to glance at a clock
      in some neighbouring shop, and then to strain his sight once more in the
      old quarter with increased earnestness and attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been remarked that this personage evinced no weariness in his place
      of concealment; nor did he, long as his waiting was. But as the time went
      on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the clock more
      frequently and at the window less hopefully than before. At length, the
      clock was hidden from his sight by some envious shutters, then the church
      steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then the quarter past, and then the
      conviction seemed to obtrude itself on his mind that it was no use
      tarrying there any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he was by no means
      willing to yield to it, was apparent from his reluctance to quit the spot;
      from the tardy steps with which he often left it, still looking over his
      shoulder at the same window; and from the precipitation with which he as
      often returned, when a fancied noise or the changing and imperfect light
      induced him to suppose it had been softly raised. At length, he gave the
      matter up, as hopeless for that night, and suddenly breaking into a run as
      though to force himself away, scampered off at his utmost speed, nor once
      ventured to look behind him lest he should be tempted back again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without relaxing his pace, or stopping to take breath, this mysterious
      individual dashed on through a great many alleys and narrow ways until he
      at length arrived in a square paved court, when he subsided into a walk,
      and making for a small house from the window of which a light was shining,
      lifted the latch of the door and passed in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless us!' cried a woman turning sharply round, 'who's that? Oh! It's
      you, Kit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, mother, it's me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how tired you look, my dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Old master an't gone out to-night,' said Kit; 'and so she hasn't been at
      the window at all.' With which words, he sat down by the fire and looked
      very mournful and discontented.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room in which Kit sat himself down, in this condition, was an
      extremely poor and homely place, but with that air of comfort about it,
      nevertheless, which&mdash;or the spot must be a wretched one indeed&mdash;cleanliness
      and order can always impart in some degree. Late as the Dutch clock
      showed it to be, the poor woman was still hard at work at an
      ironing-table; a young child lay sleeping in a cradle near the fire; and
      another, a sturdy boy of two or three years old, very wide awake, with a
      very tight night-cap on his head, and a night-gown very much too small for
      him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in a clothes-basket, staring
      over the rim with his great round eyes, and looking as if he had
      thoroughly made up his mind never to go to sleep any more; which, as he
      had already declined to take his natural rest and had been brought out of
      bed in consequence, opened a cheerful prospect for his relations and
      friends. It was rather a queer-looking family: Kit, his mother, and the
      children, being all strongly alike.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us are too often&mdash;but
      he looked at the youngest child who was sleeping soundly, and from him to
      his other brother in the clothes-basket, and from him to their mother, who
      had been at work without complaint since morning, and thought it would be
      a better and kinder thing to be good-humoured. So he rocked the cradle
      with his foot; made a face at the rebel in the clothes-basket, which put
      him in high good-humour directly; and stoutly determined to be talkative
      and make himself agreeable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, mother!' said Kit, taking out his clasp-knife, and falling upon a
      great piece of bread and meat which she had had ready for him, hours
      before, 'what a one you are! There an't many such as you, I know.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0088m.jpg" alt="0088m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0088.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit,' said Mrs Nubbles; 'and
      that there are, or ought to be, accordin' to what the parson at chapel
      says.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much he knows about it,' returned Kit contemptuously. 'Wait till he's a
      widder and works like you do, and gets as little, and does as much, and
      keeps his spirit up the same, and then I'll ask him what's o'clock and
      trust him for being right to half a second.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Mrs Nubbles, evading the point, 'your beer's down there by
      the fender, Kit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see,' replied her son, taking up the porter pot, 'my love to you,
      mother. And the parson's health too if you like. I don't bear him any
      malice, not I!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you tell me, just now, that your master hadn't gone out to-night?'
      inquired Mrs Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Kit, 'worse luck!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You should say better luck, I think,' returned his mother, 'because Miss
      Nelly won't have been left alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Kit, 'I forgot that. I said worse luck, because I've been
      watching ever since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wonder what she'd say,' cried his mother, stopping in her work and
      looking round, 'if she knew that every night, when she&mdash;poor thing&mdash;is
      sitting alone at that window, you are watching in the open street for fear
      any harm should come to her, and that you never leave the place or come
      home to your bed though you're ever so tired, till such time as you think
      she's safe in hers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind what she'd say,' replied Kit, with something like a blush on
      his uncouth face; 'she'll never know nothing, and consequently, she'll
      never say nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or two, and coming to the
      fireplace for another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while she rubbed it
      on a board and dusted it with a duster, but said nothing until she had
      returned to her table again: when, holding the iron at an alarmingly short
      distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and looking round with a
      smile, she observed:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know what some people would say, Kit&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense,' interposed Kit with a perfect apprehension of what was to
      follow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but they would indeed. Some people would say that you'd fallen in
      love with her, I know they would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother 'get out,' and
      forming sundry strange figures with his legs and arms, accompanied by
      sympathetic contortions of his face. Not deriving from these means the
      relief which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the bread and
      meat, and took a quick drink of the porter; by which artificial aids he
      choked himself and effected a diversion of the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speaking seriously though, Kit,' said his mother, taking up the theme
      afresh, after a time, 'for of course I was only in joke just now, it's
      very good and thoughtful, and like you, to do this, and never let anybody
      know it, though some day I hope she may come to know it, for I'm sure she
      would be very grateful to you and feel it very much. It's a cruel thing to
      keep the dear child shut up there. I don't wonder that the old gentleman
      wants to keep it from you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He don't think it's cruel, bless you,' said Kit, 'and don't mean it to be
      so, or he wouldn't do it&mdash;I do consider, mother, that he wouldn't do
      it for all the gold and silver in the world. No, no, that he wouldn't. I
      know him better than that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it so close from you?'
      said Mrs Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I don't know,' returned her son. 'If he hadn't tried to keep it so
      close though, I should never have found it out, for it was his getting me
      away at night and sending me off so much earlier than he used to, that
      first made me curious to know what was going on. Hark! what's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's only somebody outside.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's somebody crossing over here,' said Kit, standing up to listen, 'and
      coming very fast too. He can't have gone out after I left, and the house
      caught fire, mother!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy stood, for a moment, really bereft, by the apprehension he had
      conjured up, of the power to move. The footsteps drew nearer, the door was
      opened with a hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and breathless, and
      hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nelly! What is the matter!' cried mother and son together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must not stay a moment,' she returned, 'grandfather has been taken very
      ill. I found him in a fit upon the floor&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll run for a doctor'&mdash;said Kit, seizing his brimless hat. 'I'll be
      there directly, I'll&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' cried Nell, 'there is one there, you're not wanted, you&mdash;you&mdash;must
      never come near us any more!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' roared Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never again,' said the child. 'Don't ask me why, for I don't know. Pray
      don't ask me why, pray don't be sorry, pray don't be vexed with me! I have
      nothing to do with it indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide; and opened and shut his
      mouth a great many times; but couldn't get out one word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He complains and raves of you,' said the child, 'I don't know what you
      have done, but I hope it's nothing very bad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I done!' roared Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He cried that you're the cause of all his misery,' returned the child
      with tearful eyes; 'he screamed and called for you; they say you must not
      come near him or he will die. You must not return to us any more. I came
      to tell you. I thought it would be better that I should come than somebody
      quite strange. Oh, Kit, what have you done? You, in whom I trusted so
      much, and who were almost the only friend I had!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder and harder, and
      with eyes growing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless and
      silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have brought his money for the week,' said the child, looking to the
      woman and laying it on the table&mdash;'and&mdash;and&mdash;a little more,
      for he was always good and kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and do well
      somewhere else and not take this to heart too much. It grieves me very
      much to part with him like this, but there is no help. It must be done.
      Good night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight figure trembling
      with the agitation of the scene she had left, the shock she had received,
      the errand she had just discharged, and a thousand painful and
      affectionate feelings, the child hastened to the door, and disappeared as
      rapidly as she had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, but every reason for
      relying on his honesty and truth, was staggered, notwithstanding, by his
      not having advanced one word in his defence. Visions of gallantry,
      knavery, robbery; and of the nightly absences from home for which he had
      accounted so strangely, having been occasioned by some unlawful pursuit;
      flocked into her brain and rendered her afraid to question him. She rocked
      herself upon a chair, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, but Kit
      made no attempt to comfort her and remained quite bewildered. The baby in
      the cradle woke up and cried; the boy in the clothes-basket fell over on
      his back with the basket upon him, and was seen no more; the mother wept
      louder yet and rocked faster; but Kit, insensible to all the din and
      tumult, remained in a state of utter stupefaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap11"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 11
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Q</span>uiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted rule no longer,
      beneath the roof that sheltered the child. Next morning, the old man was
      in a raging fever accompanied with delirium; and sinking under the
      influence of this disorder he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of his
      life. There was watching enough, now, but it was the watching of strangers
      who made a greedy trade of it, and who, in the intervals in their
      attendance upon the sick man huddled together with a ghastly
      good-fellowship, and ate and drank and made merry; for disease and death
      were their ordinary household gods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the child was more
      alone than she had ever been before; alone in spirit, alone in her
      devotion to him who was wasting away upon his burning bed; alone in her
      unfeigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day after day, and night
      after night, found her still by the pillow of the unconscious sufferer,
      still anticipating his every want, still listening to those repetitions of
      her name and those anxieties and cares for her, which were ever uppermost
      among his feverish wanderings.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber seemed to be
      retained, on the uncertain tenure of Mr Quilp's favour. The old man's
      illness had not lasted many days when he took formal possession of the
      premises and all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that
      effect, which few understood and none presumed to call in question. This
      important step secured, with the assistance of a man of law whom he
      brought with him for the purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish himself
      and his coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim against all
      comers; and then set about making his quarters comfortable, after his own
      fashion.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0092m.jpg" alt="0092m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0092.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      To this end, Mr Quilp encamped in the back parlour, having first put an
      effectual stop to any further business by shutting up the shop. Having
      looked out, from among the old furniture, the handsomest and most
      commodious chair he could possibly find (which he reserved for his own
      use) and an especially hideous and uncomfortable one (which he
      considerately appropriated to the accommodation of his friend) he caused
      them to be carried into this room, and took up his position in great
      state. The apartment was very far removed from the old man's chamber, but
      Mr Quilp deemed it prudent, as a precaution against infection from fever,
      and a means of wholesome fumigation, not only to smoke, himself, without
      cessation, but to insist upon it that his legal friend did the like.
      Moreover, he sent an express to the wharf for the tumbling boy, who
      arriving with all despatch was enjoined to sit himself down in another
      chair just inside the door, continually to smoke a great pipe which the
      dwarf had provided for the purpose, and to take it from his lips under any
      pretence whatever, were it only for one minute at a time, if he dared.
      These arrangements completed, Mr Quilp looked round him with chuckling
      satisfaction, and remarked that he called that comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, might have called it
      comfort also but for two drawbacks: one was, that he could by no exertion
      sit easy in his chair, the seat of which was very hard, angular, slippery,
      and sloping; the other, that tobacco-smoke always caused him great
      internal discomposure and annoyance. But as he was quite a creature of Mr
      Quilp's and had a thousand reasons for conciliating his good opinion, he
      tried to smile, and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace he could
      assume.
    </p>
    <p>
      This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute, from Bevis Marks in the
      city of London; he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like a wen, a
      protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and hair of a deep red. He wore a
      long black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short black trousers,
      high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish grey. He had a cringing
      manner, but a very harsh voice; and his blandest smiles were so extremely
      forbidding, that to have had his company under the least repulsive
      circumstances, one would have wished him to be out of temper that he might
      only scowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he was winking very
      much in the anguish of his pipe, that he sometimes shuddered when he
      happened to inhale its full flavour, and that he constantly fanned the
      smoke from him, was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Smoke away, you dog,' said Quilp, turning to the boy; 'fill your pipe
      again and smoke it fast, down to the last whiff, or I'll put the
      sealing-waxed end of it in the fire and rub it red hot upon your tongue.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have smoked a small lime-kiln
      if anybody had treated him with it. Wherefore, he only muttered a brief
      defiance of his master, and did as he was ordered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do you feel like the Grand
      Turk?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass thought that if he did, the Grand Turk's feelings were by no
      means to be envied, but he said it was famous, and he had no doubt he felt
      very like that Potentate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the way to keep off fever,' said Quilp, 'this is the way to keep
      off every calamity of life! We'll never leave off, all the time we stop
      here&mdash;smoke away, you dog, or you shall swallow the pipe!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall we stop here long, Mr Quilp?' inquired his legal friend, when the
      dwarf had given his boy this gentle admonition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentleman up stairs is dead,'
      returned Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He he he!' laughed Mr Brass, 'oh! very good!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Smoke away!' cried Quilp. 'Never stop! You can talk as you smoke. Don't
      lose time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He he he!' cried Brass faintly, as he again applied himself to the odious
      pipe. 'But if he should get better, Mr Quilp?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer,' returned the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How kind it is of you, Sir, to wait till then!' said Brass. 'Some people,
      Sir, would have sold or removed the goods&mdash;oh dear, the very instant
      the law allowed 'em. Some people, Sir, would have been all flintiness and
      granite. Some people, sir, would have&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some people would have spared themselves the jabbering of such a parrot
      as you,' interposed the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He he he!' cried Brass. 'You have such spirits!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this place, and without
      taking his pipe from his lips, growled,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's the gal a comin' down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The what, you dog?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The gal,' returned the boy. 'Are you deaf?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great relish as if he were
      taking soup, 'you and I will have such a settling presently; there's such
      a scratching and bruising in store for you, my dear young friend! Aha!
      Nelly! How is he now, my duck of diamonds?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's very bad,' replied the weeping child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a pretty little Nell!' cried Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed,' said Brass. 'Quite charming.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee,' said the dwarf, in what he meant
      to be a soothing tone, 'or is she going to bed in her own little room
      inside here? Which is poor Nelly going to do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a remarkable pleasant way he has with children!' muttered Brass, as
      if in confidence between himself and the ceiling; 'upon my word it's quite
      a treat to hear him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm not going to stay at all,' faltered Nell. 'I want a few things out of
      that room, and then I&mdash;I&mdash;won't come down here any more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a very nice little room it is!' said the dwarf looking into it as the
      child entered. 'Quite a bower! You're sure you're not going to use it;
      you're sure you're not coming back, Nelly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the child, hurrying away, with the few articles of dress she
      had come to remove; 'never again! Never again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's very sensitive,' said Quilp, looking after her. 'Very sensitive;
      that's a pity. The bedstead is much about my size. I think I shall make it
      <i>my</i> little room.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass encouraging this idea, as he would have encouraged any other
      emanating from the same source, the dwarf walked in to try the effect.
      This he did, by throwing himself on his back upon the bed with his pipe in
      his mouth, and then kicking up his legs and smoking violently. Mr Brass
      applauding this picture very much, and the bed being soft and comfortable,
      Mr Quilp determined to use it, both as a sleeping place by night and as a
      kind of Divan by day; and in order that it might be converted to the
      latter purpose at once, remained where he was, and smoked his pipe out.
      The legal gentleman being by this time rather giddy and perplexed in his
      ideas (for this was one of the operations of the tobacco on his nervous
      system), took the opportunity of slinking away into the open air, where,
      in course of time, he recovered sufficiently to return with a countenance
      of tolerable composure. He was soon led on by the malicious dwarf to smoke
      himself into a relapse, and in that state stumbled upon a settee where he
      slept till morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were Mr Quilp's first proceedings on entering upon his new property.
      He was, for some days, restrained by business from performing any
      particular pranks, as his time was pretty well occupied between taking,
      with the assistance of Mr Brass, a minute inventory of all the goods in
      the place, and going abroad upon his other concerns which happily engaged
      him for several hours at a time. His avarice and caution being, now,
      thoroughly awakened, however, he was never absent from the house one
      night; and his eagerness for some termination, good or bad, to the old
      man's disorder, increasing rapidly, as the time passed by, soon began to
      vent itself in open murmurs and exclamations of impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell shrank timidly from all the dwarf's advances towards conversation,
      and fled from the very sound of his voice; nor were the lawyer's smiles
      less terrible to her than Quilp's grimaces. She lived in such continual
      dread and apprehension of meeting one or other of them on the stairs or in
      the passages if she stirred from her grandfather's chamber, that she
      seldom left it, for a moment, until late at night, when the silence
      encouraged her to venture forth and breathe the purer air of some empty
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      One night, she had stolen to her usual window, and was sitting there very
      sorrowfully&mdash;for the old man had been worse that day&mdash;when she
      thought she heard her name pronounced by a voice in the street. Looking
      down, she recognised Kit, whose endeavours to attract her attention had
      roused her from her sad reflections.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nell!' said the boy in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied the child, doubtful whether she ought to hold any
      communication with the supposed culprit, but inclining to her old
      favourite still; 'what do you want?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have wanted to say a word to you, for a long time,' the boy replied,
      'but the people below have driven me away and wouldn't let me see you. You
      don't believe&mdash;I hope you don't really believe&mdash;that I deserve
      to be cast off as I have been; do you, miss?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must believe it,' returned the child. 'Or why would grandfather have
      been so angry with you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' replied Kit. 'I'm sure I never deserved it from him, no,
      nor from you. I can say that, with a true and honest heart, any way. And
      then to be driven from the door, when I only came to ask how old master
      was&mdash;!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They never told me that,' said the child. 'I didn't know it indeed. I
      wouldn't have had them do it for the world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank'ee, miss,' returned Kit, 'it's comfortable to hear you say that. I
      said I never would believe that it was your doing.'
</p>
    <p>
'That was right!' said
      the child eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nell,' cried the boy coming under the window, and speaking in a
      lower tone, 'there are new masters down stairs. It's a change for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is indeed,' replied the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so it will be for him when he gets better,' said the boy, pointing
      towards the sick room.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;If he ever does,' added the child, unable to restrain her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that,' said Kit. 'I'm sure he will. You
      mustn't be cast down, Miss Nell. Now don't be, pray!'
    </p>
    <p>
      These words of encouragement and consolation were few and roughly said,
      but they affected the child and made her, for the moment, weep the more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll be sure to get better now,' said the boy anxiously, 'if you don't
      give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself, which would make him worse
      and throw him back, just as he was recovering. When he does, say a good
      word&mdash;say a kind word for me, Miss Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They tell me I must not even mention your name to him for a long, long
      time,' rejoined the child, 'I dare not; and even if I might, what good
      would a kind word do you, Kit? We shall be very poor. We shall scarcely
      have bread to eat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's not that I may be taken back,' said the boy, 'that I ask the favour
      of you. It isn't for the sake of food and wages that I've been waiting
      about so long in hopes to see you. Don't think that I'd come in a time of
      trouble to talk of such things as them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited that he might
      speak again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, it's not that,' said Kit hesitating, 'it's something very different
      from that. I haven't got much sense, I know, but if he could be brought to
      believe that I'd been a faithful servant to him, doing the best I could,
      and never meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him to speak out, and
      quickly, for it was very late, and time to shut the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps he mightn't think it over venturesome of me to say&mdash;well
      then, to say this,' cried Kit with sudden boldness. 'This home is gone
      from you and him. Mother and I have got a poor one, but that's better than
      this with all these people here; and why not come there, till he's had
      time to look about, and find a better!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child did not speak. Kit, in the relief of having made his
      proposition, found his tongue loosened, and spoke out in its favour with
      his utmost eloquence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You think,' said the boy, 'that it's very small and inconvenient. So it
      is, but it's very clean. Perhaps you think it would be noisy, but there's
      not a quieter court than ours in all the town. Don't be afraid of the
      children; the baby hardly ever cries, and the other one is very good&mdash;besides,
      I'd mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you much, I'm sure. Do try, Miss Nell, do
      try. The little front room up stairs is very pleasant. You can see a piece
      of the church-clock, through the chimneys, and almost tell the time;
      mother says it would be just the thing for you, and so it would, and you'd
      have her to wait upon you both, and me to run of errands. We don't mean
      money, bless you; you're not to think of that! Will you try him, Miss
      Nell? Only say you'll try him. Do try to make old master come, and ask him
      first what I have done. Will you only promise that, Miss Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the child could reply to this earnest solicitation, the street-door
      opened, and Mr Brass thrusting out his night-capped head called in a surly
      voice, 'Who's there!' Kit immediately glided away, and Nell, closing the
      window softly, drew back into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Mr Brass had repeated his inquiry many times, Mr Quilp, also
      embellished with a night-cap, emerged from the same door and looked
      carefully up and down the street, and up at all the windows of the house,
      from the opposite side. Finding that there was nobody in sight, he
      presently returned into the house with his legal friend, protesting (as
      the child heard from the staircase), that there was a league and plot
      against him; that he was in danger of being robbed and plundered by a band
      of conspirators who prowled about the house at all seasons; and that he
      would delay no longer but take immediate steps for disposing of the
      property and returning to his own peaceful roof. Having growled forth
      these, and a great many other threats of the same nature, he coiled
      himself once more in the child's little bed, and Nell crept softly up the
      stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was natural enough that her short and unfinished dialogue with Kit
      should leave a strong impression on her mind, and influence her dreams
      that night and her recollections for a long, long time. Surrounded by
      unfeeling creditors, and mercenary attendants upon the sick, and meeting
      in the height of her anxiety and sorrow with little regard or sympathy
      even from the women about her, it is not surprising that the affectionate
      heart of the child should have been touched to the quick by one kind and
      generous spirit, however uncouth the temple in which it dwelt. Thank
      Heaven that the temples of such spirits are not made with hands, and that
      they may be even more worthily hung with poor patch-work than with purple
      and fine linen!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap12"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 12
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t length, the crisis of the old man's disorder was past, and he began to
      mend. By very slow and feeble degrees his consciousness came back; but the
      mind was weakened and its functions were impaired. He was patient, and
      quiet; often sat brooding, but not despondently, for a long space; was
      easily amused, even by a sun-beam on the wall or ceiling; made no
      complaint that the days were long, or the nights tedious; and appeared
      indeed to have lost all count of time, and every sense of care or
      weariness. He would sit, for hours together, with Nell's small hand in
      his, playing with the fingers and stopping sometimes to smooth her hair or
      kiss her brow; and, when he saw that tears were glistening in her eyes,
      would look, amazed, about him for the cause, and forget his wonder even
      while he looked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child and he rode out; the old man propped up with pillows, and the
      child beside him. They were hand in hand as usual. The noise and motion in
      the streets fatigued his brain at first, but he was not surprised, or
      curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked if he remembered this, or
      that. 'O yes,' he said, 'quite well&mdash;why not?' Sometimes he turned
      his head, and looked, with earnest gaze and outstretched neck, after some
      stranger in the crowd, until he disappeared from sight; but, to the
      question why he did this, he answered not a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool beside
      him, when a man outside the door inquired if he might enter. 'Yes,' he
      said without emotion, 'it was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was master there. Of
      course he might come in.' And so he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbour,' said the dwarf,
      sitting down opposite him. 'You're quite strong now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the old man feebly, 'yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbour,' said the dwarf, raising
      his voice, for the old man's senses were duller than they had been; 'but,
      as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings, the better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely,' said the old man. 'The better for all parties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see,' pursued Quilp after a short pause, 'the goods being once
      removed, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You say true,' returned the old man. 'Poor Nell too, what would she do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Exactly,' bawled the dwarf nodding his head; 'that's very well observed.
      Then will you consider about it, neighbour?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will, certainly,' replied the old man. 'We shall not stop here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I supposed,' said the dwarf. 'I have sold the things. They have not
      yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty well&mdash;pretty
      well. To-day's Tuesday. When shall they be moved? There's no hurry&mdash;shall
      we say this afternoon?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say Friday morning,' returned the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' said the dwarf. 'So be it&mdash;with the understanding that I
      can't go beyond that day, neighbour, on any account.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good,' returned the old man. 'I shall remember it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even spiritless way in
      which all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and repeated
      'on Friday morning. I shall remember it,' he had no excuse for dwelling on
      the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave with many
      expressions of good-will and many compliments to his friend on his looking
      so remarkably well; and went below stairs to report progress to Mr Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in this state. He
      wandered up and down the house and into and out of the various rooms, as
      if with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred neither
      by direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview of the
      morning or the necessity of finding some other shelter. An indistinct idea
      he had, that the child was desolate and in want of help; for he often drew
      her to his bosom and bade her be of good cheer, saying that they would not
      desert each other; but he seemed unable to contemplate their real position
      more distinctly, and was still the listless, passionless creature that
      suffering of mind and body had left him.
    </p>
    <p>
      We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor hollow
      mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where, in the dull eyes of doating
      men, are the laughing light and life of childhood, the gaiety that has
      known no check, the frankness that has felt no chill, the hope that has
      never withered, the joys that fade in blossoming? Where, in the sharp
      lineaments of rigid and unsightly death, is the calm beauty of slumber,
      telling of rest for the waking hours that are past, and gentle hopes and
      loves for those which are to come? Lay death and sleep down, side by side,
      and say who shall find the two akin. Send forth the child and childish man
      together, and blush for the pride that libels our own old happy state, and
      gives its title to an ugly and distorted image.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man. But a change
      came upon him that evening as he and the child sat silently together.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree&mdash;green and
      flourishing enough, for such a place&mdash;and as the air stirred among
      its leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall. The old man sat
      watching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light, until the
      sun went down; and when it was night, and the moon was slowly rising, he
      still sat in the same spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these few
      green leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished among
      chimneys and house-tops, were pleasant things. They suggested quiet places
      afar off, and rest, and peace. The child thought, more than once that he
      was moved: and had forborne to speak. But now he shed tears&mdash;tears
      that it lightened her aching heart to see&mdash;and making as though he
      would fall upon his knees, besought her to forgive him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Forgive you&mdash;what?' said Nell, interposing to prevent his purpose.
      'Oh grandfather, what should I forgive?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all that was done in
      that uneasy dream,' returned the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not talk so,' said the child. 'Pray do not. Let us speak of something
      else.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, we will,' he rejoined. 'And it shall be of what we talked of
      long ago&mdash;many months&mdash;months is it, or weeks, or days? which is
      it Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not understand you,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come back since we have been
      sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For what, dear grandfather?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us speak
      softly. Hush! for if they knew our purpose down stairs, they would cry
      that I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop here another day.
      We will go far away from here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, let us go,' said the child earnestly. 'Let us begone from this
      place, and never turn back or think of it again. Let us wander barefoot
      through the world, rather than linger here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We will,' answered the old man, 'we will travel afoot through the fields
      and woods, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to God in the
      places where He dwells. It is far better to lie down at night beneath an
      open sky like that yonder&mdash;see how bright it is&mdash;than to rest in
      close rooms which are always full of care and weary dreams. Thou and I
      together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to forget this
      time, as if it had never been.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We will be happy,' cried the child. 'We never can be here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, we never can again&mdash;never again&mdash;that's truly said,'
      rejoined the old man. 'Let us steal away to-morrow morning&mdash;early and
      softly, that we may not be seen or heard&mdash;and leave no trace or track
      for them to follow by. Poor Nell! Thy cheek is pale, and thy eyes are
      heavy with watching and weeping for me&mdash;I know&mdash;for me; but thou
      wilt be well again, and merry too, when we are far away. To-morrow
      morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow, and be as
      free and happy as the birds.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And then the old man clasped his hands above her head, and said, in a few
      broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up and down
      together, and never part more until Death took one or other of the twain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no thought
      of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. She saw in this, but a return
      of the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed, a relief from the gloomy
      solitude in which she had lived, an escape from the heartless people by
      whom she had been surrounded in her late time of trial, the restoration of
      the old man's health and peace, and a life of tranquil happiness. Sun, and
      stream, and meadow, and summer days, shone brightly in her view, and there
      was no dark tint in all the sparkling picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man had slept, for some hours, soundly in his bed, and she was yet
      busily engaged in preparing for their flight. There were a few articles of
      clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him; old garments, such as
      became their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear; and a staff to support his
      feeble steps, put ready for his use. But this was not all her task; for
      now she must visit the old rooms for the last time.
    </p>
    <p>
      And how different the parting with them was, from any she had expected,
      and most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured to herself. How
      could she ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph, when the
      recollection of the many hours she had passed among them rose to her
      swelling heart, and made her feel the wish a cruelty: lonely and sad
      though many of those hours had been! She sat down at the window where she
      had spent so many evenings&mdash;darker far than this&mdash;and every
      thought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place
      came vividly upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful
      associations in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her own little room too, where she had so often knelt down and prayed at
      night&mdash;prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning now&mdash;the
      little room where she had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such pleasant
      dreams! It was hard not to be able to glance round it once more, and to be
      forced to leave it without one kind look or grateful tear. There were some
      trifles there&mdash;poor useless things&mdash;that she would have liked to
      take away; but that was impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      This brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who hung there yet. She wept
      bitterly for the loss of this little creature&mdash;until the idea
      occurred to her&mdash;she did not know how, or why, it came into her head&mdash;that
      it might, by some means, fall into the hands of Kit who would keep it for
      her sake, and think, perhaps, that she had left it behind in the hope that
      he might have it, and as an assurance that she was grateful to him. She
      was calmed and comforted by the thought, and went to rest with a lighter
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny places, but with some
      vague object unattained which ran indistinctly through them all, she awoke
      to find that it was yet night, and that the stars were shining brightly in
      the sky. At length, the day began to glimmer, and the stars to grow pale
      and dim. As soon as she was sure of this, she arose, and dressed herself
      for the journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb him, she
      left him to slumber on, until the sun rose. He was anxious that they
      should leave the house without a minute's loss of time, and was soon
      ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child then took him by the hand, and they trod lightly and cautiously
      down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and often stopping to
      listen. The old man had forgotten a kind of wallet which contained the
      light burden he had to carry; and the going back a few steps to fetch it
      seemed an interminable delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the snoring of
      Mr Quilp and his legal friend sounded more terrible in their ears than the
      roars of lions. The bolts of the door were rusty, and difficult to
      unfasten without noise. When they were all drawn back, it was found to be
      locked, and worst of all, the key was gone. Then the child remembered, for
      the first time, one of the nurses having told her that Quilp always locked
      both the house-doors at night, and kept the keys on the table in his
      bedroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not without great fear and trepidation that little Nell slipped off
      her shoes and gliding through the store-room of old curiosities, where Mr
      Brass&mdash;the ugliest piece of goods in all the stock&mdash;lay sleeping
      on a mattress, passed into her own little chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here she stood, for a few moments, quite transfixed with terror at the
      sight of Mr Quilp, who was hanging so far out of bed that he almost seemed
      to be standing on his head, and who, either from the uneasiness of this
      posture, or in one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and growling with
      his mouth wide open, and the whites (or rather the dirty yellows) of his
      eyes distinctly visible. It was no time, however, to ask whether anything
      ailed him; so, possessing herself of the key after one hasty glance about
      the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr Brass, she rejoined the old man
      in safety. They got the door open without noise, and passing into the
      street, stood still.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which way?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then to the
      right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It was plain that
      she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no
      doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led him gently away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a
      cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as yet, nearly
      free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the healthy
      air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping town.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man and the child passed on through the glad silence, elate with
      hope and pleasure. They were alone together, once again; every object was
      bright and fresh; nothing reminded them, otherwise than by contrast, of
      the monotony and constraint they had left behind; church towers and
      steeples, frowning and dark at other times, now shone in the sun; each
      humble nook and corner rejoiced in light; and the sky, dimmed only by
      excessive distance, shed its placid smile on everything beneath.
    </p>
    <p>
      Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the two poor
      adventurers, wandering they knew not whither.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0103m.jpg" alt="0103m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0103.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap13"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 13
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>aniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks in the city
      of London, Gentleman, one of her Majesty's attornies of the Courts of the
      King's Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster and a solicitor of the High
      Court of Chancery, slumbered on, unconscious and unsuspicious of any
      mischance, until a knocking on the street door, often repeated and
      gradually mounting up from a modest single rap to a perfect battery of
      knocks, fired in long discharges with a very short interval between,
      caused the said Daniel Quilp to struggle into a horizontal position, and
      to stare at the ceiling with a drowsy indifference, betokening that he
      heard the noise and rather wondered at the same, and couldn't be at the
      trouble of bestowing any further thought upon the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the knocking, however, instead of accommodating itself to his lazy
      state, increased in vigour and became more importunate, as if in earnest
      remonstrance against his falling asleep again, now that he had once opened
      his eyes, Daniel Quilp began by degrees to comprehend the possibility of
      there being somebody at the door; and thus he gradually came to recollect
      that it was Friday morning, and he had ordered Mrs Quilp to be in waiting
      upon him at an early hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass, after writhing about, in a great many strange attitudes, and
      often twisting his face and eyes into an expression like that which is
      usually produced by eating gooseberries very early in the season, was by
      this time awake also. Seeing that Mr Quilp invested himself in his
      every-day garments, he hastened to do the like, putting on his shoes
      before his stockings, and thrusting his legs into his coat sleeves, and
      making such other small mistakes in his toilet as are not uncommon to
      those who dress in a hurry, and labour under the agitation of having been
      suddenly roused.

</p>
    <p>
While the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was
      groping under the table, muttering desperate imprecations on himself, and
      mankind in general, and all inanimate objects to boot, which suggested to
      Mr Brass the question, 'what's the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The key,' said the dwarf, looking viciously about him, 'the door-key&mdash;that's
      the matter. D'ye know anything of it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How should I know anything of it, sir?' returned Mr Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How should you?' repeated Quilp with a sneer. 'You're a nice lawyer, an't
      you? Ugh, you idiot!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Not caring to represent to the dwarf in his present humour, that the loss
      of a key by another person could scarcely be said to affect his (Brass's)
      legal knowledge in any material degree, Mr Brass humbly suggested that it
      must have been forgotten over night, and was, doubtless, at that moment in
      its native key-hole. Notwithstanding that Mr Quilp had a strong conviction
      to the contrary, founded on his recollection of having carefully taken it
      out, he was fain to admit that this was possible, and therefore went
      grumbling to the door where, sure enough, he found it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, just as Mr Quilp laid his hand upon the lock, and saw with great
      astonishment that the fastenings were undone, the knocking came again with
      the most irritating violence, and the daylight which had been shining
      through the key-hole was intercepted on the outside by a human eye. The
      dwarf was very much exasperated, and wanting somebody to wreak his
      ill-humour upon, determined to dart out suddenly, and favour Mrs Quilp
      with a gentle acknowledgment of her attention in making that hideous
      uproar.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0105m.jpg" alt="0105m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0105.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      With this view, he drew back the lock very silently and softly, and
      opening the door all at once, pounced out upon the person on the other
      side, who had at that moment raised the knocker for another application,
      and at whom the dwarf ran head first: throwing out his hands and feet
      together, and biting the air in the fulness of his malice.
    </p>
    <p>
      So far, however, from rushing upon somebody who offered no resistance and
      implored his mercy, Mr Quilp was no sooner in the arms of the individual
      whom he had taken for his wife than he found himself complimented with two
      staggering blows on the head, and two more, of the same quality, in the
      chest; and closing with his assailant, such a shower of buffets rained
      down upon his person as sufficed to convince him that he was in skilful
      and experienced hands. Nothing daunted by this reception, he clung tight
      to his opponent, and bit and hammered away with such good-will and
      heartiness, that it was at least a couple of minutes before he was
      dislodged. Then, and not until then, Daniel Quilp found himself, all
      flushed and dishevelled, in the middle of the street, with Mr Richard
      Swiveller performing a kind of dance round him and requiring to know
      'whether he wanted any more?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's plenty more of it at the same shop,' said Mr Swiveller, by turns
      advancing and retreating in a threatening attitude, 'a large and extensive
      assortment always on hand&mdash;country orders executed with promptitude
      and despatch&mdash;will you have a little more, Sir&mdash;don't say no, if
      you'd rather not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought it was somebody else,' said Quilp, rubbing his shoulders, 'why
      didn't you say who you were?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why didn't you say who <i>you </i>were?' returned Dick, 'instead of flying out
      of the house like a Bedlamite?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was you that&mdash;that knocked,' said the dwarf, getting up with a
      short groan, 'was it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I am the man,' replied Dick. 'That lady had begun when I came, but
      she knocked too soft, so I relieved her.' As he said this, he pointed
      towards Mrs Quilp, who stood trembling at a little distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' muttered the dwarf, darting an angry look at his wife, 'I thought
      it was your fault! And you, sir&mdash;don't you know there has been
      somebody ill here, that you knock as if you'd beat the door down?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Damme!' answered Dick, 'that's why I did it. I thought there was somebody
      dead here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You came for some purpose, I suppose,' said Quilp. 'What is it you want?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to know how the old gentleman is,' rejoined Mr Swiveller, 'and to
      hear from Nell herself, with whom I should like to have a little talk. I'm
      a friend of the family, sir&mdash;at least I'm the friend of one of the
      family, and that's the same thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'd better walk in then,' said the dwarf. 'Go on, sir, go on. Now, Mrs
      Quilp&mdash;after you, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Quilp hesitated, but Mr Quilp insisted. And it was not a contest of
      politeness, or by any means a matter of form, for she knew very well that
      her husband wished to enter the house in this order, that he might have a
      favourable opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her arms, which were
      seldom free from impressions of his fingers in black and blue colours. Mr
      Swiveller, who was not in the secret, was a little surprised to hear a
      suppressed scream, and, looking round, to see Mrs Quilp following him with
      a sudden jerk; but he did not remark on these appearances, and soon forgot
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf when they had entered the shop, 'go you
      up stairs, if you please, to Nelly's room, and tell her that she's
      wanted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You seem to make yourself at home here,' said Dick, who was unacquainted
      with Mr Quilp's authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I <i>am</i> at home, young gentleman,' returned the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick was pondering what these words might mean, and still more what the
      presence of Mr Brass might mean, when Mrs Quilp came hurrying down stairs,
      declaring that the rooms above were empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Empty, you fool!' said the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I give you my word, Quilp,' answered his trembling wife, 'that I have
      been into every room and there's not a soul in any of them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that,' said Mr Brass, clapping his hands once, with an emphasis,
      'explains the mystery of the key!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his wife, and frowningly
      at Richard Swiveller; but, receiving no enlightenment from any of them,
      hurried up stairs, whence he soon hurried down again, confirming the
      report which had already been made.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a strange way of going,' he said, glancing at Swiveller, 'very
      strange not to communicate with me who am such a close and intimate friend
      of his! Ah! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll bid Nelly write&mdash;yes,
      yes, that's what he'll do. Nelly's very fond of me. Pretty Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller looked, as he was, all open-mouthed astonishment. Still
      glancing furtively at him, Quilp turned to Mr Brass and observed, with
      assumed carelessness, that this need not interfere with the removal of the
      goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For indeed,' he added, 'we knew that they'd go away to-day, but not that
      they'd go so early, or so quietly. But they have their reasons, they have
      their reasons.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where in the devil's name are they gone?' said the wondering Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp shook his head, and pursed up his lips, in a manner which implied
      that he knew very well, but was not at liberty to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what,' said Dick, looking at the confusion about him, 'what do you
      mean by moving the goods?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I have bought 'em, Sir,' rejoined Quilp. 'Eh? What then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has the sly old fox made his fortune then, and gone to live in a tranquil
      cot in a pleasant spot with a distant view of the changing sea?' said
      Dick, in great bewilderment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Keeping his place of retirement very close, that he may not be visited
      too often by affectionate grandsons and their devoted friends, eh?' added
      the dwarf, rubbing his hands hard; 'I say nothing, but is that your
      meaning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Swiveller was utterly aghast at this unexpected alteration of
      circumstances, which threatened the complete overthrow of the project in
      which he bore so conspicuous a part, and seemed to nip his prospects in
      the bud. Having only received from Frederick Trent, late on the previous
      night, information of the old man's illness, he had come upon a visit of
      condolence and inquiry to Nell, prepared with the first instalment of that
      long train of fascinations which was to fire her heart at last. And here,
      when he had been thinking of all kinds of graceful and insinuating
      approaches, and meditating on the fearful retaliation which was slowly
      working against Sophy Wackles&mdash;here were Nell, the old man, and all
      the money gone, melted away, decamped he knew not whither, as if with a
      fore-knowledge of the scheme and a resolution to defeat it in the very
      outset, before a step was taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised and troubled by the
      flight which had been made. It had not escaped his keen eye that some
      indispensable articles of clothing were gone with the fugitives, and
      knowing the old man's weak state of mind, he marvelled what that course of
      proceeding might be in which he had so readily procured the concurrence of
      the child. It must not be supposed (or it would be a gross injustice to Mr
      Quilp) that he was tortured by any disinterested anxiety on behalf of
      either. His uneasiness arose from a misgiving that the old man had some
      secret store of money which he had not suspected; and the idea of its
      escaping his clutches, overwhelmed him with mortification and
      self-reproach.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this frame of mind, it was some consolation to him to find that Richard
      Swiveller was, for different reasons, evidently irritated and disappointed
      by the same cause. It was plain, thought the dwarf, that he had come
      there, on behalf of his friend, to cajole or frighten the old man out of
      some small fraction of that wealth of which they supposed him to have an
      abundance. Therefore, it was a relief to vex his heart with a picture of
      the riches the old man hoarded, and to expatiate on his cunning in
      removing himself even beyond the reach of importunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Dick, with a blank look, 'I suppose it's of no use my staying
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not the least in the world,' rejoined the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll mention that I called, perhaps?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp nodded, and said he certainly would, the very first time he saw
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And say,' added Mr Swiveller, 'say, sir, that I was wafted here upon the
      pinions of concord; that I came to remove, with the rake of friendship,
      the seeds of mutual violence and heart-burning, and to sow in their place,
      the germs of social harmony. Will you have the goodness to charge yourself
      with that commission, Sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly!' rejoined Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you be kind enough to add to it, Sir,' said Dick, producing a very
      small limp card, 'that that is my address, and that I am to be found at
      home every morning. Two distinct knocks, sir, will produce the slavey at
      any time. My particular friends, Sir, are accustomed to sneeze when the
      door is opened, to give her to understand that they <i>are </i>my friends and
      have no interested motives in asking if I'm at home. I beg your pardon;
      will you allow me to look at that card again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! by all means,' rejoined Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By a slight and not unnatural mistake, sir,' said Dick, substituting
      another in its stead, 'I had handed you the pass-ticket of a select
      convivial circle called the Glorious Apollers of which I have the honour
      to be Perpetual Grand. That is the proper document, Sir. Good morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp bade him good day; the perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious
      Apollers, elevating his hat in honour of Mrs Quilp, dropped it carelessly
      on the side of his head again, and disappeared with a flourish.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time, certain vans had arrived for the conveyance of the goods,
      and divers strong men in caps were balancing chests of drawers and other
      trifles of that nature upon their heads, and performing muscular feats
      which heightened their complexions considerably. Not to be behind-hand in
      the bustle, Mr Quilp went to work with surprising vigour; hustling and
      driving the people about, like an evil spirit; setting Mrs Quilp upon all
      kinds of arduous and impracticable tasks; carrying great weights up and
      down, with no apparent effort; kicking the boy from the wharf, whenever he
      could get near him; and inflicting, with his loads, a great many sly bumps
      and blows on the shoulders of Mr Brass, as he stood upon the door-steps to
      answer all the inquiries of curious neighbours, which was his department.
      His presence and example diffused such alacrity among the persons
      employed, that, in a few hours, the house was emptied of everything, but
      pieces of matting, empty porter-pots, and scattered fragments of straw.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of matting, the
      dwarf was regaling himself in the parlour, with bread and cheese and beer,
      when he observed without appearing to do so, that a boy was prying in at
      the outer door. Assured that it was Kit, though he saw little more than
      his nose, Mr Quilp hailed him by his name; whereupon Kit came in and
      demanded what he wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here, you sir,' said the dwarf. 'Well, so your old master and young
      mistress have gone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where?' rejoined Kit, looking round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you mean to say you don't know where?' answered Quilp sharply. 'Where
      have they gone, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' said Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' retorted Quilp, 'let's have no more of this! Do you mean to say
      that you don't know they went away by stealth, as soon as it was light
      this morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said the boy, in evident surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't know that?' cried Quilp. 'Don't I know that you were hanging
      about the house the other night, like a thief, eh? Weren't you told then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were not?' said Quilp. 'What were you told then; what were you
      talking about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep the matter secret
      now, related the purpose for which he had come on that occasion, and the
      proposal he had made.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said the dwarf after a little consideration. 'Then, I think they'll
      come to you yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you think they will?' cried Kit eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye, I think they will,' returned the dwarf. 'Now, when they do, let me
      know; d'ye hear? Let me know, and I'll give you something. I want to do
      'em a kindness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless I know where they
      are. You hear what I say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit might have returned some answer which would not have been agreeable to
      his irascible questioner, if the boy from the wharf, who had been skulking
      about the room in search of anything that might have been left about by
      accident, had not happened to cry, 'Here's a bird! What's to be done with
      this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wring its neck,' rejoined Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, don't do that,' said Kit, stepping forward. 'Give it to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, I dare say,' cried the other boy. 'Come! You let the cage alone,
      and let me wring its neck will you? He said I was to do it. You let the
      cage alone will you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Give it here, give it to me, you dogs,' roared Quilp. 'Fight for it, you
      dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each other, tooth and
      nail, while Quilp, holding up the cage in one hand, and chopping the
      ground with his knife in an ecstasy, urged them on by his taunts and cries
      to fight more fiercely. They were a pretty equal match, and rolled about
      together, exchanging blows which were by no means child's play, until at
      length Kit, planting a well-directed hit in his adversary's chest,
      disengaged himself, sprung nimbly up, and snatching the cage from Quilp's
      hands made off with his prize.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not stop once until he reached home, where his bleeding face
      occasioned great consternation, and caused the elder child to howl
      dreadfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what have you been doing?'
      cried Mrs Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never you mind, mother,' answered her son, wiping his face on the
      jack-towel behind the door. 'I'm not hurt, don't you be afraid for me.
      I've been a fightin' for a bird and won him, that's all. Hold your noise,
      little Jacob. I never see such a naughty boy in all my days!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have been fighting for a bird!' exclaimed his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Fightin' for a bird!' replied Kit, 'and here he is&mdash;Miss Nelly's
      bird, mother, that they was agoin' to wring the neck of! I stopped that
      though&mdash;ha ha ha! They wouldn't wring his neck and me by, no, no. It
      wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit laughing so heartily, with his swoln and bruised face looking out of
      the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and then his mother laughed, and then
      the baby crowed and kicked with great glee, and then they all laughed in
      concert: partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly because they were
      very fond of each other. When this fit was over, Kit exhibited the bird to
      both children, as a great and precious rarity&mdash;it was only a poor
      linnet&mdash;and looking about the wall for an old nail, made a
      scaffolding of a chair and table and twisted it out with great exultation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me see,' said the boy, 'I think I'll hang him in the winder, because
      it's more light and cheerful, and he can see the sky there, if he looks up
      very much. He's such a one to sing, I can tell you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit, climbing up with the poker
      for a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung up the cage, to the
      immeasurable delight of the whole family. When it had been adjusted and
      straightened a great many times, and he had walked backwards into the
      fire-place in his admiration of it, the arrangement was pronounced to be
      perfect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now, mother,' said the boy, 'before I rest any more, I'll go out and
      see if I can find a horse to hold, and then I can buy some birdseed, and a
      bit of something nice for you, into the bargain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap14"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 14
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s it was very easy for Kit to persuade himself that the old house was in
      his way, his way being anywhere, he tried to look upon his passing it once
      more as a matter of imperative and disagreeable necessity, quite apart
      from any desire of his own, to which he could not choose but yield. It is
      not uncommon for people who are much better fed and taught than
      Christopher Nubbles had ever been, to make duties of their inclinations in
      matters of more doubtful propriety, and to take great credit for the
      self-denial with which they gratify themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no need of any caution this time, and no fear of being detained
      by having to play out a return match with Daniel Quilp's boy. The place
      was entirely deserted, and looked as dusty and dingy as if it had been so
      for months. A rusty padlock was fastened on the door, ends of discoloured
      blinds and curtains flapped drearily against the half-opened upper
      windows, and the crooked holes cut in the closed shutters below, were
      black with the darkness of the inside. Some of the glass in the window he
      had so often watched, had been broken in the rough hurry of the morning,
      and that room looked more deserted and dull than any. A group of idle
      urchins had taken possession of the door-steps; some were plying the
      knocker and listening with delighted dread to the hollow sounds it spread
      through the dismantled house; others were clustered about the keyhole,
      watching half in jest and half in earnest for 'the ghost,' which an hour's
      gloom, added to the mystery that hung about the late inhabitants, had
      already raised. Standing all alone in the midst of the business and bustle
      of the street, the house looked a picture of cold desolation; and Kit, who
      remembered the cheerful fire that used to burn there on a winter's night
      and the no less cheerful laugh that made the small room ring, turned quite
      mournfully away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It must be especially observed in justice to poor Kit that he was by no
      means of a sentimental turn, and perhaps had never heard that adjective in
      all his life. He was only a soft-hearted grateful fellow, and had nothing
      genteel or polite about him; consequently, instead of going home again, in
      his grief, to kick the children and abuse his mother (for, when your
      finely strung people are out of sorts, they must have everybody else
      unhappy likewise), he turned his thoughts to the vulgar expedient of
      making them more comfortable if he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bless us, what a number of gentlemen on horseback there were riding up and
      down, and how few of them wanted their horses held! A good city speculator
      or a parliamentary commissioner could have told to a fraction, from the
      crowds that were cantering about, what sum of money was realised in
      London, in the course of a year, by holding horses alone. And undoubtedly
      it would have been a very large one, if only a twentieth part of the
      gentlemen without grooms had had occasion to alight; but they had not; and
      it is often an ill-natured circumstance like this, which spoils the most
      ingenious estimate in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with slow; now lingering as
      some rider slackened his horse's pace and looked about him; and now
      darting at full speed up a bye-street as he caught a glimpse of some
      distant horseman going lazily up the shady side of the road, and promising
      to stop, at every door. But on they all went, one after another, and there
      was not a penny stirring. 'I wonder,' thought the boy, 'if one of these
      gentlemen knew there was nothing in the cupboard at home, whether he'd
      stop on purpose, and make believe that he wanted to call somewhere, that I
      might earn a trifle?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say nothing of repeated
      disappointments, and was sitting down upon a step to rest, when there
      approached towards him a little clattering jingling four-wheeled chaise,
      drawn by a little obstinate-looking rough-coated pony, and driven by a
      little fat placid-faced old gentleman. Beside the little old gentleman sat
      a little old lady, plump and placid like himself, and the pony was coming
      along at his own pace and doing exactly as he pleased with the whole
      concern. If the old gentleman remonstrated by shaking the reins, the pony
      replied by shaking his head. It was plain that the utmost the pony would
      consent to do, was to go in his own way up any street that the old
      gentleman particularly wished to traverse, but that it was an
      understanding between them that he must do this after his own fashion or
      not at all.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0116m.jpg" alt="0116m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0116.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at the little
      turn-out, that the old gentleman looked at him. Kit rising and putting his
      hand to his hat, the old gentleman intimated to the pony that he wished to
      stop, to which proposal the pony (who seldom objected to that part of his
      duty) graciously acceded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Kit. 'I'm sorry you stopped, sir. I only
      meant did you want your horse minded.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm going to get down in the next street,' returned the old gentleman.
      'If you like to come on after us, you may have the job.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran off at a sharp angle to
      inspect a lamp-post on the opposite side of the way, and then went off at
      a tangent to another lamp-post on the other side. Having satisfied himself
      that they were of the same pattern and materials, he came to a stop
      apparently absorbed in meditation.

</p>
    <p>
'Will you go on, sir,' said the old
      gentleman, gravely, 'or are we to wait here for you till it's too late for
      our appointment?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The pony remained immoveable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh you naughty Whisker,' said the old lady. 'Fie upon you! I'm ashamed of
      such conduct.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his feelings, for he
      trotted on directly, though in a sulky manner, and stopped no more until
      he came to a door whereon was a brass plate with the words 'Witherden&mdash;Notary.'
      Here the old gentleman got out and helped out the old lady, and then took
      from under the seat a nosegay resembling in shape and dimensions a
      full-sized warming-pan with the handle cut short off. This, the old lady
      carried into the house with a staid and stately air, and the old gentleman
      (who had a club-foot) followed close upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of their voices, into the
      front parlour, which seemed to be a kind of office. The day being very
      warm and the street a quiet one, the windows were wide open; and it was
      easy to hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first there was a great shaking of hands and shuffling of feet,
      succeeded by the presentation of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed by the
      listener to be that of Mr Witherden the Notary, was heard to exclaim a
      great many times, 'oh, delicious!' 'oh, fragrant, indeed!' and a nose,
      also supposed to be the property of that gentleman, was heard to inhale
      the scent with a snuffle of exceeding pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I brought it in honour of the occasion, Sir,' said the old lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! an occasion indeed, ma'am, an occasion which does honour to me,
      ma'am, honour to me,' rejoined Mr Witherden, the notary. 'I have had many
      a gentleman articled to me, ma'am, many a one. Some of them are now
      rolling in riches, unmindful of their old companion and friend, ma'am,
      others are in the habit of calling upon me to this day and saying, "Mr
      Witherden, some of the pleasantest hours I ever spent in my life were
      spent in this office&mdash;were spent, Sir, upon this very stool"; but
      there was never one among the number, ma'am, attached as I have been to
      many of them, of whom I augured such bright things as I do of your only
      son.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear!' said the old lady. 'How happy you do make us when you tell us
      that, to be sure!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you, ma'am,' said Mr Witherden, 'what I think as an honest man,
      which, as the poet observes, is the noblest work of God. I agree with the
      poet in every particular, ma'am. The mountainous Alps on the one hand, or
      a humming-bird on the other, is nothing, in point of workmanship, to an
      honest man&mdash;or woman&mdash;or woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anything that Mr Witherden can say of me,' observed a small quiet voice,
      'I can say, with interest, of him, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance,' said the Notary,
      'to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and I hope I know
      how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr Garland, my dear Sir, that we may
      mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious occasion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might. There
      appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and when it was
      over, the old gentleman said that, though he said it who should not, he
      believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his parents than Abel
      Garland had been to his.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting for a
      great many years, until we were well enough off&mdash;coming together when
      we were no longer young, and then being blessed with one child who has
      always been dutiful and affectionate&mdash;why, it's a source of great
      happiness to us both, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course it is, I have no doubt of it,' returned the Notary in a
      sympathising voice. 'It's the contemplation of this sort of thing, that
      makes me deplore my fate in being a bachelor. There was a young lady once,
      sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of the first respectability&mdash;but
      that's a weakness. Chuckster, bring in Mr Abel's articles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, Mr Witherden,' said the old lady, 'that Abel has not been
      brought up like the run of young men. He has always had a pleasure in our
      society, and always been with us. Abel has never been absent from us, for
      a day; has he, my dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never, my dear,' returned the old gentleman, 'except when he went to
      Margate one Saturday with Mr Tomkinley that had been a teacher at that
      school he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but he was very ill
      after that, you remember, my dear; it was quite a dissipation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was not used to it, you know,' said the old lady, 'and he couldn't
      bear it, that's the truth. Besides he had no comfort in being there
      without us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself with.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was it, you know,' interposed the same small quiet voice that had
      spoken once before. 'I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate, and to
      think that the sea was between us&mdash;oh, I never shall forget what I
      felt when I first thought that the sea was between us!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very natural under the circumstances,' observed the Notary. 'Mr Abel's
      feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your nature, ma'am, and
      his father's nature, and human nature. I trace the same current now,
      flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive proceedings.&mdash;I am
      about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of the articles which Mr
      Chuckster will witness; and placing my finger upon this blue wafer with
      the vandyked corners, I am constrained to remark in a distinct tone of
      voice&mdash;don't be alarmed, ma'am, it is merely a form of law&mdash;that
      I deliver this, as my act and deed. Mr Abel will place his name against
      the other wafer, repeating the same cabalistic words, and the business is
      over. Ha ha ha! You see how easily these things are done!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr Abel went through the
      prescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet were
      renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of wine-glasses and a
      great talkativeness on the part of everybody. In about a quarter of an
      hour Mr Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear and his face inflamed with
      wine) appeared at the door, and condescending to address Kit by the jocose
      appellation of 'Young Snob,' informed him that the visitors were coming
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Out they came forthwith; Mr Witherden, who was short, chubby,
      fresh-coloured, brisk, and pompous, leading the old lady with extreme
      politeness, and the father and son following them, arm in arm. Mr Abel,
      who had a quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of the same
      age as his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in face and
      figure, though wanting something of his full, round, cheerfulness, and
      substituting in its place a timid reserve. In all other respects, in the
      neatness of the dress, and even in the club-foot, he and the old gentleman
      were precisely alike.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the
      arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an indispensable
      portion of her equipage, Mr Abel got into a little box behind which had
      evidently been made for his express accommodation, and smiled at everybody
      present by turns, beginning with his mother and ending with the pony.
      There was then a great to-do to make the pony hold up his head that the
      bearing-rein might be fastened; at last even this was effected; and the
      old gentleman, taking his seat and the reins, put his hand in his pocket
      to find a sixpence for Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had no sixpence, neither had the old lady, nor Mr Abel, nor the Notary,
      nor Mr Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling too much, but there
      was no shop in the street to get change at, so he gave it to the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' he said jokingly, 'I'm coming here again next Monday at the same
      time, and mind you're here, my lad, to work it out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, Sir,' said Kit. 'I'll be sure to be here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying so,
      especially Mr Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to relish the
      joke amazingly. As the pony, with a presentiment that he was going home,
      or a determination that he would not go anywhere else (which was the same
      thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no time to justify himself, and
      went his way also. Having expended his treasure in such purchases as he
      knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting some seed for the
      wonderful bird, he hastened back as fast as he could, so elated with his
      success and great good fortune, that he more than half expected Nell and
      the old man would have arrived before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap15"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 15
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ften, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on the
      morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled sensation of
      hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the clear
      distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But although she
      would gladly have given him her hand and thanked him for what he had said
      at their last meeting, it was always a relief to find, when they came
      nearer to each other, that the person who approached was not he, but a
      stranger; for even if she had not dreaded the effect which the sight of
      him might have wrought upon her fellow-traveller, she felt that to bid
      farewell to anybody now, and most of all to him who had been so faithful
      and so true, was more than she could bear. It was enough to leave dumb
      things behind, and objects that were insensible both to her love and
      sorrow. To have parted from her only other friend upon the threshold of
      that wild journey, would have wrung her heart indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and
      while we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve to say it?
      On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends who are
      tenderly attached will separate with the usual look, the usual pressure of
      the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow, while each well
      knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of uttering that one
      word, and that the meeting will never be. Should possibilities be worse to
      bear than certainties? We do not shun our dying friends; the not having
      distinctly taken leave of one among them, whom we left in all kindness and
      affection, will often embitter the whole remainder of a life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and
      distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams
      dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before
      sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows
      of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark, felt it was
      morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little cells; bright-eyed
      mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled timidly together; the
      sleek house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat winking at the rays of sun
      starting through keyhole and cranny in the door, and longed for her
      stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside. The nobler beasts confined in
      dens, stood motionless behind their bars and gazed on fluttering boughs,
      and sunshine peeping through some little window, with eyes in which old
      forests gleamed&mdash;then trod impatiently the track their prisoned feet
      had worn&mdash;and stopped and gazed again. Men in their dungeons
      stretched their cramp cold limbs and cursed the stone that no bright sky
      could warm. The flowers that sleep by night, opened their gentle eyes and
      turned them to the day. The light, creation's mind, was everywhere, and
      all things owned its power.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or exchanging a smile
      or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence. Bright and happy as it
      was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted streets, from which,
      like bodies without souls, all habitual character and expression had
      departed, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made them all alike.
      All was so still at that early hour, that the few pale people whom they
      met seemed as much unsuited to the scene, as the sickly lamp which had
      been here and there left burning, was powerless and faint in the full
      glory of the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men's abodes
      which yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect began to melt
      away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts and
      coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm, then others came, then others
      yet more active, then a crowd. The wonder was, at first, to see a
      tradesman's window open, but it was a rare thing soon to see one closed;
      then, smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were thrown up to
      let in air, and doors were opened, and servant girls, looking lazily in
      all directions but their brooms, scattered brown clouds of dust into the
      eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkmen who
      spoke of country fairs, and told of waggons in the mews, with awnings and
      all things complete, and gallant swains to boot, which another hour would
      see upon their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and great
      traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was already rife.
      The old man looked about him with a startled and bewildered gaze, for
      these were places that he hoped to shun. He pressed his finger on his lip,
      and drew the child along by narrow courts and winding ways, nor did he
      seem at ease until they had left it far behind, often casting a backward
      look towards it, murmuring that ruin and self-murder were crouching in
      every street, and would follow if they scented them; and that they could
      not fly too fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neighbourhood,
      where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows patched with
      rags and paper, told of the populous poverty that sheltered there. The
      shops sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers were
      pinched and griped alike. Here were poor streets where faded gentility
      essayed with scanty space and shipwrecked means to make its last feeble
      stand, but tax-gatherer and creditor came there as elsewhere, and the
      poverty that yet faintly struggled was hardly less squalid and manifest
      than that which had long ago submitted and given up the game.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a wide, wide track&mdash;for the humble followers of the camp of
      wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile&mdash;but its
      character was still the same. Damp rotten houses, many to let, many yet
      building, many half-built and mouldering away&mdash;lodgings, where it
      would be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who let or those who
      came to take&mdash;children, scantily fed and clothed, spread over every
      street, and sprawling in the dust&mdash;scolding mothers, stamping their
      slipshod feet with noisy threats upon the pavement&mdash;shabby fathers,
      hurrying with dispirited looks to the occupation which brought them 'daily
      bread' and little more&mdash;mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers,
      tailors, chandlers, driving their trades in parlours and kitchens and back
      room and garrets, and sometimes all of them under the same roof&mdash;brick-fields
      skirting gardens paled with staves of old casks, or timber pillaged from
      houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered by the flames&mdash;mounds
      of dock-weed, nettles, coarse grass and oyster-shells, heaped in rank
      confusion&mdash;small dissenting chapels to teach, with no lack of
      illustration, the miseries of Earth, and plenty of new churches, erected
      with a little superfluous wealth, to show the way to Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length these streets becoming more straggling yet, dwindled and
      dwindled away, until there were only small garden patches bordering the
      road, with many a summer house innocent of paint and built of old timber
      or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-stalks that grew
      about it, and grottoed at the seams with toad-stools and tight-sticking
      snails. To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two with plots of ground
      in front, laid out in angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow paths
      between, where footstep never strayed to make the gravel rough. Then came
      the public-house, freshly painted in green and white, with tea-gardens and
      a bowling green, spurning its old neighbour with the horse-trough where
      the waggons stopped; then, fields; and then, some houses, one by one, of
      goodly size with lawns, some even with a lodge where dwelt a porter and
      his wife. Then came a turnpike; then fields again with trees and
      hay-stacks; then, a hill, and on the top of that, the traveller might
      stop, and&mdash;looking back at old Saint Paul's looming through the
      smoke, its cross peeping above the cloud (if the day were clear), and
      glittering in the sun; and casting his eyes upon the Babel out of which it
      grew until he traced it down to the furthest outposts of the invading army
      of bricks and mortar whose station lay for the present nearly at his feet&mdash;might
      feel at last that he was clear of London.
    </p>
    <p>
      Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and his
      little guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they were bound) sat
      down to rest. She had had the precaution to furnish her basket with some
      slices of bread and meat, and here they made their frugal breakfast.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0120m.jpg" alt="0120m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0120.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of the
      waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, and the thousand
      exquisite scents and sounds that floated in the air&mdash;deep joys to
      most of us, but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd or who live
      solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human well&mdash;sunk
      into their breasts and made them very glad. The child had repeated her
      artless prayers once that morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had
      ever done in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her lips
      again. The old man took off his hat&mdash;he had no memory for the words&mdash;but
      he said amen, and that they were very good.
    </p>
    <p>
      There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with strange plates,
      upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored whole evenings,
      wondering whether it was true in every word, and where those distant
      countries with the curious names might be. As she looked back upon the
      place they had left, one part of it came strongly on her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear grandfather,' she said, 'only that this place is prettier and a
      great deal better than the real one, if that in the book is like it, I
      feel as if we were both Christian, and laid down on this grass all the
      cares and troubles we brought with us; never to take them up again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No&mdash;never to return&mdash;never to return'&mdash;replied the old
      man, waving his hand towards the city. 'Thou and I are free of it now,
      Nell. They shall never lure us back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you tired?' said the child, 'are you sure you don't feel ill from
      this long walk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,' was his reply.
      'Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be further away&mdash;a long, long way
      further. We are too near to stop, and be at rest. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child laved her
      hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth to walk again.
      She would have the old man refresh himself in this way too, and making him
      sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her hands, and dried
      it with her simple dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can do nothing for myself, my darling,' said the grandfather; 'I don't
      know how it is, I could once, but the time's gone. Don't leave me, Nell;
      say that thou'lt not leave me. I loved thee all the while, indeed I did.
      If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously. The time had
      been, and a very few days before, when the child could not have restrained
      her tears and must have wept with him. But now she soothed him with gentle
      and tender words, smiled at his thinking they could ever part, and rallied
      him cheerfully upon the jest. He was soon calmed and fell asleep, singing
      to himself in a low voice, like a little child.
    </p>
    <p>
      He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The road was
      pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn, about
      which, poised high in the clear blue sky, the lark trilled out her happy
      song. The air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its way, and
      the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their drowsy
      satisfaction as they floated by.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were now in the open country; the houses were very few and scattered
      at long intervals, often miles apart. Occasionally they came upon a
      cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board put across the
      open door to keep the scrambling children from the road, others shut up
      close while all the family were working in the fields. These were often
      the commencement of a little village: and after an interval came a
      wheelwright's shed or perhaps a blacksmith's forge; then a thriving farm
      with sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses peering over the low
      wall and scampering away when harnessed horses passed upon the road, as
      though in triumph at their freedom. There were dull pigs too, turning up
      the ground in search of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous
      grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed each other in their quest;
      plump pigeons skimming round the roof or strutting on the eaves; and ducks
      and geese, far more graceful in their own conceit, waddling awkwardly
      about the edges of the pond or sailing glibly on its surface. The
      farm-yard passed, then came the little inn; the humbler beer-shop; and the
      village tradesman's; then the lawyer's and the parson's, at whose dread
      names the beer-shop trembled; the church then peeped out modestly from a
      clump of trees; then there were a few more cottages; then the cage, and
      pound, and not unfrequently, on a bank by the way-side, a deep old dusty
      well. Then came the trim-hedged fields on either hand, and the open road
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds
      were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again, and though
      jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before long and proceeded
      briskly forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and
      still kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the morning. It was
      nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when drawing near another cluster of
      labourers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each, doubtful at which to
      ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy a draught of milk.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of being
      repulsed. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In this, the
      people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she stopped at one
      where the family were seated round the table&mdash;chiefly because there
      was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the hearth, and she
      thought he was a grandfather and would feel for hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young sturdy
      children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner preferred, than
      granted. The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged two
      stools towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's gown, and
      looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God save you, master,' said the old cottager in a thin piping voice; 'are
      you travelling far?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Sir, a long way'&mdash;replied the child; for her grandfather
      appealed to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From London?' inquired the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child said yes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah! He had been in London many a time&mdash;used to go there often once,
      with waggons. It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had been there
      last, and he did hear say there were great changes. Like enough! He had
      changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was a long time and
      eighty-four a great age, though there was some he had known that had lived
      to very hard upon a hundred&mdash;and not so hearty as he, neither&mdash;no,
      nothing like it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair,' said the old man, knocking
      his stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so sharply. 'Take a pinch
      out o' that box; I don't take much myself, for it comes dear, but I find
      it wakes me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me. I should have a son
      pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived, but they listed him for a so'ger&mdash;he
      come back home though, for all he had but one poor leg. He always said
      he'd be buried near the sun-dial he used to climb upon when he was a baby,
      did my poor boy, and his words come true&mdash;you can see the place with
      your own eyes; we've kept the turf up, ever since.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes, said she
      needn't be afraid that he was going to talk about that, any more. He
      didn't wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by what he
      said, he asked pardon, that was all.
    </p>
    <p>
      The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and selecting
      its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty meal. The
      furniture of the room was very homely of course&mdash;a few rough chairs
      and a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of crockery and
      delf, a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright red, walking out
      with a very blue parasol, a few common, coloured scripture subjects in
      frames upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf clothes-press and an
      eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a kettle, comprised the
      whole. But everything was clean and neat, and as the child glanced round,
      she felt a tranquil air of comfort and content to which she had long been
      unaccustomed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How far is it to any town or village?' she asked of the husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A matter of good five mile, my dear,' was the reply, 'but you're not
      going on to-night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, Nell,' said the old man hastily, urging her too by signs.
      'Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk till midnight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a good barn hard by, master,' said the man, 'or there's
      travellers' lodging, I know, at the Plow an' Harrer. Excuse me, but you do
      seem a little tired, and unless you're very anxious to get on&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, we are,' returned the old man fretfully. 'Further away, dear
      Nell, pray further away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must go on, indeed,' said the child, yielding to his restless wish.
      'We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon. I'm quite ready,
      grandfather.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that one of
      her little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and a mother
      too, she would not suffer her to go until she had washed the place and
      applied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and with such a
      gentle hand&mdash;rough-grained and hard though it was, with work&mdash;that
      the child's heart was too full to admit of her saying more than a fervent
      'God bless you!' nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak, until
      they had left the cottage some distance behind. When she turned her head,
      she saw that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were standing in
      the road watching them as they went, and so, with many waves of the hand,
      and cheering nods, and on one side at least not without tears, they parted
      company.
    </p>
    <p>
      They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they had done yet,
      for another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of wheels
      behind them, and looking round observed an empty cart approaching pretty
      briskly. The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and looked
      earnestly at Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?' he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' replied the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! They asked me to look out for you,' said the man. 'I'm going your
      way. Give me your hand&mdash;jump up, master.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and could
      scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a luxurious carriage,
      and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had scarcely settled
      herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she fell asleep, for
      the first time that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn up a
      bye-lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out, and pointing to some
      trees at a very short distance before them, said that the town lay there,
      and that they had better take the path which they would see leading
      through the churchyard. Accordingly, towards this spot, they directed
      their weary steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap16"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 16
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he sun was setting when they reached the wicket-gate at which the path
      began, and, as the rain falls upon the just and unjust alike, it shed its
      warm tint even upon the resting-places of the dead, and bade them be of
      good hope for its rising on the morrow. The church was old and grey, with
      ivy clinging to the walls, and round the porch. Shunning the tombs, it
      crept about the mounds, beneath which slept poor humble men: twining for
      them the first wreaths they had ever won, but wreaths less liable to
      wither and far more lasting in their kind, than some which were graven
      deep in stone and marble, and told in pompous terms of virtues meekly
      hidden for many a year, and only revealed at last to executors and
      mourning legatees.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull blunt sound among the graves,
      was cropping the grass; at once deriving orthodox consolation from the
      dead parishioners, and enforcing last Sunday's text that this was what all
      flesh came to; a lean ass who had sought to expound it also, without being
      qualified and ordained, was pricking his ears in an empty pound hard by,
      and looking with hungry eyes upon his priestly neighbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and strayed among the
      tombs; for there the ground was soft, and easy to their tired feet. As
      they passed behind the church, they heard voices near at hand, and
      presently came on those who had spoken.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes upon the grass, and so
      busily engaged as to be at first unconscious of intruders. It was not
      difficult to divine that they were of a class of itinerant showmen&mdash;exhibitors
      of the freaks of Punch&mdash;for, perched cross-legged upon a tombstone
      behind them, was a figure of that hero himself, his nose and chin as
      hooked and his face as beaming as usual. Perhaps his imperturbable
      character was never more strikingly developed, for he preserved his usual
      equable smile notwithstanding that his body was dangling in a most
      uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and shapeless, while his long
      peaked cap, unequally balanced against his exceedingly slight legs,
      threatened every instant to bring him toppling down.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0126m.jpg" alt="0126m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0126.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two men, and in part
      jumbled together in a long flat box, were the other persons of the Drama.
      The hero's wife and one child, the hobby-horse, the doctor, the foreign
      gentleman who not being familiar with the language is unable in the
      representation to express his ideas otherwise than by the utterance of the
      word 'Shallabalah' three distinct times, the radical neighbour who will by
      no means admit that a tin bell is an organ, the executioner, and the
      devil, were all here. Their owners had evidently come to that spot to make
      some needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one of them was
      engaged in binding together a small gallows with thread, while the other
      was intent upon fixing a new black wig, with the aid of a small hammer and
      some tacks, upon the head of the radical neighbour, who had been beaten
      bald.
    </p>
    <p>
      They raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were close
      upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their looks of curiosity.
      One of them, the actual exhibitor no doubt, was a little merry-faced man
      with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have unconsciously
      imbibed something of his hero's character. The other&mdash;that was he who
      took the money&mdash;had rather a careful and cautious look, which was
      perhaps inseparable from his occupation also.
    </p>
    <p>
      The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and
      following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the first
      time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may be remarked,
      seemed to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most flourishing
      epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you come here to do this?' said the old man, sitting down beside
      them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why you see,' rejoined the little man, 'we're putting up for to-night at
      the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the present
      company undergoing repair.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, 'why not, eh? why
      not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the
      interest, wouldn't it?' replied the little man. 'Would you care a ha'penny
      for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and without his wig?&mdash;certainly
      not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good!' said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and
      drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. 'Are you going to show 'em
      to-night? are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is the intention, governor,' replied the other, 'and unless I'm much
      mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a calculating at this minute what we've lost
      through your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive of
      the estimate he had formed of the travellers' finances.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Mr Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as he
      twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box, 'I don't care
      if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you stood in front of
      the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd know human natur'
      better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch,'
      rejoined his companion. 'When you played the ghost in the reg'lar drama in
      the fairs, you believed in everything&mdash;except ghosts. But now you're
      a universal mistruster. I never see a man so changed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind,' said Mr Codlin, with the air of a discontented philosopher.
      'I know better now, and p'raps I'm sorry for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised them,
      Mr Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his friend:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look here; here's all this judy's clothes falling to pieces again. You
      haven't got a needle and thread I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully as he
      contemplated this severe indisposition of a principal performer. Seeing
      that they were at a loss, the child said timidly:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have a needle, Sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me try
      to mend it for you? I think I could do it neater than you could.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Mr Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable.
      Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her task,
      and accomplishing it to a miracle.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with an
      interest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced at her
      helpless companion. When she had finished her work he thanked her, and
      inquired whither they were travelling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&mdash;no further to-night, I think,' said the child, looking towards
      her grandfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you're wanting a place to stop at,' the man remarked, 'I should advise
      you to take up at the same house with us. That's it. The long, low, white
      house there. It's very cheap.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have remained in the
      churchyard all night if his new acquaintances had remained there too. As
      he yielded to this suggestion a ready and rapturous assent, they all rose
      and walked away together; he keeping close to the box of puppets in which
      he was quite absorbed, the merry little man carrying it slung over his arm
      by a strap attached to it for the purpose, Nelly having hold of her
      grandfather's hand, and Mr Codlin sauntering slowly behind, casting up at
      the church tower and neighbouring trees such looks as he was accustomed in
      town-practice to direct to drawing-room and nursery windows, when seeking
      for a profitable spot on which to plant the show.
    </p>
    <p>
      The public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady who made no
      objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty and
      were at once prepossessed in her behalf. There was no other company in the
      kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very thankful that they
      had fallen upon such good quarters. The landlady was very much astonished
      to learn that they had come all the way from London, and appeared to have
      no little curiosity touching their farther destination. The child parried
      her inquiries as well as she could, and with no great trouble, for finding
      that they appeared to give her pain, the old lady desisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an hour's time,' she said,
      taking her into the bar; 'and your best plan will be to sup with them.
      Meanwhile you shall have a little taste of something that'll do you good,
      for I'm sure you must want it after all you've gone through to-day. Now,
      don't look after the old gentleman, because when you've drank that, he
      shall have some too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, however, or to touch
      anything in which he was not the first and greatest sharer, the old lady
      was obliged to help him first. When they had been thus refreshed, the
      whole house hurried away into an empty stable where the show stood, and
      where, by the light of a few flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung
      by a line from the ceiling, it was to be forthwith exhibited.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now Mr Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after blowing away at the Pan's
      pipes until he was intensely wretched, took his station on one side of the
      checked drapery which concealed the mover of the figures, and putting his
      hands in his pockets prepared to reply to all questions and remarks of
      Punch, and to make a dismal feint of being his most intimate private
      friend, of believing in him to the fullest and most unlimited extent, of
      knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and glorious existence in
      that temple, and that he was at all times and under every circumstance the
      same intelligent and joyful person that the spectators then beheld him.
      All this Mr Codlin did with the air of a man who had made up his mind for
      the worst and was quite resigned; his eye slowly wandering about during
      the briskest repartee to observe the effect upon the audience, and
      particularly the impression made upon the landlord and landlady, which
      might be productive of very important results in connexion with the
      supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any anxiety, for the whole
      performance was applauded to the echo, and voluntary contributions were
      showered in with a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the
      general delight. Among the laughter none was more loud and frequent than
      the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she, poor child, with her head
      drooping on his shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be
      roused by any of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in his glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet would not
      leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed. He, happily
      insensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile
      and admiring face to all that his new friend said; and it was not until
      they retired yawning to their room, that he followed the child up stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, where they were to
      rest, but they were well pleased with their lodging and had hoped for none
      so good. The old man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged that
      Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she had done for so many nights.
      She hastened to him, and sat there till he slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in the wall, in her
      room, and when she left him, she opened it, quite wondering at the
      silence. The sight of the old church, and the graves about it in the
      moonlight, and the dark trees whispering among themselves, made her more
      thoughtful than before. She closed the window again, and sitting down upon
      the bed, thought of the life that was before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had a little money, but it was very little, and when that was gone,
      they must begin to beg. There was one piece of gold among it, and an
      emergency might come when its worth to them would be increased a hundred
      fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and never produce it unless
      their case was absolutely desperate, and no other resource was left them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress, and
      going to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap17"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 17
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>nother bright day shining in through the small casement, and claiming
      fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her. At sight of the
      strange room and its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm,
      wondering how she had been moved from the familiar chamber in which she
      seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and whither she had been
      conveyed. But, another glance around called to her mind all that had
      lately passed, and she sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out into
      the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her feet, and
      often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in others, that
      she might not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious kind of pleasure
      in lingering among these houses of the dead, and read the inscriptions on
      the tombs of the good people (a great number of good people were buried
      there), passing on from one to another with increasing interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the cawing
      of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of some tall old
      trees, and were calling to one another, high up in the air. First, one
      sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung and dangled in the
      wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by chance as it would seem, and in a
      sober tone as though he were but talking to himself. Another answered, and
      he called again, but louder than before; then another spoke and then
      another; and each time the first, aggravated by contradiction, insisted on
      his case more strongly. Other voices, silent till now, struck in from
      boughs lower down and higher up and midway, and to the right and left, and
      from the tree-tops; and others, arriving hastily from the grey church
      turrets and old belfry window, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and
      swelled and dropped again, and still went on; and all this noisy
      contention amidst a skimming to and fro, and lighting on fresh branches,
      and frequent change of place, which satirised the old restlessness of
      those who lay so still beneath the moss and turf below, and the strife in
      which they had worn away their lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down,
      and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect silence
      would have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now stopping to
      replace with careful hands the bramble which had started from some green
      mound it helped to keep in shape, and now peeping through one of the low
      latticed windows into the church, with its worm-eaten books upon the
      desks, and baize of whitened-green mouldering from the pew sides and
      leaving the naked wood to view. There were the seats where the poor old
      people sat, worn spare, and yellow like themselves; the rugged font where
      children had their names, the homely altar where they knelt in after life,
      the plain black tressels that bore their weight on their last visit to the
      cool old shady church. Everything told of long use and quiet slow decay;
      the very bell-rope in the porch was frayed into a fringe, and hoary with
      old age.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had died
      at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she heard a
      faltering step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble woman bent with
      the weight of years, who tottered to the foot of that same grave and asked
      her to read the writing on the stone. The old woman thanked her when she
      had done, saying that she had had the words by heart for many a long, long
      year, but could not see them now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Were you his mother?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was his wife, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was
      fifty-five years ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You wonder to hear me say that,' remarked the old woman, shaking her
      head. 'You're not the first. Older folk than you have wondered at the same
      thing before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn't change us more than
      life, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you come here often?' asked the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I sit here very often in the summer time,' she answered, 'I used to come
      here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago, bless God!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,' said the old woman
      after a short silence. 'I like no flowers so well as these, and haven't
      for five-and-fifty years. It's a long time, and I'm getting very old.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener though
      it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and moaned and prayed
      to die herself, when this happened; and how when she first came to that
      place, a young creature strong in love and grief, she had hoped that her
      heart was breaking as it seemed to be. But that time passed by, and
      although she continued to be sad when she came there, still she could bear
      to come, and so went on until it was pain no longer, but a solemn
      pleasure, and a duty she had learned to like. And now that five-and-fifty
      years were gone, she spoke of the dead man as if he had been her son or
      grandson, with a kind of pity for his youth, growing out of her own old
      age, and an exalting of his strength and manly beauty as compared with her
      own weakness and decay; and yet she spoke about him as her husband too,
      and thinking of herself in connexion with him, as she used to be and not
      as she was now, talked of their meeting in another world, as if he were
      dead but yesterday, and she, separated from her former self, were thinking
      of the happiness of that comely girl who seemed to have died with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave, and
      thoughtfully retraced her steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still doomed to
      contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing among his linen
      the candle-ends which had been saved from the previous night's
      performance; while his companion received the compliments of all the
      loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to separate him from the
      master-mind of Punch, set him down as next in importance to that merry
      outlaw, and loved him scarcely less. When he had sufficiently acknowledged
      his popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they all sat down
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And where are you going to-day?' said the little man, addressing himself
      to Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed I hardly know&mdash;we have not determined yet,' replied the
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We're going on to the races,' said the little man. 'If that's your way
      and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If you prefer
      going alone, only say the word and you'll find that we shan't trouble
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll go with you,' said the old man. 'Nell&mdash;with them, with them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must shortly
      beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where crowds
      of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled together for purposes of
      enjoyment and festivity, determined to accompany these men so far. She
      therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said, glancing timidly
      towards his friend, that if there was no objection to their accompanying
      them as far as the race town&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Objection!' said the little man. 'Now be gracious for once, Tommy, and
      say that you'd rather they went with us. I know you would. Be gracious,
      Tommy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Trotters,' said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very greedily,
      as is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes; 'you're too free.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why what harm can it do?' urged the other.
</p>
    <p>
'No harm at all in this
      particular case, perhaps,' replied Mr Codlin; 'but the principle's a
      dangerous one, and you're too free I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, are they to go with us or not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, they are,' said Mr Codlin; 'but you might have made a favour of it,
      mightn't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually merged
      into the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory
      adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason of the small size
      of his legs. Short Trotters however, being a compound name, inconvenient
      of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom it had been bestowed
      was known among his intimates either as 'Short,' or 'Trotters,' and was
      seldom accosted at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal
      conversations and on occasions of ceremony.
    </p>
    <p>
      Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the
      remonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose answer calculated to
      turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with great relish to the
      cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and butter, strongly impressed upon
      his companions that they should do the like. Mr Codlin indeed required no
      such persuasion, as he had already eaten as much as he could possibly
      carry and was now moistening his clay with strong ale, whereof he took
      deep draughts with a silent relish and invited nobody to partake&mdash;thus
      again strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and charging
      the ale to the company generally (a practice also savouring of
      misanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and equal parts,
      assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the other to Nelly and her
      grandfather. These being duly discharged and all things ready for their
      departure, they took farewell of the landlord and landlady and resumed
      their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      And here Mr Codlin's false position in society and the effect it wrought
      upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for whereas he had
      been last night accosted by Mr Punch as 'master,' and had by inference
      left the audience to understand that he maintained that individual for his
      own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he was, now, painfully
      walking beneath the burden of that same Punch's temple, and bearing it
      bodily upon his shoulders on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In place
      of enlivening his patron with a constant fire of wit or the cheerful
      rattle of his quarter-staff on the heads of his relations and
      acquaintance, here was that beaming Punch utterly devoid of spine, all
      slack and drooping in a dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck,
      and not one of his social qualities remaining.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals with
      Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led the way;
      with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not extensive) tied up
      in a bundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his shoulder-blade. Nell and
      her grandfather walked next him on either hand, and Thomas Codlin brought
      up the rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house of good
      appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and carolled a
      fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to Punches and their
      consorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr Codlin pitched the temple,
      and hastily unfurling the drapery and concealing Short therewith,
      flourished hysterically on the pipes and performed an air. Then the
      entertainment began as soon as might be; Mr Codlin having the
      responsibility of deciding on its length and of protracting or expediting
      the time for the hero's final triumph over the enemy of mankind, according
      as he judged that the after-crop of half-pence would be plentiful or
      scant. When it had been gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his
      load and on they went again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and once
      exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector, being
      drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to have it to himself. There
      was one small place of rich promise in which their hopes were blighted,
      for a favourite character in the play having gold-lace upon his coat and
      being a meddling wooden-headed fellow was held to be a libel on the
      beadle, for which reason the authorities enforced a quick retreat; but
      they were generally well received, and seldom left a town without a troop
      of ragged children shouting at their heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      They made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and were yet
      upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short beguiled the
      time with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that happened.
      Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the hollow things of
      earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with the theatre on his
      back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met, and
      Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and seated
      himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and disdainful
      of the company of his fellow creatures, when two monstrous shadows were
      seen stalking towards them from a turning in the road by which they had
      come. The child was at first quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt
      giants&mdash;for such they looked as they advanced with lofty strides
      beneath the shadow of the trees&mdash;but Short, telling her there was
      nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was answered by a
      cheerful shout.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0136m.jpg" alt="0136m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0136.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'It's Grinder's lot, an't it?' cried Mr Short in a loud key.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied a couple of shrill voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come on then,' said Short. 'Let's have a look at you. I thought it was
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus invited, 'Grinder's lot' approached with redoubled speed and soon
      came up with the little party.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young
      gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who used his
      natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his back a drum. The
      public costume of the young people was of the Highland kind, but the night
      being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore over his kilt a man's pea
      jacket reaching to his ankles, and a glazed hat; the young lady too was
      muffled in an old cloth pelisse and had a handkerchief tied about her
      head. Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented with plumes of jet black feathers,
      Mr Grinder carried on his instrument.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bound for the races, I see,' said Mr Grinder coming up out of breath. 'So
      are we. How are you, Short?' With that they shook hands in a very friendly
      manner. The young people being too high up for the ordinary salutations,
      saluted Short after their own fashion. The young gentleman twisted up his
      right stilt and patted him on the shoulder, and the young lady rattled her
      tambourine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Practice?' said Short, pointing to the stilts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned Grinder. 'It comes either to walkin' in 'em or carryin' of
      'em, and they like walkin' in 'em best. It's wery pleasant for the
      prospects. Which road are you takin'? We go the nighest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, the fact is,' said Short, 'that we are going the longest way,
      because then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But three
      or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and if you keep
      on, I think our best way is to do the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where's your partner?' inquired Grinder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here he is,' cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face in the
      proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of countenance not
      often seen there; 'and he'll see his partner boiled alive before he'll go
      on to-night. That's what he says.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted to
      something pleasanter,' urged Short. 'Respect associations, Tommy, even if
      you do cut up rough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rough or smooth,' said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little
      footboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his legs
      and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit them to
      popular admiration, 'rough or smooth, I won't go further than the mile and
      a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly Sandboys and nowhere else. If you
      like to come there, come there. If you like to go on by yourself, go on by
      yourself, and do without me if you can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene and immediately presented
      himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a jerk, and made
      off with most remarkable agility.
    </p>
    <p>
      Any further controversy being now out of the question, Short was fain to
      part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his morose companion.
      After lingering at the finger-post for a few minutes to see the stilts
      frisking away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum toiling slowly
      after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet as a parting salute, and
      hastened with all speed to follow Mr Codlin. With this view he gave his
      unoccupied hand to Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer as they would
      soon be at the end of their journey for that night, and stimulating the
      old man with a similar assurance, led them at a pretty swift pace towards
      their destination, which he was the less unwilling to make for, as the
      moon was now overcast and the clouds were threatening rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap18"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 18
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Jolly Sandboys was a small road-side inn of pretty ancient date, with
      a sign, representing three Sandboys increasing their jollity with as many
      jugs of ale and bags of gold, creaking and swinging on its post on the
      opposite side of the road. As the travellers had observed that day many
      indications of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race town, such as
      gipsy camps, carts laden with gambling booths and their appurtenances,
      itinerant showmen of various kinds, and beggars and trampers of every
      degree, all wending their way in the same direction, Mr Codlin was fearful
      of finding the accommodations forestalled; this fear increasing as he
      diminished the distance between himself and the hostelry, he quickened his
      pace, and notwithstanding the burden he had to carry, maintained a round
      trot until he reached the threshold. Here he had the gratification of
      finding that his fears were without foundation, for the landlord was
      leaning against the door-post looking lazily at the rain, which had by
      this time begun to descend heavily, and no tinkling of cracked bell, nor
      boisterous shout, nor noisy chorus, gave note of company within.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All alone?' said Mr Codlin, putting down his burden and wiping his
      forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All alone as yet,' rejoined the landlord, glancing at the sky, 'but we
      shall have more company to-night I expect. Here one of you boys, carry
      that show into the barn. Make haste in out of the wet, Tom; when it came
      on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a glorious blaze in
      the kitchen, I can tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon found that the landlord
      had not commended his preparations without good reason. A mighty fire was
      blazing on the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney with a cheerful
      sound, which a large iron cauldron, bubbling and simmering in the heat,
      lent its pleasant aid to swell. There was a deep red ruddy blush upon the
      room, and when the landlord stirred the fire, sending the flames skipping
      and leaping up&mdash;when he took off the lid of the iron pot and there
      rushed out a savoury smell, while the bubbling sound grew deeper and more
      rich, and an unctuous steam came floating out, hanging in a delicious mist
      above their heads&mdash;when he did this, Mr Codlin's heart was touched.
      He sat down in the chimney-corner and smiled.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0139m.jpg" alt="0139m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0139.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Mr Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner, eyeing the landlord as with a
      roguish look he held the cover in his hand, and, feigning that his doing
      so was needful to the welfare of the cookery, suffered the delightful
      steam to tickle the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the fire was upon
      the landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling eye, and upon his
      watering mouth, and upon his pimpled face, and upon his round fat figure.
      Mr Codlin drew his sleeve across his lips, and said in a murmuring voice,
      'What is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a stew of tripe,' said the landlord smacking his lips, 'and
      cow-heel,' smacking them again, 'and bacon,' smacking them once more, 'and
      steak,' smacking them for the fourth time, 'and peas, cauliflowers, new
      potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together in one delicious
      gravy.' Having come to the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times,
      and taking a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about,
      put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were over.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At what time will it be ready?' asked Mr Codlin faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It'll be done to a turn,' said the landlord looking up to the clock&mdash;and
      the very clock had a colour in its fat white face, and looked a clock for
      jolly Sandboys to consult&mdash;'it'll be done to a turn at twenty-two
      minutes before eleven.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Mr Codlin, 'fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let nobody
      bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time arrives.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nodding his approval of this decisive and manly course of procedure, the
      landlord retired to draw the beer, and presently returning with it,
      applied himself to warm the same in a small tin vessel shaped funnel-wise,
      for the convenience of sticking it far down in the fire and getting at the
      bright places. This was soon done, and he handed it over to Mr Codlin with
      that creamy froth upon the surface which is one of the happy circumstances
      attendant on mulled malt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Greatly softened by this soothing beverage, Mr Codlin now bethought him of
      his companions, and acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that their
      arrival might be shortly looked for. The rain was rattling against the
      windows and pouring down in torrents, and such was Mr Codlin's extreme
      amiability of mind, that he more than once expressed his earnest hope that
      they would not be so foolish as to get wet.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length they arrived, drenched with the rain and presenting a most
      miserable appearance, notwithstanding that Short had sheltered the child
      as well as he could under the skirts of his own coat, and they were nearly
      breathless from the haste they had made. But their steps were no sooner
      heard upon the road than the landlord, who had been at the outer door
      anxiously watching for their coming, rushed into the kitchen and took the
      cover off. The effect was electrical. They all came in with smiling faces
      though the wet was dripping from their clothes upon the floor, and Short's
      first remark was, 'What a delicious smell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the side of a cheerful
      fire, and in a bright room. They were furnished with slippers and such dry
      garments as the house or their own bundles afforded, and ensconcing
      themselves, as Mr Codlin had already done, in the warm chimney-corner,
      soon forgot their late troubles or only remembered them as enhancing the
      delights of the present time. Overpowered by the warmth and comfort and
      the fatigue they had undergone, Nelly and the old man had not long taken
      their seats here, when they fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who are they?' whispered the landlord.
</p>
    <p>
Short shook his head, and wished
      he knew himself.
</p>
    <p>
'Don't you know?' asked the host, turning to Mr Codlin.
</p>
    <p>
      'Not I,' he replied. 'They're no good, I suppose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're no harm,' said Short. 'Depend upon that. I tell you what&mdash;it's
      plain that the old man an't in his right mind&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you haven't got anything newer than that to say,' growled Mr Codlin,
      glancing at the clock, 'you'd better let us fix our minds upon the supper,
      and not disturb us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear me out, won't you?' retorted his friend. 'It's very plain to me,
      besides, that they're not used to this way of life. Don't tell me that
      that handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she's done
      these last two or three days. I know better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, who <i>does </i>tell you she has?' growled Mr Codlin, again glancing at
      the clock and from it to the cauldron, 'can't you think of anything more
      suitable to present circumstances than saying things and then
      contradicting 'em?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish somebody would give you your supper,' returned Short, 'for
      there'll be no peace till you've got it. Have you seen how anxious the old
      man is to get on&mdash;always wanting to be furder away&mdash;furder away.
      Have you seen that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! what then?' muttered Thomas Codlin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This, then,' said Short. 'He has given his friends the slip. Mind what I
      say&mdash;he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this delicate
      young creetur all along of her fondness for him to be his guide and
      travelling companion&mdash;where to, he knows no more than the man in the
      moon. Now I'm not a going to stand that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You're</i> not a going to stand that!' cried Mr Codlin, glancing at the clock
      again and pulling his hair with both hands in a kind of frenzy, but
      whether occasioned by his companion's observation or the tardy pace of
      Time, it was difficult to determine. 'Here's a world to live in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I,' repeated Short emphatically and slowly, 'am not a-going to stand it.
      I am not a-going to see this fair young child a falling into bad hands,
      and getting among people that she's no more fit for, than they are to get
      among angels as their ordinary chums. Therefore when they dewelope an
      intention of parting company from us, I shall take measures for detaining
      of 'em, and restoring 'em to their friends, who I dare say have had their
      disconsolation pasted up on every wall in London by this time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Short,' said Mr Codlin, who with his head upon his hands, and his elbows
      on his knees, had been shaking himself impatiently from side to side up to
      this point and occasionally stamping on the ground, but who now looked up
      with eager eyes; 'it's possible that there may be uncommon good sense in
      what you've said. If there is, and there should be a reward, Short,
      remember that we're partners in everything!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His companion had only time to nod a brief assent to this position, for
      the child awoke at the instant. They had drawn close together during the
      previous whispering, and now hastily separated and were rather awkwardly
      endeavouring to exchange some casual remarks in their usual tone, when
      strange footsteps were heard without, and fresh company entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who came pattering in one
      after the other, headed by an old bandy dog of particularly mournful
      aspect, who, stopping when the last of his followers had got as far as the
      door, erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round at his
      companions, who immediately stood upon their hind legs, in a grave and
      melancholy row. Nor was this the only remarkable circumstance about these
      dogs, for each of them wore a kind of little coat of some gaudy colour
      trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of them had a cap upon his head,
      tied very carefully under his chin, which had fallen down upon his nose
      and completely obscured one eye; add to this, that the gaudy coats were
      all wet through and discoloured with rain, and that the wearers were
      splashed and dirty, and some idea may be formed of the unusual appearance
      of these new visitors to the Jolly Sandboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, however, was in the
      least surprised, merely remarking that these were Jerry's dogs and that
      Jerry could not be far behind. So there the dogs stood, patiently winking
      and gaping and looking extremely hard at the boiling pot, until Jerry
      himself appeared, when they all dropped down at once and walked about the
      room in their natural manner. This posture it must be confessed did not
      much improve their appearance, as their own personal tails and their coat
      tails&mdash;both capital things in their way&mdash;did not agree together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall black-whiskered man
      in a velveteen coat, who seemed well known to the landlord and his guests
      and accosted them with great cordiality. Disencumbering himself of a
      barrel organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining in his hand a
      small whip wherewith to awe his company of comedians, he came up to the
      fire to dry himself, and entered into conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your people don't usually travel in character, do they?' said Short,
      pointing to the dresses of the dogs. 'It must come expensive if they do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Jerry, 'no, it's not the custom with us. But we've been
      playing a little on the road to-day, and we come out with a new wardrobe
      at the races, so I didn't think it worth while to stop to undress. Down,
      Pedro!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who being a new member of
      the company, and not quite certain of his duty, kept his unobscured eye
      anxiously on his master, and was perpetually starting upon his hind legs
      when there was no occasion, and falling down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've got a animal here,' said Jerry, putting his hand into the capacious
      pocket of his coat, and diving into one corner as if he were feeling for a
      small orange or an apple or some such article, 'a animal here, wot I think
      you know something of, Short.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' cried Short, 'let's have a look at him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here he is,' said Jerry, producing a little terrier from his pocket. 'He
      was once a Toby of yours, warn't he!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In some versions of the great drama of Punch there is a small dog&mdash;a
      modern innovation&mdash;supposed to be the private property of that
      gentleman, whose name is always Toby. This Toby has been stolen in youth
      from another gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the confiding hero, who
      having no guile himself has no suspicion that it lurks in others; but
      Toby, entertaining a grateful recollection of his old master, and scorning
      to attach himself to any new patrons, not only refuses to smoke a pipe at
      the bidding of Punch, but to mark his old fidelity more strongly, seizes
      him by the nose and wrings the same with violence, at which instance of
      canine attachment the spectators are deeply affected. This was the
      character which the little terrier in question had once sustained; if
      there had been any doubt upon the subject he would speedily have resolved
      it by his conduct; for not only did he, on seeing Short, give the
      strongest tokens of recognition, but catching sight of the flat box he
      barked so furiously at the pasteboard nose which he knew was inside, that
      his master was obliged to gather him up and put him into his pocket again,
      to the great relief of the whole company.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which process Mr
      Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork in the
      most convenient place and establishing himself behind them. When
      everything was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last time,
      and then indeed there burst forth such a goodly promise of supper, that if
      he had offered to put it on again or had hinted at postponement, he would
      certainly have been sacrificed on his own hearth.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead thereof assisted a stout
      servant girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into a large tureen;
      a proceeding which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes which fell
      upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness. At length the dish was
      lifted on the table, and mugs of ale having been previously set round,
      little Nell ventured to say grace, and supper began.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind legs quite
      surprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about to cast some
      morsels of food to them before she tasted it herself, hungry though she
      was, when their master interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand but mine if you please.
      That dog,' said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the troop, and
      speaking in a terrible voice, 'lost a halfpenny to-day. He goes without
      his supper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The unfortunate creature dropped upon his fore-legs directly, wagged his
      tail, and looked imploringly at his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must be more careful, Sir,' said Jerry, walking coolly to the chair
      where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop. 'Come here. Now, Sir,
      you play away at that, while we have supper, and leave off if you dare.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog immediately began to grind most mournful music. His master having
      shown him the whip resumed his seat and called up the others, who, at his
      directions, formed in a row, standing upright as a file of soldiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, gentlemen,' said Jerry, looking at them attentively. 'The dog whose
      name's called, eats. The dogs whose names an't called, keep quiet. Carlo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel thrown
      towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle. In this manner they
      were fed at the discretion of their master. Meanwhile the dog in disgrace
      ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, sometimes in slow, but
      never leaving off for an instant. When the knives and forks rattled very
      much, or any of his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he
      accompanied the music with a short howl, but he immediately checked it on
      his master looking round, and applied himself with increased diligence to
      the Old Hundredth.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap19"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 19
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>upper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two more
      travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been walking in
      the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with water. One of
      these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady without legs or
      arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a silent gentleman who
      earned his living by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had rather
      deranged the natural expression of his countenance by putting small leaden
      lozenges into his eyes and bringing them out at his mouth, which was one
      of his professional accomplishments. The name of the first of these
      newcomers was Vuffin; the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his
      ugliness, was called Sweet William. To render them as comfortable as he
      could, the landlord bestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time
      both gentlemen were perfectly at their ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's the Giant?' said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather weak upon his legs,' returned Mr Vuffin. 'I begin to be afraid
      he's going at the knees.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a bad look-out,' said Short.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye! Bad indeed,' replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a sigh.
      'Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more about him
      than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What becomes of old giants?' said Short, turning to him again after a
      little reflection.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,' said Mr
      Vuffin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when they can't be shown,
      eh?' remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish or about the
      streets,' said Mr Vuffin. 'Once make a giant common and giants will never
      draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man with a wooden
      leg what a property he'd be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So he would!' observed the landlord and Short both together. 'That's very
      true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Instead of which,' pursued Mr Vuffin, 'if you was to advertise Shakspeare
      played entirely by wooden legs, it's my belief you wouldn't draw a
      sixpence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't suppose you would,' said Short. And the landlord said so too.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This shows, you see,' said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an
      argumentative air, 'this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants
      still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all
      their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There was
      one giant&mdash;a black 'un&mdash;as left his carawan some year ago and
      took to carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as
      crossing-sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation against anybody in
      particular,' said Mr Vuffin, looking solemnly round, 'but he was ruining
      the trade;&mdash;and he died.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs,
      who nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know you do, Jerry,' said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning. 'I know you
      remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served him
      right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had three-and-twenty
      wans&mdash;I remember the time when old Maunders had in his cottage in Spa
      Fields in the winter time, when the season was over, eight male and female
      dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight old
      giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-lows:
      and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly and wicious who whenever his
      giant wasn't quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs,
      not being able to reach up any higher. I know that's a fact, for Maunders
      told it me himself.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0147m.jpg" alt="0147m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0147.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'What about the dwarfs when they get old?' inquired the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,' returned Mr Vuffin; 'a
      grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant
      weak in the legs and not standing upright!&mdash;keep him in the carawan,
      but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be
      offered.'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the
      time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm
      corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence for
      practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other feats of
      dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to the company,
      who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child
      prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the
      company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep at a humble
      distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret, but
      had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She opened it
      directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas Codlin, whom
      she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing's the matter, my dear,' returned her visitor. 'I'm your friend.
      Perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your friend&mdash;not
      him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not who?' the child inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Short, my dear. I tell you what,' said Codlin, 'for all his having a kind
      of way with him that you'd be very apt to like, I'm the real, open-hearted
      man. I mayn't look it, but I am indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken effect
      upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Short's very well, and seems kind,' resumed the misanthrope, 'but he
      overdoes it. Now I don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin's usual deportment, it was
      that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than overdid it.
      But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take my advice,' said Codlin: 'don't ask me why, but take it. As long as
      you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don't offer to leave us&mdash;not
      on any account&mdash;but always stick to me and say that I'm your friend.
      Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that it was me that
      was your friend?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say so where&mdash;and when?' inquired the child innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'O, nowhere in particular,' replied Codlin, a little put out as it seemed
      by the question; 'I'm only anxious that you should think me so, and do me
      justice. You can't think what an interest I have in you. Why didn't you
      tell me your little history&mdash;that about you and the poor old
      gentleman? I'm the best adviser that ever was, and so interested in you&mdash;so
      much more interested than Short. I think they're breaking up down stairs;
      you needn't tell Short, you know, that we've had this little talk
      together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. Codlin's the friend, not
      Short. Short's very well as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin&mdash;not
      Short.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting
      looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe,
      leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still ruminating
      upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy stairs and landing
      cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers who were passing to
      their beds. When they had all passed, and the sound of their footsteps had
      died away, one of them returned, and after a little hesitation and
      rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful what door to knock at,
      knocked at hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the child from within.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's me&mdash;Short'&mdash;a voice called through the keyhole. 'I only
      wanted to say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear,
      because unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages
      won't be worth a penny. You'll be sure to be stirring early and go with
      us? I'll call you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his 'good night'
      heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these
      men, increased by the recollection of their whispering together down
      stairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite free
      from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she could have
      stumbled on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed against her
      fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep.
</p>
    <p>
Very early next morning, Short
      fulfilled his promise, and knocking softly at her door, entreated that she
      would get up directly, as the proprietor of the dogs was still snoring,
      and if they lost no time they might get a good deal in advance both of him
      and the conjuror, who was talking in his sleep, and from what he could be
      heard to say, appeared to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She started
      from her bed without delay, and roused the old man with so much expedition
      that they were both ready as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's
      unspeakable gratification and relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the staple
      commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of the
      landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys. The morning was
      fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late rain, the hedges
      gayer and more green, the air clear, and everything fresh and healthful.
      Surrounded by these influences, they walked on pleasantly enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the altered
      behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on sulkily by
      himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her, and when he had an
      opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion, warned her by
      certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any trust in Short, but
      to reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did he confine himself to
      looks and gestures, for when she and her grandfather were walking on
      beside the aforesaid Short, and that little man was talking with his
      accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of indifferent subjects, Thomas
      Codlin testified his jealousy and distrust by following close at her
      heels, and occasionally admonishing her ankles with the legs of the
      theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and
      suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform
      outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went through
      his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her and the old
      man, or with a show of great friendship and consideration invited the
      latter to lean upon his arm, and so held him tight until the
      representation was over and they again went forward. Even Short seemed to
      change in this respect, and to mingle with his good-nature something of a
      desire to keep them in safe custody. This increased the child's
      misgivings, and made her yet more anxious and uneasy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where the races were to begin
      next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gipsies and trampers on the
      road, wending their way towards it, and straggling out from every by-way
      and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a stream of people, some
      walking by the side of covered carts, others with horses, others with
      donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads upon their backs, but all
      tending to the same point. The public-houses by the wayside, from being
      empty and noiseless as those in the remoter parts had been, now sent out
      boisterous shouts and clouds of smoke; and, from the misty windows,
      clusters of broad red faces looked down upon the road. On every piece of
      waste or common ground, some small gambler drove his noisy trade, and
      bellowed to the idle passersby to stop and try their chance; the crowd
      grew thicker and more noisy; gilt gingerbread in blanket-stalls exposed
      its glories to the dust; and often a four-horse carriage, dashing by,
      obscured all objects in the gritty cloud it raised, and left them, stunned
      and blinded, far behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was dark before they reached the town itself, and long indeed the few
      last miles had been. Here all was tumult and confusion; the streets were
      filled with throngs of people&mdash;many strangers were there, it seemed,
      by the looks they cast about&mdash;the church-bells rang out their noisy
      peals, and flags streamed from windows and house-tops. In the large
      inn-yards waiters flitted to and fro and ran against each other, horses
      clattered on the uneven stones, carriage steps fell rattling down, and
      sickening smells from many dinners came in a heavy lukewarm breath upon
      the sense. In the smaller public-houses, fiddles with all their might and
      main were squeaking out the tune to staggering feet; drunken men,
      oblivious of the burden of their song, joined in a senseless howl, which
      drowned the tinkling of the feeble bell and made them savage for their
      drink; vagabond groups assembled round the doors to see the stroller woman
      dance, and add their uproar to the shrill flageolet and deafening drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through this delirious scene, the child, frightened and repelled by all
      she saw, led on her bewildered charge, clinging close to her conductor,
      and trembling lest in the press she should be separated from him and left
      to find her way alone. Quickening their steps to get clear of all the roar
      and riot, they at length passed through the town and made for the
      race-course, which was upon an open heath, situated on an eminence, a full
      mile distant from its furthest bounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although there were many people here, none of the best favoured or best
      clad, busily erecting tents and driving stakes in the ground, and hurrying
      to and fro with dusty feet and many a grumbled oath&mdash;although there
      were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between the wheels of carts,
      crying themselves to sleep&mdash;and poor lean horses and donkeys just
      turned loose, grazing among the men and women, and pots and kettles, and
      half-lighted fires, and ends of candles flaring and wasting in the air&mdash;for
      all this, the child felt it an escape from the town and drew her breath
      more freely. After a scanty supper, the purchase of which reduced her
      little stock so low, that she had only a few halfpence with which to buy a
      breakfast on the morrow, she and the old man lay down to rest in a corner
      of a tent, and slept, despite the busy preparations that were going on
      around them all night long.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread. Soon
      after sunrise in the morning she stole out from the tent, and rambling
      into some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such
      humble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays and offer them
      to the ladies in the carriages when the company arrived. Her thoughts were
      not idle while she was thus employed; when she returned and was seated
      beside the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her flowers together,
      while the two men lay dozing in another corner, she plucked him by the
      sleeve, and slightly glancing towards them, said, in a low voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if I spoke
      of anything but what I am about. What was that you told me before we left
      the old house? That if they knew what we were going to do, they would say
      that you were mad, and part us?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror; but she checked
      him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers while she tied them up,
      and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said&mdash;
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0152m.jpg" alt="0152m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0152.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I know that was what you told me. You needn't speak, dear. I recollect it
      very well. It was not likely that I should forget it. Grandfather, these
      men suspect that we have secretly left our friends, and mean to carry us
      before some gentleman and have us taken care of and sent back. If you let
      your hand tremble so, we can never get away from them, but if you're only
      quiet now, we shall do so, easily.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How?' muttered the old man. 'Dear Nelly, how? They will shut me up in a
      stone room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell&mdash;flog me
      with whips, and never let me see thee more!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're trembling again,' said the child. 'Keep close to me all day. Never
      mind them, don't look at them, but me. I shall find a time when we can
      steal away. When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop or speak a
      word. Hush! That's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Halloa! what are you up to, my dear?' said Mr Codlin, raising his head,
      and yawning. Then observing that his companion was fast asleep, he added
      in an earnest whisper, 'Codlin's the friend, remember&mdash;not Short.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Making some nosegays,' the child replied; 'I am going to try and sell
      some, these three days of the races. Will you have one&mdash;as a present
      I mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried towards
      him and placed it in his hand. He stuck it in his buttonhole with an air
      of ineffable complacency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly at the
      unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down again, 'Tom Codlin's
      the friend, by G&mdash;!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the morning wore on, the tents assumed a gayer and more brilliant
      appearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling softly on the turf.
      Men who had lounged about all night in smock-frocks and leather leggings,
      came out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or mountebanks;
      or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken servants at gambling booths; or in
      sturdy yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful games. Black-eyed gipsy girls,
      hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell fortunes, and pale
      slender women with consumptive faces lingered upon the footsteps of
      ventriloquists and conjurors, and counted the sixpences with anxious eyes
      long before they were gained. As many of the children as could be kept
      within bounds, were stowed away, with all the other signs of dirt and
      poverty, among the donkeys, carts, and horses; and as many as could not be
      thus disposed of ran in and out in all intricate spots, crept between
      people's legs and carriage wheels, and came forth unharmed from under
      horses' hoofs. The dancing-dogs, the stilts, the little lady and the tall
      man, and all the other attractions, with organs out of number and bands
      innumerable, emerged from the holes and corners in which they had passed
      the night, and flourished boldly in the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Along the uncleared course, Short led his party, sounding the brazen
      trumpet and revelling in the voice of Punch; and at his heels went Thomas
      Codlin, bearing the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nelly and her
      grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear. The child bore upon her
      arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid
      and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage; but alas! there were
      many bolder beggars there, gipsies who promised husbands, and other adepts
      in their trade, and although some ladies smiled gently as they shook their
      heads, and others cried to the gentlemen beside them 'See, what a pretty
      face!' they let the pretty face pass on, and never thought that it looked
      tired or hungry.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, and she was one
      who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing
      clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a
      little distance, appearing to forget her, quite. There were many ladies
      all around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the
      two young men (not unfavourably at them), and left her to herself. She
      motioned away a gipsy-woman urgent to tell her fortune, saying that it was
      told already and had been for some years, but called the child towards
      her, and taking her flowers put money into her trembling hand, and bade
      her go home and keep at home for God's sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many a time they went up and down those long, long lines, seeing
      everything but the horses and the race; when the bell rang to clear the
      course, going back to rest among the carts and donkeys, and not coming out
      again until the heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch displayed in
      the full zenith of his humour, but all this while the eye of Thomas Codlin
      was upon them, and to escape without notice was impracticable.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, late in the day, Mr Codlin pitched the show in a convenient
      spot, and the spectators were soon in the very triumph of the scene. The
      child, sitting down with the old man close behind it, had been thinking
      how strange it was that horses who were such fine honest creatures should
      seem to make vagabonds of all the men they drew about them, when a loud
      laugh at some extemporaneous witticism of Mr Short's, having allusion to
      the circumstances of the day, roused her from her meditation and caused
      her to look around.
    </p>
    <p>
      If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment. Short was
      plying the quarter-staves vigorously and knocking the characters in the
      fury of the combat against the sides of the show, the people were looking
      on with laughing faces, and Mr Codlin had relaxed into a grim smile as his
      roving eye detected hands going into waistcoat pockets and groping
      secretly for sixpences. If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the
      very moment. They seized it, and fled.
    </p>
    <p>
      They made a path through booths and carriages and throngs of people, and
      never once stopped to look behind. The bell was ringing and the course was
      cleared by the time they reached the ropes, but they dashed across it
      insensible to the shouts and screeching that assailed them for breaking in
      upon its sanctity, and creeping under the brow of the hill at a quick
      pace, made for the open fields.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap20"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 20
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ay after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning from some new
      effort to procure employment, Kit raised his eyes to the window of the
      little room he had so much commended to the child, and hoped to see some
      indication of her presence. His own earnest wish, coupled with the
      assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him with the belief that she
      would yet arrive to claim the humble shelter he had offered, and from the
      death of each day's hope another hope sprung up to live to-morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh mother?' said Kit, laying
      aside his hat with a weary air and sighing as he spoke. 'They have been
      gone a week. They surely couldn't stop away more than a week, could they
      now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The mother shook her head, and reminded him how often he had been
      disappointed already.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For the matter of that,' said Kit, 'you speak true and sensible enough,
      as you always do, mother. Still, I do consider that a week is quite long
      enough for 'em to be rambling about; don't you say so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they may not come back
      for all that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this contradiction, and not
      the less so from having anticipated it in his own mind and knowing how
      just it was. But the impulse was only momentary, and the vexed look became
      a kind one before it had crossed the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em? You don't think
      they've gone to sea, anyhow?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not gone for sailors, certainly,' returned the mother with a smile. 'But
      I can't help thinking that they have gone to some foreign country.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' cried Kit with a rueful face, 'don't talk like that, mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid they have, and that's the truth,' she said. 'It's the talk of
      all the neighbours, and there are some even that know of their having been
      seen on board ship, and can tell you the name of the place they've gone
      to, which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a very hard one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't believe it,' said Kit. 'Not a word of it. A set of idle
      chatterboxes, how should they know!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They may be wrong of course,' returned the mother, 'I can't tell about
      that, though I don't think it's at all unlikely that they're in the right,
      for the talk is that the old gentleman had put by a little money that
      nobody knew of, not even that ugly little man you talk to me about&mdash;what's
      his name&mdash;Quilp; and that he and Miss Nell have gone to live abroad
      where it can't be taken from them, and they will never be disturbed. That
      don't seem very far out of the way now, do it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admission that it did not,
      and clambering up to the old nail took down the cage and set himself to
      clean it and to feed the bird. His thoughts reverting from this occupation
      to the little old gentleman who had given him the shilling, he suddenly
      recollected that that was the very day&mdash;nay, nearly the very hour&mdash;at
      which the little old gentleman had said he should be at the Notary's house
      again. He no sooner remembered this, than he hung up the cage with great
      precipitation, and hastily explaining the nature of his errand, went off
      at full speed to the appointed place.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was some two minutes after the time when he reached the spot, which was
      a considerable distance from his home, but by great good luck the little
      old gentleman had not yet arrived; at least there was no pony-chaise to be
      seen, and it was not likely that he had come and gone again in so short a
      space. Greatly relieved to find that he was not too late, Kit leant
      against a lamp-post to take breath, and waited the advent of the pony and
      his charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sure enough, before long the pony came trotting round the corner of the
      street, looking as obstinate as pony might, and picking his steps as if he
      were spying about for the cleanest places, and would by no means dirty his
      feet or hurry himself inconveniently. Behind the pony sat the little old
      gentleman, and by the old gentleman's side sat the little old lady,
      carrying just such a nosegay as she had brought before.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the chaise, came up the
      street in perfect unanimity, until they arrived within some half a dozen
      doors of the Notary's house, when the pony, deceived by a brass-plate
      beneath a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and maintained by a sturdy
      silence, that that was the house they wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, Sir, will you ha' the goodness to go on; this is not the place,'
      said the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pony looked with great attention into a fire-plug which was near him,
      and appeared to be quite absorbed in contemplating it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker!' cried the old lady. 'After being so
      good too, and coming along so well! I am quite ashamed of him. I don't
      know what we are to do with him, I really don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and
      properties of the fire-plug, looked into the air after his old enemies the
      flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling his ear at that
      moment he shook his head and whisked his tail, after which he appeared
      full of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The old gentleman
      having exhausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to lead him; whereupon
      the pony, perhaps because he held this to be a sufficient concession,
      perhaps because he happened to catch sight of the other brass-plate, or
      perhaps because he was in a spiteful humour, darted off with the old lady
      and stopped at the right house, leaving the old gentleman to come panting
      on behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's head, and touched his
      hat with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, bless me,' cried the old gentleman, 'the lad is here! My dear, do
      you see?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said I'd be here, Sir,' said Kit, patting Whisker's neck. 'I hope
      you've had a pleasant ride, sir. He's a very nice little pony.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear,' said the old gentleman. 'This is an uncommon lad; a good lad,
      I'm sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sure he is,' rejoined the old lady. 'A very good lad, and I am sure
      he is a good son.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by touching his hat again
      and blushing very much. The old gentleman then handed the old lady out,
      and after looking at him with an approving smile, they went into the house&mdash;talking
      about him as they went, Kit could not help feeling. Presently Mr
      Witherden, smelling very hard at the nosegay, came to the window and
      looked at him, and after that Mr Abel came and looked at him, and after
      that the old gentleman and lady came and looked at him again, and after
      that they all came and looked at him together, which Kit, feeling very
      much embarrassed by, made a pretence of not observing. Therefore he patted
      the pony more and more; and this liberty the pony most handsomely
      permitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The faces had not disappeared from the window many moments, when Mr
      Chuckster in his official coat, and with his hat hanging on his head just
      as it happened to fall from its peg, appeared upon the pavement, and
      telling him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and he would mind the
      chaise the while. In giving him this direction Mr Chuckster remarked that
      he wished that he might be blessed if he could make out whether he (Kit)
      was 'precious raw' or 'precious deep,' but intimated by a distrustful
      shake of the head, that he inclined to the latter opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit entered the office in a great tremor, for he was not used to going
      among strange ladies and gentlemen, and the tin boxes and bundles of dusty
      papers had in his eyes an awful and venerable air. Mr Witherden too was a
      bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast, and all eyes were upon him,
      and he was very shabby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, boy,' said Mr Witherden, 'you came to work out that shilling;&mdash;not
      to get another, hey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No indeed, sir,' replied Kit, taking courage to look up. 'I never thought
      of such a thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Father alive?' said the Notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dead, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Married again&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit made answer, not without some indignation, that she was a widow with
      three children, and that as to her marrying again, if the gentleman knew
      her he wouldn't think of such a thing. At this reply Mr Witherden buried
      his nose in the flowers again, and whispered behind the nosegay to the old
      gentleman that he believed the lad was as honest a lad as need be.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Mr Garland when they had made some further inquiries of him,
      'I am not going to give you anything&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, sir,' Kit replied; and quite seriously too, for this
      announcement seemed to free him from the suspicion which the Notary had
      hinted.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;But,' resumed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I may want to know
      something more about you, so tell me where you live, and I'll put it down
      in my pocket-book.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the address with his
      pencil. He had scarcely done so, when there was a great uproar in the
      street, and the old lady hurrying to the window cried that Whisker had run
      away, upon which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the others followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed that Mr Chuckster had been standing with his hands in his
      pockets looking carelessly at the pony, and occasionally insulting him
      with such admonitions as 'Stand still,'&mdash;'Be quiet,'&mdash;'Woa-a-a,'
      and the like, which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne. Consequently, the
      pony being deterred by no considerations of duty or obedience, and not
      having before him the slightest fear of the human eye, had at length
      started off, and was at that moment rattling down the street&mdash;Mr
      Chuckster, with his hat off and a pen behind his ear, hanging on in the
      rear of the chaise and making futile attempts to draw it the other way, to
      the unspeakable admiration of all beholders. Even in running away,
      however, Whisker was perverse, for he had not gone very far when he
      suddenly stopped, and before assistance could be rendered, commenced
      backing at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone forward. By these means
      Mr Chuckster was pushed and hustled to the office again, in a most
      inglorious manner, and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and
      discomfiture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr Abel (whom they had come
      to fetch) into his. The old gentleman, after reasoning with the pony on
      the extreme impropriety of his conduct, and making the best amends in his
      power to Mr Chuckster, took his place also, and they drove away, waving a
      farewell to the Notary and his clerk, and more than once turning to nod
      kindly to Kit as he watched them from the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap21"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 21
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and the chaise, and the
      little old lady, and the little old gentleman, and the little young
      gentleman to boot, in thinking what could have become of his late master
      and his lovely grandchild, who were the fountain-head of all his
      meditations. Still casting about for some plausible means of accounting
      for their non-appearance, and of persuading himself that they must soon
      return, he bent his steps towards home, intending to finish the task which
      the sudden recollection of his contract had interrupted, and then to sally
      forth once more to seek his fortune for the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he came to the corner of the court in which he lived, lo and behold
      there was the pony again! Yes, there he was, looking more obstinate than
      ever; and alone in the chaise, keeping a steady watch upon his every wink,
      sat Mr Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by chance and seeing Kit pass by,
      nodded to him as though he would have nodded his head off.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own home too, but it never
      occurred to him for what purpose the pony might have come there, or where
      the old lady and the old gentleman had gone, until he lifted the latch of
      the door, and walking in, found them seated in the room in conversation
      with his mother, at which unexpected sight he pulled off his hat and made
      his best bow in some confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are here before you, you see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' said Kit; and as he said it, he looked towards his mother for
      an explanation of the visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear,' said she, in reply to this
      mute interrogation, 'to ask me whether you were in a good place, or in any
      place at all, and when I told him no, you were not in any, he was so good
      as to say that&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;That we wanted a good lad in our house,' said the old gentleman
      and the old lady both together, 'and that perhaps we might think of it, if
      we found everything as we would wish it to be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As this thinking of it, plainly meant the thinking of engaging Kit, he
      immediately partook of his mother's anxiety and fell into a great flutter;
      for the little old couple were very methodical and cautious, and asked so
      many questions that he began to be afraid there was no chance of his
      success.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, my good woman,' said Mrs Garland to Kit's mother, 'that it's
      necessary to be very careful and particular in such a matter as this, for
      we're only three in family, and are very quiet regular folks, and it would
      be a sad thing if we made any kind of mistake, and found things different
      from what we hoped and expected.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite true, and quite
      right, and quite proper, and Heaven forbid that she should shrink, or have
      cause to shrink, from any inquiry into her character or that of her son,
      who was a very good son though she was his mother, in which respect, she
      was bold to say, he took after his father, who was not only a good son to
      <i>his </i>mother, but the best of husbands and the best of fathers besides,
      which Kit could and would corroborate she knew, and so would little Jacob
      and the baby likewise if they were old enough, which unfortunately they
      were not, though as they didn't know what a loss they had had, perhaps it
      was a great deal better that they should be as young as they were; and so
      Kit's mother wound up a long story by wiping her eyes with her apron, and
      patting little Jacob's head, who was rocking the cradle and staring with
      all his might at the strange lady and gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Kit's mother had done speaking, the old lady struck in again, and
      said that she was quite sure she was a very honest and very respectable
      person or she never would have expressed herself in that manner, and that
      certainly the appearance of the children and the cleanliness of the house
      deserved great praise and did her the utmost credit, whereat Kit's mother
      dropped a curtsey and became consoled. Then the good woman entered in a
      long and minute account of Kit's life and history from the earliest period
      down to that time, not omitting to make mention of his miraculous fall out
      of a back-parlour window when an infant of tender years, or his uncommon
      sufferings in a state of measles, which were illustrated by correct
      imitations of the plaintive manner in which he called for toast and water,
      day and night, and said, 'don't cry, mother, I shall soon be better;' for
      proof of which statements reference was made to Mrs Green, lodger, at the
      cheesemonger's round the corner, and divers other ladies and gentlemen in
      various parts of England and Wales (and one Mr Brown who was supposed to
      be then a corporal in the East Indies, and who could of course be found
      with very little trouble), within whose personal knowledge the
      circumstances had occurred. This narration ended, Mr Garland put some
      questions to Kit respecting his qualifications and general acquirements,
      while Mrs Garland noticed the children, and hearing from Kit's mother
      certain remarkable circumstances which had attended the birth of each,
      related certain other remarkable circumstances which had attended the
      birth of her own son, Mr Abel, from which it appeared that both Kit's
      mother and herself had been, above and beyond all other women of what
      condition or age soever, peculiarly hemmed in with perils and dangers.
      Lastly, inquiry was made into the nature and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and
      a small advance being made to improve the same, he was formally hired at
      an annual income of Six Pounds, over and above his board and lodging, by
      Mr and Mrs Garland, of Abel Cottage, Finchley.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be difficult to say which party appeared most pleased with this
      arrangement, the conclusion of which was hailed with nothing but pleasant
      looks and cheerful smiles on both sides. It was settled that Kit should
      repair to his new abode on the next day but one, in the morning; and
      finally, the little old couple, after bestowing a bright half-crown on
      little Jacob and another on the baby, took their leaves; being escorted as
      far as the street by their new attendant, who held the obdurate pony by
      the bridle while they took their seats, and saw them drive away with a
      lightened heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, mother,' said Kit, hurrying back into the house, 'I think my
      fortune's about made now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should think it was indeed, Kit,' rejoined his mother. 'Six pound a
      year! Only think!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which the consideration of
      such a sum demanded, but grinning with delight in spite of himself.
      'There's a property!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit drew a long breath when he had said this, and putting his hands deep
      into his pockets as if there were one year's wages at least in each,
      looked at his mother, as though he saw through her, and down an immense
      perspective of sovereigns beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sundays, mother! such a
      scholar of Jacob, such a child of the baby, such a room of the one up
      stairs! Six pound a year!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' croaked a strange voice. 'What's that about six pound a year? What
      about six pound a year?' And as the voice made this inquiry, Daniel Quilp
      walked in with Richard Swiveller at his heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who said he was to have six pound a year?' said Quilp, looking sharply
      round. 'Did the old man say it, or did little Nell say it? And what's he
      to have it for, and where are they, eh!'
</p>
    <p>
The good woman was so much
      alarmed by the sudden apparition of this unknown piece of ugliness, that
      she hastily caught the baby from its cradle and retreated into the
      furthest corner of the room; while little Jacob, sitting upon his stool
      with his hands on his knees, looked full at him in a species of
      fascination, roaring lustily all the time. Richard Swiveller took an easy
      observation of the family over Mr Quilp's head, and Quilp himself, with
      his hands in his pockets, smiled in an exquisite enjoyment of the
      commotion he occasioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be frightened, mistress,' said Quilp, after a pause. 'Your son
      knows me; I don't eat babies; I don't like 'em. It will be as well to stop
      that young screamer though, in case I should be tempted to do him a
      mischief. Holloa, sir! Will you be quiet?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Jacob stemmed the course of two tears which he was squeezing out of
      his eyes, and instantly subsided into a silent horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind you don't break out again, you villain,' said Quilp, looking sternly
      at him, 'or I'll make faces at you and throw you into fits, I will. Now
      you sir, why haven't you been to me as you promised?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What should I come for?' retorted Kit. 'I hadn't any business with you,
      no more than you had with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, mistress,' said Quilp, turning quickly away, and appealing from Kit
      to his mother. 'When did his old master come or send here last? Is he here
      now? If not, where's he gone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has not been here at all,' she replied. 'I wish we knew where they
      have gone, for it would make my son a good deal easier in his mind, and me
      too. If you're the gentleman named Mr Quilp, I should have thought you'd
      have known, and so I told him only this very day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' muttered Quilp, evidently disappointed to believe that this was
      true. 'That's what you tell this gentleman too, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If the gentleman comes to ask the same question, I can't tell him
      anything else, sir; and I only wish I could, for our own sakes,' was the
      reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp glanced at Richard Swiveller, and observed that having met him on
      the threshold, he assumed that he had come in search of some intelligence
      of the fugitives. He supposed he was right?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Dick, 'that was the object of the present expedition. I
      fancied it possible&mdash;but let us go ring fancy's knell. I'll begin
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You seem disappointed,' observed Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A baffler, Sir, a baffler, that's all,' returned Dick. 'I have entered
      upon a speculation which has proved a baffler; and a Being of brightness
      and beauty will be offered up a sacrifice at Cheggs's altar. That's all,
      sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf eyed Richard with a sarcastic smile, but Richard, who had been
      taking a rather strong lunch with a friend, observed him not, and
      continued to deplore his fate with mournful and despondent looks. Quilp
      plainly discerned that there was some secret reason for this visit and his
      uncommon disappointment, and, in the hope that there might be means of
      mischief lurking beneath it, resolved to worm it out. He had no sooner
      adopted this resolution, than he conveyed as much honesty into his face as
      it was capable of expressing, and sympathised with Mr Swiveller
      exceedingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am disappointed myself,' said Quilp, 'out of mere friendly feeling for
      them; but you have real reasons, private reasons I have no doubt, for your
      disappointment, and therefore it comes heavier than mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, of course it does,' Dick observed, testily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word, I'm very sorry, very sorry. I'm rather cast down myself. As
      we are companions in adversity, shall we be companions in the surest way
      of forgetting it? If you had no particular business, now, to lead you in
      another direction,' urged Quilp, plucking him by the sleeve and looking
      slyly up into his face out of the corners of his eyes, 'there is a house
      by the water-side where they have some of the noblest Schiedam&mdash;reputed
      to be smuggled, but that's between ourselves&mdash;that can be got in all
      the world. The landlord knows me. There's a little summer-house
      overlooking the river, where we might take a glass of this delicious
      liquor with a whiff of the best tobacco&mdash;it's in this case, and of
      the rarest quality, to my certain knowledge&mdash;and be perfectly snug
      and happy, could we possibly contrive it; or is there any very particular
      engagement that peremptorily takes you another way, Mr Swiveller, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a compliant smile, and his
      brows slowly unbent. By the time he had finished, Dick was looking down at
      Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking up at him, and there
      remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house in question.
      This they did, straightway. The moment their backs were turned, little
      Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from the point where Quilp had frozen
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The summer-house of which Mr Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden box,
      rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and threatened to
      slide down into it. The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy building,
      sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by great bars of wood
      which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up so long that
      even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and of a windy night
      might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole fabric were about to
      come toppling down. The house stood&mdash;if anything so old and feeble
      could be said to stand&mdash;on a piece of waste ground, blighted with the
      unwholesome smoke of factory chimneys, and echoing the clank of iron
      wheels and rush of troubled water. Its internal accommodations amply
      fulfilled the promise of the outside. The rooms were low and damp, the
      clammy walls were pierced with chinks and holes, the rotten floors had
      sunk from their level, the very beams started from their places and warned
      the timid stranger from their neighbourhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this inviting spot, entreating him to observe its beauties as they
      passed along, Mr Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table of the
      summer-house, scored deep with many a gallows and initial letter, there
      soon appeared a wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor. Drawing it off
      into the glasses with the skill of a practised hand, and mixing it with
      about a third part of water, Mr Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller his
      portion, and lighting his pipe from an end of a candle in a very old and
      battered lantern, drew himself together upon a seat and puffed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it good?' said Quilp, as Richard Swiveller smacked his lips, 'is it
      strong and fiery? Does it make you wink, and choke, and your eyes water,
      and your breath come short&mdash;does it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does it?' cried Dick, throwing away part of the contents of his glass,
      and filling it up with water, 'why, man, you don't mean to tell me that
      you drink such fire as this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' rejoined Quilp, 'Not drink it! Look here. And here. And here again.
      Not drink it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank three small glassfuls of the
      raw spirit, and then with a horrible grimace took a great many pulls at
      his pipe, and swallowing the smoke, discharged it in a heavy cloud from
      his nose. This feat accomplished he drew himself together in his former
      position, and laughed excessively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Give us a toast!' cried Quilp, rattling on the table in a dexterous
      manner with his fist and elbow alternately, in a kind of tune, 'a woman, a
      beauty. Let's have a beauty for our toast and empty our glasses to the
      last drop. Her name, come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you want a name,' said Dick, 'here's Sophy Wackles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sophy Wackles,' screamed the dwarf, 'Miss Sophy Wackles that is&mdash;Mrs
      Richard Swiveller that shall be&mdash;that shall be&mdash;ha ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Dick, 'you might have said that a few weeks ago, but it won't
      do now, my buck. Immolating herself upon the shrine of Cheggs&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs's ears off,' rejoined Quilp. 'I won't hear of
      Cheggs. Her name is Swiveller or nothing. I'll drink her health again, and
      her father's, and her mother's; and to all her sisters and brothers&mdash;the
      glorious family of the Wackleses&mdash;all the Wackleses in one glass&mdash;down
      with it to the dregs!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Richard Swiveller, stopping short in the act of raising the
      glass to his lips and looking at the dwarf in a species of stupor as he
      flourished his arms and legs about: 'you're a jolly fellow, but of all the
      jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you have the queerest and most
      extraordinary way with you, upon my life you have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This candid declaration tended rather to increase than restrain Mr Quilp's
      eccentricities, and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see him in such a
      roystering vein, and drinking not a little himself, for company&mdash;began
      imperceptibly to become more companionable and confiding, so that, being
      judiciously led on by Mr Quilp, he grew at last very confiding indeed.
      Having once got him into this mood, and knowing now the key-note to strike
      whenever he was at a loss, Daniel Quilp's task was comparatively an easy
      one, and he was soon in possession of the whole details of the scheme
      contrived between the easy Dick and his more designing friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop!' said Quilp. 'That's the thing, that's the thing. It can be brought
      about, it shall be brought about. There's my hand upon it; I am your
      friend from this minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! do you think there's still a chance?' inquired Dick, in surprise at
      this encouragement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A chance!' echoed the dwarf, 'a certainty! Sophy Wackles may become a
      Cheggs or anything else she likes, but not a Swiveller. Oh you lucky dog!
      He's richer than any Jew alive; you're a made man. I see in you now
      nothing but Nelly's husband, rolling in gold and silver. I'll help you. It
      shall be done. Mind my words, it shall be done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But how?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's plenty of time,' rejoined the dwarf, 'and it shall be done. We'll
      sit down and talk it over again all the way through. Fill your glass while
      I'm gone. I shall be back directly&mdash;directly.'
</p>
    <p>
With these hasty
      words, Daniel Quilp withdrew into a dismantled skittle-ground behind the
      public-house, and, throwing himself upon the ground actually screamed and
      rolled about in uncontrollable delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's sport!' he cried, 'sport ready to my hand, all invented and
      arranged, and only to be enjoyed. It was this shallow-pated fellow who
      made my bones ache t'other day, was it? It was his friend and
      fellow-plotter, Mr Trent, that once made eyes at Mrs Quilp, and leered and
      looked, was it? After labouring for two or three years in their precious
      scheme, to find that they've got a beggar at last, and one of them tied
      for life. Ha ha ha! He shall marry Nell. He shall have her, and I'll be
      the first man, when the knot's tied hard and fast, to tell 'em what
      they've gained and what I've helped 'em to. Here will be a clearing of old
      scores, here will be a time to remind 'em what a capital friend I was, and
      how I helped them to the heiress. Ha ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In the height of his ecstasy, Mr Quilp had like to have met with a
      disagreeable check, for rolling very near a broken dog-kennel, there leapt
      forth a large fierce dog, who, but that his chain was of the shortest,
      would have given him a disagreeable salute. As it was, the dwarf remained
      upon his back in perfect safety, taunting the dog with hideous faces, and
      triumphing over him in his inability to advance another inch, though there
      were not a couple of feet between them.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0165m.jpg" alt="0165m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0165.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Why don't you come and bite me, why don't you come and tear me to pieces,
      you coward?' said Quilp, hissing and worrying the animal till he was
      nearly mad. 'You're afraid, you bully, you're afraid, you know you are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog tore and strained at his chain with starting eyes and furious
      bark, but there the dwarf lay, snapping his fingers with gestures of
      defiance and contempt. When he had sufficiently recovered from his
      delight, he rose, and with his arms a-kimbo, achieved a kind of
      demon-dance round the kennel, just without the limits of the chain,
      driving the dog quite wild. Having by this means composed his spirits and
      put himself in a pleasant train, he returned to his unsuspicious
      companion, whom he found looking at the tide with exceeding gravity, and
      thinking of that same gold and silver which Mr Quilp had mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap22"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 22
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he remainder of that day and the whole of the next were a busy time for
      the Nubbles family, to whom everything connected with Kit's outfit and
      departure was matter of as great moment as if he had been about to
      penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take a cruise round the
      world. It would be difficult to suppose that there ever was a box which
      was opened and shut so many times within four-and-twenty hours, as that
      which contained his wardrobe and necessaries; and certainly there never
      was one which to two small eyes presented such a mine of clothing, as this
      mighty chest with its three shirts and proportionate allowance of
      stockings and pocket-handkerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished vision of
      little Jacob. At last it was conveyed to the carrier's, at whose house at
      Finchley Kit was to find it next day; and the box being gone, there
      remained but two questions for consideration: firstly, whether the carrier
      would lose, or dishonestly feign to lose, the box upon the road; secondly,
      whether Kit's mother perfectly understood how to take care of herself in
      the absence of her son.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really losing it, but
      carriers are under great temptation to pretend they lose things, no
      doubt,' said Mrs Nubbles apprehensively, in reference to the first point.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No doubt about it,' returned Kit, with a serious look; 'upon my word,
      mother, I don't think it was right to trust it to itself. Somebody ought
      to have gone with it, I'm afraid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We can't help it now,' said his mother; 'but it was foolish and wrong.
      People oughtn't to be tempted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a carrier any more, save
      with an empty box; and having formed this Christian determination, he
      turned his thoughts to the second question.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>know you must keep up your spirits, mother, and not be lonesome
      because I'm not at home. I shall very often be able to look in when I come
      into town I dare say, and I shall send you a letter sometimes, and when
      the quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of course; and then see if we
      don't take little Jacob to the play, and let him know what oysters means.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope plays mayn't be sinful, Kit, but I'm a'most afraid,' said Mrs
      Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know who has been putting that in your head,' rejoined her son
      disconsolately; 'that's Little Bethel again. Now I say, mother, pray don't
      take to going there regularly, for if I was to see your good-humoured face
      that has always made home cheerful, turned into a grievous one, and the
      baby trained to look grievous too, and to call itself a young sinner
      (bless its heart) and a child of the devil (which is calling its dead
      father names); if I was to see this, and see little Jacob looking grievous
      likewise, I should so take it to heart that I'm sure I should go and list
      for a soldier, and run my head on purpose against the first cannon-ball I
      saw coming my way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Kit, don't talk like that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would, indeed, mother, and unless you want to make me feel very
      wretched and uncomfortable, you'll keep that bow on your bonnet, which
      you'd more than half a mind to pull off last week. Can you suppose there's
      any harm in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our poor
      circumstances will permit? Do I see anything in the way I'm made, which
      calls upon me to be a snivelling, solemn, whispering chap, sneaking about
      as if I couldn't help it, and expressing myself in a most unpleasant
      snuffle? on the contrary, don't I see every reason why I shouldn't? just
      hear this! Ha ha ha! An't that as nat'ral as walking, and as good for the
      health? Ha ha ha! An't that as nat'ral as a sheep's bleating, or a pig's
      grunting, or a horse's neighing, or a bird's singing? Ha ha ha! Isn't it,
      mother?'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something contagious in Kit's laugh, for his mother, who had
      looked grave before, first subsided into a smile, and then fell to joining
      in it heartily, which occasioned Kit to say that he knew it was natural,
      and to laugh the more. Kit and his mother, laughing together in a pretty
      loud key, woke the baby, who, finding that there was something very jovial
      and agreeable in progress, was no sooner in its mother's arms than it
      began to kick and laugh, most vigorously. This new illustration of his
      argument so tickled Kit, that he fell backward in his chair in a state of
      exhaustion, pointing at the baby and shaking his sides till he rocked
      again. After recovering twice or thrice, and as often relapsing, he wiped
      his eyes and said grace; and a very cheerful meal their scanty supper was.
    </p>
    <p>
      With more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many young gentlemen who start
      upon their travels, and leave well-stocked homes behind them, would deem
      within the bounds of probability (if matter so low could be herein set
      down), Kit left the house at an early hour next morning, and set out to
      walk to Finchley; feeling a sufficient pride in his appearance to have
      warranted his excommunication from Little Bethel from that time forth, if
      he had ever been one of that mournful congregation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit was clad, it may be
      briefly remarked that he wore no livery, but was dressed in a coat of
      pepper-and-salt with waistcoat of canary colour, and nether garments of
      iron-grey; besides these glories, he shone in the lustre of a new pair of
      boots and an extremely stiff and shiny hat, which on being struck anywhere
      with the knuckles, sounded like a drum. And in this attire, rather
      wondering that he attracted so little attention, and attributing the
      circumstance to the insensibility of those who got up early, he made his
      way towards Abel Cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without encountering any more remarkable adventure on the road, than
      meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the exact counterpart of his old one, on
      whom he bestowed half the sixpence he possessed, Kit arrived in course of
      time at the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honour of human nature,
      he found the box in safety. Receiving from the wife of this immaculate
      man, a direction to Mr Garland's, he took the box upon his shoulder and
      repaired thither directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a thatched roof and
      little spires at the gable-ends, and pieces of stained glass in some of
      the windows, almost as large as pocket-books. On one side of the house was
      a little stable, just the size for the pony, with a little room over it,
      just the size for Kit. White curtains were fluttering, and birds in cages
      that looked as bright as if they were made of gold, were singing at the
      windows; plants were arranged on either side of the path, and clustered
      about the door; and the garden was bright with flowers in full bloom,
      which shed a sweet odour all round, and had a charming and elegant
      appearance. Everything within the house and without, seemed to be the
      perfection of neatness and order. In the garden there was not a weed to be
      seen, and to judge from some dapper gardening-tools, a basket, and a pair
      of gloves which were lying in one of the walks, old Mr Garland had been at
      work in it that very morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit looked about him, and admired, and looked again, and this a great many
      times before he could make up his mind to turn his head another way and
      ring the bell. There was abundance of time to look about him again though,
      when he had rung it, for nobody came, so after ringing it twice or thrice
      he sat down upon his box, and waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rang the bell a great many times, and yet nobody came. But at last, as
      he was sitting upon the box thinking about giants' castles, and princesses
      tied up to pegs by the hair of their heads, and dragons bursting out from
      behind gates, and other incidents of the like nature, common in
      story-books to youths of low degree on their first visit to strange
      houses, the door was gently opened, and a little servant-girl, very tidy,
      modest, and demure, but very pretty too, appeared.
</p>
    <p>
'I suppose you're
      Christopher, sir,' said the servant-girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm afraid you've rung a good many times perhaps,' she rejoined, 'but we
      couldn't hear you, because we've been catching the pony.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit rather wondered what this meant, but as he couldn't stop there, asking
      questions, he shouldered the box again and followed the girl into the
      hall, where through a back-door he descried Mr Garland leading Whisker in
      triumph up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as he afterwards
      learned) dodged the family round a small paddock in the rear, for one hour
      and three quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old gentleman received him very kindly and so did the old lady, whose
      previous good opinion of him was greatly enhanced by his wiping his boots
      on the mat until the soles of his feet burnt again. He was then taken into
      the parlour to be inspected in his new clothes; and when he had been
      surveyed several times, and had afforded by his appearance unlimited
      satisfaction, he was taken into the stable (where the pony received him
      with uncommon complaisance); and thence into the little chamber he had
      already observed, which was very clean and comfortable: and thence into
      the garden, in which the old gentleman told him he would be taught to
      employ himself, and where he told him, besides, what great things he meant
      to do to make him comfortable, and happy, if he found he deserved it. All
      these kindnesses, Kit acknowledged with various expressions of gratitude,
      and so many touches of the new hat, that the brim suffered considerably.
      When the old gentleman had said all he had to say in the way of promise
      and advice, and Kit had said all he had to say in the way of assurance and
      thankfulness, he was handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning the
      little servant-girl (whose name was Barbara) instructed her to take him
      down stairs and give him something to eat and drink, after his walk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down stairs, therefore, Kit went; and at the bottom of the stairs there
      was such a kitchen as was never before seen or heard of out of a toy-shop
      window, with everything in it as bright and glowing, and as precisely
      ordered too, as Barbara herself. And in this kitchen, Kit sat himself down
      at a table as white as a tablecloth, to eat cold meat, and drink small
      ale, and use his knife and fork the more awkwardly, because there was an
      unknown Barbara looking on and observing him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It did not appear, however, that there was anything remarkably tremendous
      about this strange Barbara, who having lived a very quiet life, blushed
      very much and was quite as embarrassed and uncertain what she ought to say
      or do, as Kit could possibly be. When he had sat for some little time,
      attentive to the ticking of the sober clock, he ventured to glance
      curiously at the dresser, and there, among the plates and dishes, were
      Barbara's little work-box with a sliding lid to shut in the balls of
      cotton, and Barbara's prayer-book, and Barbara's hymn-book, and Barbara's
      Bible. Barbara's little looking-glass hung in a good light near the
      window, and Barbara's bonnet was on a nail behind the door. From all these
      mute signs and tokens of her presence, he naturally glanced at Barbara
      herself, who sat as mute as they, shelling peas into a dish; and just when
      Kit was looking at her eyelashes and wondering&mdash;quite in the
      simplicity of his heart&mdash;what colour her eyes might be, it perversely
      happened that Barbara raised her head a little to look at him, when both
      pair of eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit leant over his plate, and
      Barbara over her pea-shells, each in extreme confusion at having been
      detected by the other.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0170m.jpg" alt="0170m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0170.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap23"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 23
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r Richard Swiveller wending homeward from the Wilderness (for such was
      the appropriate name of Quilp's choice retreat), after a sinuous and
      corkscrew fashion, with many checks and stumbles; after stopping suddenly
      and staring about him, then as suddenly running forward for a few paces,
      and as suddenly halting again and shaking his head; doing everything with
      a jerk and nothing by premeditation;&mdash;Mr Richard Swiveller wending
      his way homeward after this fashion, which is considered by evil-minded
      men to be symbolical of intoxication, and is not held by such persons to
      denote that state of deep wisdom and reflection in which the actor knows
      himself to be, began to think that possibly he had misplaced his
      confidence and that the dwarf might not be precisely the sort of person to
      whom to entrust a secret of such delicacy and importance. And being led
      and tempted on by this remorseful thought into a condition which the
      evil-minded class before referred to would term the maudlin state or stage
      of drunkenness, it occurred to Mr Swiveller to cast his hat upon the
      ground, and moan, crying aloud that he was an unhappy orphan, and that if
      he had not been an unhappy orphan things had never come to this.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Left an infant by my parents, at an early age,' said Mr Swiveller,
      bewailing his hard lot, 'cast upon the world in my tenderest period, and
      thrown upon the mercies of a deluding dwarf, who can wonder at my
      weakness! Here's a miserable orphan for you. Here,' said Mr Swiveller
      raising his voice to a high pitch, and looking sleepily round, 'is a
      miserable orphan!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said somebody hard by, 'let me be a father to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller swayed himself to and fro to preserve his balance, and,
      looking into a kind of haze which seemed to surround him, at last
      perceived two eyes dimly twinkling through the mist, which he observed
      after a short time were in the neighbourhood of a nose and mouth. Casting
      his eyes down towards that quarter in which, with reference to a man's
      face, his legs are usually to be found, he observed that the face had a
      body attached; and when he looked more intently he was satisfied that the
      person was Mr Quilp, who indeed had been in his company all the time, but
      whom he had some vague idea of having left a mile or two behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have deceived an orphan, Sir,' said Mr Swiveller solemnly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I! I'm a second father to you,' replied Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You my father, Sir!' retorted Dick. 'Being all right myself, Sir, I
      request to be left alone&mdash;instantly, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a funny fellow you are!' cried Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go, Sir,' returned Dick, leaning against a post and waving his hand. 'Go,
      deceiver, go, some day, Sir, p'r'aps you'll waken, from pleasure's dream
      to know, the grief of orphans forsaken. Will you go, Sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf taking no heed of this adjuration, Mr Swiveller advanced with
      the view of inflicting upon him condign chastisement. But forgetting his
      purpose or changing his mind before he came close to him, he seized his
      hand and vowed eternal friendship, declaring with an agreeable frankness
      that from that time forth they were brothers in everything but personal
      appearance. Then he told his secret over again, with the addition of being
      pathetic on the subject of Miss Wackles, who, he gave Mr Quilp to
      understand, was the occasion of any slight incoherency he might observe in
      his speech at that moment, which was attributable solely to the strength
      of his affection and not to rosy wine or other fermented liquor. And then
      they went on arm-in-arm, very lovingly together.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0172m.jpg" alt="0172m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0172.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I'm as sharp,' said Quilp to him, at parting, 'as sharp as a ferret, and
      as cunning as a weazel. You bring Trent to me; assure him that I'm his
      friend though I fear he a little distrusts me (I don't know why, I have
      not deserved it); and you've both of you made your fortunes&mdash;in
      perspective.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the worst of it,' returned Dick. 'These fortunes in perspective
      look such a long way off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But they look smaller than they really are, on that account,' said Quilp,
      pressing his arm. 'You'll have no conception of the value of your prize
      until you draw close to it. Mark that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'D'ye think not?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye, I do; and I am certain of what I say, that's better,' returned the
      dwarf. 'You bring Trent to me. Tell him I am his friend and yours&mdash;why
      shouldn't I be?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no reason why you shouldn't, certainly,' replied Dick, 'and
      perhaps there are a great many why you should&mdash;at least there would
      be nothing strange in your wanting to be my friend, if you were a choice
      spirit, but then you know you're not a choice spirit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I not a choice spirit?' cried Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Devil a bit, sir,' returned Dick. 'A man of your appearance couldn't be.
      If you're any spirit at all, sir, you're an evil spirit. Choice spirits,'
      added Dick, smiting himself on the breast, 'are quite a different looking
      sort of people, you may take your oath of that, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp glanced at his free-spoken friend with a mingled expression of
      cunning and dislike, and wringing his hand almost at the same moment,
      declared that he was an uncommon character and had his warmest esteem.
      With that they parted; Mr Swiveller to make the best of his way home and
      sleep himself sober; and Quilp to cogitate upon the discovery he had made,
      and exult in the prospect of the rich field of enjoyment and reprisal it
      opened to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not without great reluctance and misgiving that Mr Swiveller, next
      morning, his head racked by the fumes of the renowned Schiedam, repaired
      to the lodging of his friend Trent (which was in the roof of an old house
      in an old ghostly inn), and recounted by very slow degrees what had
      yesterday taken place between him and Quilp. Nor was it without great
      surprise and much speculation on Quilp's probable motives, nor without
      many bitter comments on Dick Swiveller's folly, that his friend received
      the tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't defend myself, Fred,' said the penitent Richard; 'but the fellow
      has such a queer way with him and is such an artful dog, that first of all
      he set me upon thinking whether there was any harm in telling him, and
      while I was thinking, screwed it out of me. If you had seen him drink and
      smoke, as I did, you couldn't have kept anything from him. He's a
      Salamander you know, that's what he is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without inquiring whether Salamanders were of necessity good confidential
      agents, or whether a fire-proof man was as a matter of course trustworthy,
      Frederick Trent threw himself into a chair, and, burying his head in his
      hands, endeavoured to fathom the motives which had led Quilp to insinuate
      himself into Richard Swiveller's confidence;&mdash;for that the disclosure
      was of his seeking, and had not been spontaneously revealed by Dick, was
      sufficiently plain from Quilp's seeking his company and enticing him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf had twice encountered him when he was endeavouring to obtain
      intelligence of the fugitives. This, perhaps, as he had not shown any
      previous anxiety about them, was enough to awaken suspicion in the breast
      of a creature so jealous and distrustful by nature, setting aside any
      additional impulse to curiosity that he might have derived from Dick's
      incautious manner. But knowing the scheme they had planned, why should he
      offer to assist it? This was a question more difficult of solution; but as
      knaves generally overreach themselves by imputing their own designs to
      others, the idea immediately presented itself that some circumstances of
      irritation between Quilp and the old man, arising out of their secret
      transactions and not unconnected perhaps with his sudden disappearance,
      now rendered the former desirous of revenging himself upon him by seeking
      to entrap the sole object of his love and anxiety into a connexion of
      which he knew he had a dread and hatred. As Frederick Trent himself,
      utterly regardless of his sister, had this object at heart, only second to
      the hope of gain, it seemed to him the more likely to be Quilp's main
      principle of action. Once investing the dwarf with a design of his own in
      abetting them, which the attainment of their purpose would serve, it was
      easy to believe him sincere and hearty in the cause; and as there could be
      no doubt of his proving a powerful and useful auxiliary, Trent determined
      to accept his invitation and go to his house that night, and if what he
      said and did confirmed him in the impression he had formed, to let him
      share the labour of their plan, but not the profit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having revolved these things in his mind and arrived at this conclusion,
      he communicated to Mr Swiveller as much of his meditations as he thought
      proper (Dick would have been perfectly satisfied with less), and giving
      him the day to recover himself from his late salamandering, accompanied
      him at evening to Mr Quilp's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mighty glad Mr Quilp was to see them, or mightily glad he seemed to be;
      and fearfully polite Mr Quilp was to Mrs Quilp and Mrs Jiniwin; and very
      sharp was the look he cast on his wife to observe how she was affected by
      the recognition of young Trent. Mrs Quilp was as innocent as her own
      mother of any emotion, painful or pleasant, which the sight of him
      awakened, but as her husband's glance made her timid and confused, and
      uncertain what to do or what was required of her, Mr Quilp did not fail to
      assign her embarrassment to the cause he had in his mind, and while he
      chuckled at his penetration was secretly exasperated by his jealousy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing of this appeared, however. On the contrary, Mr Quilp was all
      blandness and suavity, and presided over the case-bottle of rum with
      extraordinary open-heartedness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, let me see,' said Quilp. 'It must be a matter of nearly two years
      since we were first acquainted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nearer three, I think,' said Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nearer three!' cried Quilp. 'How fast time flies. Does it seem as long as
      that to you, Mrs Quilp?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I think it seems full three years, Quilp,' was the unfortunate
      reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh indeed, ma'am,' thought Quilp, 'you have been pining, have you? Very
      good, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems to me but yesterday that you went out to Demerara in the Mary
      Anne,' said Quilp; 'but yesterday, I declare. Well, I like a little
      wildness. I was wild myself once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp accompanied this admission with such an awful wink, indicative of
      old rovings and backslidings, that Mrs Jiniwin was indignant, and could
      not forbear from remarking under her breath that he might at least put off
      his confessions until his wife was absent; for which act of boldness and
      insubordination Mr Quilp first stared her out of countenance and then
      drank her health ceremoniously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought you'd come back directly, Fred. I always thought that,' said
      Quilp setting down his glass. 'And when the Mary Anne returned with you on
      board, instead of a letter to say what a contrite heart you had, and how
      happy you were in the situation that had been provided for you, I was
      amused&mdash;exceedingly amused. Ha ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man smiled, but not as though the theme was the most agreeable
      one that could have been selected for his entertainment; and for that
      reason Quilp pursued it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I always will say,' he resumed, 'that when a rich relation having two
      young people&mdash;sisters or brothers, or brother and sister&mdash;dependent
      on him, attaches himself exclusively to one, and casts off the other, he
      does wrong.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man made a movement of impatience, but Quilp went on as calmly
      as if he were discussing some abstract question in which nobody present
      had the slightest personal interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very true,' said Quilp, 'that your grandfather urged repeated
      forgiveness, ingratitude, riot, and extravagance, and all that; but as I
      told him "these are common faults." "But he's a scoundrel," said he.
      "Granting that," said I (for the sake of argument of course), "a great
      many young noblemen and gentlemen are scoundrels too!" But he wouldn't be
      convinced.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wonder at that, Mr Quilp,' said the young man sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, so did I at the time,' returned Quilp, 'but he was always
      obstinate. He was in a manner a friend of mine, but he was always
      obstinate and wrong-headed. Little Nell is a nice girl, a charming girl,
      but you're her brother, Frederick. You're her brother after all; as you
      told him the last time you met, he can't alter that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He would if he could, confound him for that and all other kindnesses,'
      said the young man impatiently. 'But nothing can come of this subject now,
      and let us have done with it in the Devil's name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Agreed,' returned Quilp, 'agreed on my part readily. Why have I alluded
      to it? Just to show you, Frederick, that I have always stood your friend.
      You little knew who was your friend, and who your foe; now did you? You
      thought I was against you, and so there has been a coolness between us;
      but it was all on your side, entirely on your side. Let's shake hands
      again, Fred.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With his head sunk down between his shoulders, and a hideous grin
      over-spreading his face, the dwarf stood up and stretched his short arm
      across the table. After a moment's hesitation, the young man stretched out
      his to meet it; Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip that for the moment
      stopped the current of the blood within them, and pressing his other hand
      upon his lip and frowning towards the unsuspicious Richard, released them
      and sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      This action was not lost upon Trent, who, knowing that Richard Swiveller
      was a mere tool in his hands and knew no more of his designs than he
      thought proper to communicate, saw that the dwarf perfectly understood
      their relative position, and fully entered into the character of his
      friend. It is something to be appreciated, even in knavery. This silent
      homage to his superior abilities, no less than a sense of the power with
      which the dwarf's quick perception had already invested him, inclined the
      young man towards that ugly worthy, and determined him to profit by his
      aid.
    </p>
    <p>
      It being now Mr Quilp's cue to change the subject with all convenient
      expedition, lest Richard Swiveller in his heedlessness should reveal
      anything which it was inexpedient for the women to know, he proposed a
      game at four-handed cribbage, and partners being cut for, Mrs Quilp fell
      to Frederick Trent, and Dick himself to Quilp. Mrs Jiniwin being very fond
      of cards was carefully excluded by her son-in-law from any participation
      in the game, and had assigned to her the duty of occasionally replenishing
      the glasses from the case-bottle; Mr Quilp from that moment keeping one
      eye constantly upon her, lest she should by any means procure a taste of
      the same, and thereby tantalising the wretched old lady (who was as much
      attached to the case-bottle as the cards) in a double degree and most
      ingenious manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not to Mrs Jiniwin alone that Mr Quilp's attention was
      restricted, as several other matters required his constant vigilance.
      Among his various eccentric habits he had a humorous one of always
      cheating at cards, which rendered necessary on his part, not only a close
      observance of the game, and a sleight-of-hand in counting and scoring, but
      also involved the constant correction, by looks, and frowns, and kicks
      under the table, of Richard Swiveller, who being bewildered by the
      rapidity with which his cards were told, and the rate at which the pegs
      travelled down the board, could not be prevented from sometimes expressing
      his surprise and incredulity. Mrs Quilp too was the partner of young
      Trent, and for every look that passed between them, and every word they
      spoke, and every card they played, the dwarf had eyes and ears; not
      occupied alone with what was passing above the table, but with signals
      that might be exchanging beneath it, which he laid all kinds of traps to
      detect; besides often treading on his wife's toes to see whether she cried
      out or remained silent under the infliction, in which latter case it would
      have been quite clear that Trent had been treading on her toes before.
      Yet, in the most of all these distractions, the one eye was upon the old
      lady always, and if she so much as stealthily advanced a tea-spoon towards
      a neighbouring glass (which she often did), for the purpose of abstracting
      but one sup of its sweet contents, Quilp's hand would overset it in the
      very moment of her triumph, and Quilp's mocking voice implore her to
      regard her precious health. And in any one of these his many cares, from
      first to last, Quilp never flagged nor faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, when they had played a great many rubbers and drawn pretty
      freely upon the case-bottle, Mr Quilp warned his lady to retire to rest,
      and that submissive wife complying, and being followed by her indignant
      mother, Mr Swiveller fell asleep. The dwarf beckoning his remaining
      companion to the other end of the room, held a short conference with him
      in whispers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's as well not to say more than one can help before our worthy friend,'
      said Quilp, making a grimace towards the slumbering Dick. 'Is it a bargain
      between us, Fred? Shall he marry little rosy Nell by-and-by?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have some end of your own to answer, of course,' returned the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I have, dear Fred,' said Quilp, grinning to think how little he
      suspected what the real end was. 'It's retaliation perhaps; perhaps whim.
      I have influence, Fred, to help or oppose. Which way shall I use it? There
      are a pair of scales, and it goes into one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Throw it into mine then,' said Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's done, Fred,' rejoined Quilp, stretching out his clenched hand and
      opening it as if he had let some weight fall out. 'It's in the scale from
      this time, and turns it, Fred. Mind that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where have they gone?' asked Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp shook his head, and said that point remained to be discovered, which
      it might be, easily. When it was, they would begin their preliminary
      advances. He would visit the old man, or even Richard Swiveller might
      visit him, and by affecting a deep concern in his behalf, and imploring
      him to settle in some worthy home, lead to the child's remembering him
      with gratitude and favour. Once impressed to this extent, it would be
      easy, he said, to win her in a year or two, for she supposed the old man
      to be poor, as it was a part of his jealous policy (in common with many
      other misers) to feign to be so, to those about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has feigned it often enough to me, of late,' said Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! and to me too!' replied the dwarf. 'Which is more extraordinary, as I
      know how rich he really is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose you should,' said Trent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I should indeed,' rejoined the dwarf; and in that, at least, he
      spoke the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few more whispered words, they returned to the table, and the
      young man rousing Richard Swiveller informed him that he was waiting to
      depart. This was welcome news to Dick, who started up directly. After a
      few words of confidence in the result of their project had been exchanged,
      they bade the grinning Quilp good night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp crept to the window as they passed in the street below, and
      listened. Trent was pronouncing an encomium upon his wife, and they were
      both wondering by what enchantment she had been brought to marry such a
      misshapen wretch as he. The dwarf after watching their retreating shadows
      with a wider grin than his face had yet displayed, stole softly in the
      dark to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this hatching of their scheme, neither Trent nor Quilp had had one
      thought about the happiness or misery of poor innocent Nell. It would have
      been strange if the careless profligate, who was the butt of both, had
      been harassed by any such consideration; for his high opinion of his own
      merits and deserts rendered the project rather a laudable one than
      otherwise; and if he had been visited by so unwonted a guest as
      reflection, he would&mdash;being a brute only in the gratification of his
      appetites&mdash;have soothed his conscience with the plea that he did not
      mean to beat or kill his wife, and would therefore, after all said and
      done, be a very tolerable, average husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap24"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 24
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was not until they were quite exhausted and could no longer maintain
      the pace at which they had fled from the race-ground, that the old man and
      the child ventured to stop, and sit down to rest upon the borders of a
      little wood. Here, though the course was hidden from their view, they
      could yet faintly distinguish the noise of distant shouts, the hum of
      voices, and the beating of drums. Climbing the eminence which lay between
      them and the spot they had left, the child could even discern the
      fluttering flags and white tops of booths; but no person was approaching
      towards them, and their resting-place was solitary and still.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some time elapsed before she could reassure her trembling companion, or
      restore him to a state of moderate tranquillity. His disordered
      imagination represented to him a crowd of persons stealing towards them
      beneath the cover of the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peeping from
      the boughs of every rustling tree. He was haunted by apprehensions of
      being led captive to some gloomy place where he would be chained and
      scourged, and worse than all, where Nell could never come to see him, save
      through iron bars and gratings in the wall. His terrors affected the
      child. Separation from her grandfather was the greatest evil she could
      dread; and feeling for the time as though, go where they would, they were
      to be hunted down, and could never be safe but in hiding, her heart failed
      her, and her courage drooped.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which she had lately
      moved, this sinking of the spirit was not surprising. But, Nature often
      enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms&mdash;oftenest, God
      bless her, in female breasts&mdash;and when the child, casting her tearful
      eyes upon the old man, remembered how weak he was, and how destitute and
      helpless he would be if she failed him, her heart swelled within her, and
      animated her with new strength and fortitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear
      grandfather,' she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing to fear!' returned the old man. 'Nothing to fear if they took me
      from thee! Nothing to fear if they parted us! Nobody is true to me. No,
      not one. Not even Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! do not say that,' replied the child, 'for if ever anybody was true at
      heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure you know I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then how,' said the old man, looking fearfully round, 'how can you bear
      to think that we are safe, when they are searching for me everywhere, and
      may come here, and steal upon us, even while we're talking?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because I'm sure we have not been followed,' said the child. 'Judge for
      yourself, dear grandfather: look round, and see how quiet and still it is.
      We are alone together, and may ramble where we like. Not safe! Could I
      feel easy&mdash;did I feel at ease&mdash;when any danger threatened you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True, too,' he answered, pressing her hand, but still looking anxiously
      about. 'What noise was that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A bird,' said the child, 'flying into the wood, and leading the way for
      us to follow.' You remember that we said we would walk in woods and
      fields, and by the side of rivers, and how happy we would be&mdash;you
      remember that? But here, while the sun shines above our heads, and
      everything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly down, and losing
      time. See what a pleasant path; and there's the bird&mdash;the same bird&mdash;now
      he flies to another tree, and stays to sing. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led them
      through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny footsteps in
      the moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and gave it back as
      mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured the old man on, with many a
      backward look and merry beck, now pointing stealthily to some lone bird as
      it perched and twittered on a branch that strayed across their path, now
      stopping to listen to the songs that broke the happy silence, or watch the
      sun as it trembled through the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied
      trunks of stout old trees, opened long paths of light. As they passed
      onward, parting the boughs that clustered in their way, the serenity which
      the child had first assumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the old man
      cast no longer fearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for
      the further they passed into the deep green shade, the more they felt that
      the tranquil mind of God was there, and shed its peace on them.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought them to
      the end of the wood, and into a public road. Taking their way along it for
      a short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on either
      hand that they met together over-head, and arched the narrow way. A broken
      finger-post announced that this led to a village three miles off; and
      thither they resolved to bend their steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have
      missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led downwards in a
      steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths led; and
      the clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody hollow below.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on the
      green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and down,
      uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old man in the
      little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of approaching,
      for he was the schoolmaster, and had 'School' written up over his window
      in black letters on a white board. He was a pale, simple-looking man, of a
      spare and meagre habit, and sat among his flowers and beehives, smoking
      his pipe, in the little porch before his door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speak to him, dear,' the old man whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am almost afraid to disturb him,' said the child timidly. 'He does not
      seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and still
      sat, thoughtful and silent, in the little porch. He had a kind face. In
      his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and meagre. They fancied, too,
      a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that was because the
      other people formed a merry company upon the green, and he seemed the only
      solitary man in all the place.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to address
      even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which seemed to
      denote that he was uneasy or distressed. As they stood hesitating at a
      little distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at a time like one
      in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and took a few turns in his
      garden, then approached the gate and looked towards the green, then took
      up his pipe again with a sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length took
      courage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to draw near,
      leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made in raising
      the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his attention. He looked at them
      kindly but seemed disappointed too, and slightly shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who sought
      a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far as their
      means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as she spoke, laid
      aside his pipe, and rose up directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you could direct us anywhere, sir,' said the child, 'we should take it
      very kindly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have been walking a long way,' said the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A long way, Sir,' the child replied.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0181m.jpg" alt="0181m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0181.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'You're a young traveller, my child,' he said, laying his hand gently on
      her head. 'Your grandchild, friend?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye, Sir,' cried the old man, 'and the stay and comfort of my life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in,' said the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without further preface he conducted them into his little school-room,
      which was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them that they were
      welcome to remain under his roof till morning. Before they had done
      thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives
      and platters; and bringing out some bread and cold meat and a jug of beer,
      besought them to eat and drink.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a couple
      of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk perched on
      four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few dog's-eared books upon
      a high shelf; and beside them a motley collection of peg-tops, balls,
      kites, fishing-lines, marbles, half-eaten apples, and other confiscated
      property of idle urchins. Displayed on hooks upon the wall in all their
      terrors, were the cane and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its
      own, the dunce's cap, made of old newspapers and decorated with glaring
      wafers of the largest size. But, the great ornaments of the walls were
      certain moral sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked
      sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same
      hand, which were plentifully pasted all round the room: for the double
      purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the
      school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught
      by these latter specimens. 'That's beautiful writing, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very, Sir,' replied the child modestly, 'is it yours?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mine!' he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, to
      have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart. 'I couldn't write
      like that, now-a-days. No. They're all done by one hand; a little hand it
      is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been
      thrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket, and
      going up to the wall, carefully scraped it out. When he had finished, he
      walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might
      contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his
      voice and manner which quite touched the child, though she was
      unacquainted with its cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A little hand indeed,' said the poor schoolmaster. 'Far beyond all his
      companions, in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever come to be
      so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should
      love me&mdash;' and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his
      spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,' said Nell anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not much, my dear,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I hoped to have seen him
      on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he'll be
      there to-morrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he been ill?' asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and
      so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of disorder;
      it's not a bad sign&mdash;not at all a bad sign.'
</p>
    <p>
The child was silent. He
      walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were
      gathering, and all was still.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come to me, I know,' he
      said, returning into the room. 'He always came into the garden to say good
      night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favourable turn, and
      it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp and there's a heavy
      dew. It's much better he shouldn't come to-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the window-shutter, and closed
      the door. But after he had done this, and sat silent a little time, he
      took down his hat, and said he would go and satisfy himself, if Nell would
      sit up till he returned. The child readily complied, and he went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place very strange and
      lonely, for she had prevailed upon the old man to go to bed, and there was
      nothing to be heard but the ticking of an old clock, and the whistling of
      the wind among the trees. When he returned, he took his seat in the
      chimney corner, but remained silent for a long time. At length he turned
      to her, and speaking very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night
      for a sick child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My favourite scholar!' said the poor schoolmaster, smoking a pipe he had
      forgotten to light, and looking mournfully round upon the walls. 'It is a
      little hand to have done all that, and waste away with sickness. It is a
      very, very little hand!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap25"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 25
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in which it
      seemed the sexton had for some years been a lodger, but which he had
      lately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child rose early
      in the morning and descended to the room where she had supped last night.
      As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out, she bestirred
      herself to make it neat and comfortable, and had just finished its
      arrangement when the kind host returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually did such
      offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom he had told her
      of. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, 'no better.
      They even say he is worse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry for that, Sir,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest manner, but
      yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily that anxious people
      often magnified an evil and thought it greater than it was; 'for my part,'
      he said, in his quiet, patient way, 'I hope it's not so. I don't think he
      can be worse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather coming
      down stairs, they all three partook of it together. While the meal was in
      progress, their host remarked that the old man seemed much fatigued, and
      evidently stood in need of rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If the journey you have before you is a long one,' he said, 'and don't
      press you for one day, you're very welcome to pass another night here. I
      should really be glad if you would, friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain whether to accept or
      decline his offer; and added,
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day. If you
      can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time, do so.
      If you must proceed upon your journey, I wish you well through it, and
      will walk a little way with you before school begins.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are we to do, Nell?' said the old man irresolutely, 'say what we're
      to do, dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that they
      had better accept the invitation and remain. She was happy to show her
      gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the performance
      of such household duties as his little cottage stood in need of. When
      these were done, she took some needle-work from her basket, and sat
      herself down upon a stool beside the lattice, where the honeysuckle and
      woodbine entwined their tender stems, and stealing into the room filled it
      with their delicious breath. Her grandfather was basking in the sun
      outside, breathing the perfume of the flowers, and idly watching the
      clouds as they floated on before the light summer wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order, took his
      seat behind his desk and made other preparations for school, the child was
      apprehensive that she might be in the way, and offered to withdraw to her
      little bedroom. But this he would not allow, and as he seemed pleased to
      have her there, she remained, busying herself with her work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you many scholars, sir?' she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely filled the
      two forms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are the others clever, sir?' asked the child, glancing at the trophies on
      the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good boys,' returned the schoolmaster, 'good boys enough, my dear, but
      they'll never do like that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door while
      he was speaking, and stopping there to make a rustic bow, came in and took
      his seat upon one of the forms. The white-headed boy then put an open
      book, astonishingly dog's-eared upon his knees, and thrusting his hands
      into his pockets began counting the marbles with which they were filled;
      displaying in the expression of his face a remarkable capacity of totally
      abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his eyes were fixed. Soon
      afterwards another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after
      him a red-headed lad, and after him two more with white heads, and then
      one with a flaxen poll, and so on until the forms were occupied by a dozen
      boys or thereabouts, with heads of every colour but grey, and ranging in
      their ages from four years old to fourteen years or more; for the legs of
      the youngest were a long way from the floor when he sat upon the form, and
      the eldest was a heavy good-tempered foolish fellow, about half a head
      taller than the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the top of the first form&mdash;the post of honour in the school&mdash;was
      the vacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of
      pegs on which those who came in hats or caps were wont to hang them up,
      one was left empty. No boy attempted to violate the sanctity of seat or
      peg, but many a one looked from the empty spaces to the schoolmaster, and
      whispered his idle neighbour behind his hand.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0186m.jpg" alt="0186m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0186.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by heart, the
      whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl of school;
      and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, the very image of
      meekness and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his mind upon the duties
      of the day, and to forget his little friend. But the tedium of his office
      reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were
      rambling from his pupils&mdash;it was plain.
    </p>
    <p>
      None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with
      impunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even under the
      master's eye, eating apples openly and without rebuke, pinching each other
      in sport or malice without the least reserve, and cutting their autographs
      in the very legs of his desk. The puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to
      say his lesson out of book, looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten
      words, but drew closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast his eye upon
      the page; the wag of the little troop squinted and made grimaces (at the
      smallest boy of course), holding no book before his face, and his
      approving audience knew no constraint in their delight. If the master did
      chance to rouse himself and seem alive to what was going on, the noise
      subsided for a moment and no eyes met his but wore a studious and a deeply
      humble look; but the instant he relapsed again, it broke out afresh, and
      ten times louder than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how they
      looked at the open door and window, as if they half meditated rushing
      violently out, plunging into the woods, and being wild boys and savages
      from that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool river, and some
      shady bathing-place beneath willow trees with branches dipping in the
      water, kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who, with his
      shirt-collar unbuttoned and flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning
      his flushed face with a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale, or a
      tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a boy at school on that hot, broiling
      day! Heat! ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the door gave
      him opportunities of gliding out into the garden and driving his
      companions to madness by dipping his face into the bucket of the well and
      then rolling on the grass&mdash;ask him if there were ever such a day as
      that, when even the bees were diving deep down into the cups of flowers
      and stopping there, as if they had made up their minds to retire from
      business and be manufacturers of honey no more. The day was made for
      laziness, and lying on one's back in green places, and staring at the sky
      till its brightness forced one to shut one's eyes and go to sleep; and was
      this a time to be poring over musty books in a dark room, slighted by the
      very sun itself? Monstrous!
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but attentive still to all
      that passed, though sometimes rather timid of the boisterous boys. The
      lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one desk and that
      the master's, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured at his crooked copy,
      while the master walked about. This was a quieter time; for he would come
      and look over the writer's shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how
      such a letter was turned in such a copy on the wall, praise such an
      up-stroke here and such a down-stroke there, and bid him take it for his
      model. Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had said last
      night, and how he had longed to be among them once again; and such was the
      poor schoolmaster's gentle and affectionate manner, that the boys seemed
      quite remorseful that they had worried him so much, and were absolutely
      quiet; eating no apples, cutting no names, inflicting no pinches, and
      making no grimaces, for full two minutes afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think, boys,' said the schoolmaster when the clock struck twelve, 'that
      I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy, raised
      a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to speak, but
      could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in token of his wish
      that they should be silent, they were considerate enough to leave off, as
      soon as the longest-winded among them were quite out of breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must promise me first,' said the schoolmaster, 'that you'll not be
      noisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be so&mdash;away
      out of the village I mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate
      and companion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for they were
      but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as any
      of them, called those about him to witness that he had only shouted in a
      whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars,' said the schoolmaster,
      'what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me. Be as happy as you
      can, and don't be unmindful that you are blessed with health. Good-bye
      all!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank'ee, Sir,' and 'good-bye, Sir,' were said a good many times in a
      variety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But there
      was the sun shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun only
      shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays; there were
      the trees waving to all free boys to climb and nestle among their leafy
      branches; the hay, entreating them to come and scatter it to the pure air;
      the green corn, gently beckoning towards wood and stream; the smooth
      ground, rendered smoother still by blending lights and shadows, inviting
      to runs and leaps, and long walks God knows whither. It was more than boy
      could bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole cluster took to their heels
      and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's natural, thank Heaven!' said the poor schoolmaster, looking after
      them. 'I'm very glad they didn't mind me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would have
      discovered, even without the fable which bears that moral, and in the
      course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils looked in to
      express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's proceeding. A few
      confined themselves to hints, such as politely inquiring what red-letter
      day or saint's day the almanack said it was; a few (these were the
      profound village politicians) argued that it was a slight to the throne
      and an affront to church and state, and savoured of revolutionary
      principles, to grant a half-holiday upon any lighter occasion than the
      birthday of the Monarch; but the majority expressed their displeasure on
      private grounds and in plain terms, arguing that to put the pupils on this
      short allowance of learning was nothing but an act of downright robbery
      and fraud: and one old lady, finding that she could not inflame or
      irritate the peaceable schoolmaster by talking to him, bounced out of his
      house and talked at him for half-an-hour outside his own window, to
      another old lady, saying that of course he would deduct this half-holiday
      from his weekly charge, or of course he would naturally expect to have an
      opposition started against him; there was no want of idle chaps in that
      neighbourhood (here the old lady raised her voice), and some chaps who
      were too idle even to be schoolmasters, might soon find that there were
      other chaps put over their heads, and so she would have them take care,
      and look pretty sharp about them. But all these taunts and vexations
      failed to elicit one word from the meek schoolmaster, who sat with the
      child by his side&mdash;a little more dejected perhaps, but quite silent
      and uncomplaining.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she
      could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame
      West's directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on
      the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her
      hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as
      she might.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it
      with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They entered a room
      where a little group of women were gathered about one, older than the
      rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands and rocking
      herself to and fro.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, dame!' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, 'is it so bad
      as this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's going fast,' cried the old woman; 'my grandson's dying. It's all
      along of you. You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so earnest on
      it. This is what his learning has brought him to. Oh dear, dear, dear,
      what can I do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not say that I am in any fault,' urged the gentle school-master. 'I am
      not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of mind, and don't mean
      what you say. I am sure you don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do,' returned the old woman. 'I mean it all. If he hadn't been poring
      over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and merry now,
      I know he would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat some
      one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook their heads, and
      murmured to each other that they never thought there was much good in
      learning, and that this convinced them. Without saying a word in reply, or
      giving them a look of reproach, he followed the old woman who had summoned
      him (and who had now rejoined them) into another room, where his infant
      friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in
      curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was
      of Heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and
      stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung up, stroked
      his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms round his neck, crying
      out that he was his dear kind friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor
      schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her, lest I
      should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.'
</p>
    <p>
The sobbing child
      came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his
      again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to
      rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, 'and how
      pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You must make haste to visit
      it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay
      than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now&mdash;won't
      you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy smiled faintly&mdash;so very, very faintly&mdash;and put his hand
      upon his friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice came from
      them; no, not a sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon the
      evening air came floating through the open window. 'What's that?' said the
      sick child, opening his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The boys at play upon the green.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his
      head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply. 'Tie it to the
      lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and
      look this way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle
      bat, that lay with slate and book and other boyish property upon a table
      in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more, and asked if the
      little girl were there, for he could not see her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the
      coverlet. The two old friends and companions&mdash;for such they were,
      though they were man and child&mdash;held each other in a long embrace,
      and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell
      asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold hand
      in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that;
      and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap26"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 26
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>lmost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the
      bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and tears
      she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old man, for the
      dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative to mourn
      his premature decay.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone,
      gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was overcharged. But
      the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without its lesson of content and
      gratitude; of content with the lot which left her health and freedom; and
      gratitude that she was spared to the one relative and friend she loved,
      and to live and move in a beautiful world, when so many young creatures&mdash;as
      young and full of hope as she&mdash;were stricken down and gathered to
      their graves. How many of the mounds in that old churchyard where she had
      lately strayed, grew green above the graves of children! And though she
      thought as a child herself, and did not perhaps sufficiently consider to
      what a bright and happy existence those who die young are borne, and how
      in death they lose the pain of seeing others die around them, bearing to
      the tomb some strong affection of their hearts (which makes the old die
      many times in one long life), still she thought wisely enough, to draw a
      plain and easy moral from what she had seen that night, and to store it,
      deep in her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up, but
      mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his cheerful
      rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but to take leave of
      the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the darkened
      room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little sobered and
      softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at all. The
      schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out to him
      the money which the lady had given her at the races for her flowers:
      faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was, and blushing
      as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and stooping to kiss her
      cheek, turned back into his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again; the
      old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good fortune and happiness go with you!' said the poor schoolmaster. 'I
      am quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass this way again, you'll not
      forget the little village-school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall never forget it, sir,' rejoined Nell; 'nor ever forget to be
      grateful to you for your kindness to us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have heard such words from the lips of children very often,' said the
      schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully, 'but they were
      soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to me, the better friend
      for being young&mdash;but that's over&mdash;God bless you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking slowly
      and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At length they
      had left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke among
      the trees. They trudged onward now, at a quicker pace, resolving to keep
      the main road, and go wherever it might lead them.
    </p>
    <p>
      But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of two or
      three inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed, without
      stopping, and one lonely road-side public-house where they had some bread
      and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing&mdash;late in the
      afternoon&mdash;and still lengthened out, far in the distance, the same
      dull, tedious, winding course, that they had been pursuing all day. As
      they had no resource, however, but to go forward, they still kept on,
      though at a much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued.
    </p>
    <p>
      The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived at
      a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common. On
      the border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it from
      the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which, by
      reason of its situation, they came so suddenly that they could not have
      avoided it if they would.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon
      wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and
      window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in which
      happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant. Neither was
      it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated horse, for a pair
      of horses in pretty good condition were released from the shafts and
      grazing on the frouzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy caravan, for at the
      open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a Christian lady, stout
      and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large bonnet trembling with bows.
      And that it was not an unprovided or destitute caravan was clear from this
      lady's occupation, which was the very pleasant and refreshing one of
      taking tea. The tea-things, including a bottle of rather suspicious
      character and a cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered
      with a white napkin; and there, as if at the most convenient round-table
      in all the world, sat this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the
      prospect.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0193m.jpg" alt="0193m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0193.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup
      (which, that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable
      kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted to
      the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of the tea, not unmingled
      possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam of something out of the
      suspicious bottle&mdash;but this is mere speculation and not distinct
      matter of history&mdash;it happened that being thus agreeably engaged, she
      did not see the travellers when they first came up. It was not until she
      was in the act of getting down the cup, and drawing a long breath after
      the exertion of causing its contents to disappear, that the lady of the
      caravan beheld an old man and a young child walking slowly by, and
      glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her lap
      and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. 'Yes, to be sure&mdash;Who
      won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child&mdash;the plate that was run
      for on the second day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the second day, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Second day! Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of
      impatience. 'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when you're
      asked the question civilly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were there. I
      saw you with my own eyes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady might
      be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but what
      followed tended to reassure her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see you in
      company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people should
      scorn to look at.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know our way,
      and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. Do you&mdash;do
      you know them, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek.
      'Know them! But you're young and inexperienced, and that's your excuse for
      asking sich a question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the caravan
      look as if it know'd 'em?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some grievous
      fault. 'I beg your pardon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much ruffled
      and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child then explained
      that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to the
      next town on that road, where they purposed to spend the night. As the
      countenance of the stout lady began to clear up, she ventured to inquire
      how far it was. The reply&mdash;which the stout lady did not come to,
      until she had thoroughly explained that she went to the races on the first
      day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that her presence
      there had no connexion with any matters of business or profit&mdash;was,
      that the town was eight miles off.
    </p>
    <p>
      This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could
      scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her
      grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he leaned upon his
      staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea equipage
      together preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the child's anxious
      manner she hesitated and stopped. The child curtseyed, thanked her for her
      information, and giving her hand to the old man had already got some fifty
      yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to her to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to ascend the
      steps. 'Are you hungry, child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not very, but we are tired, and it's&mdash;it <i>is</i> a long way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined her new
      acquaintance. 'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The lady of the
      caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the drum proving an
      inconvenient table for two, they descended again, and sat upon the grass,
      where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread and butter, the
      knuckle of ham, and in short everything of which she had partaken herself,
      except the bottle which she had already embraced an opportunity of
      slipping into her pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,' said
      their friend, superintending the arrangements from above. 'Now hand up the
      teapot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and then
      both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare anything;
      that's all I ask of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been less
      freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all. But as this
      direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or uneasiness, they
      made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted on the
      earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large bonnet
      trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured tread and very
      stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of
      calm delight, and deriving particular gratification from the red panels
      and the brass knocker. When she had taken this gentle exercise for some
      time, she sat down upon the steps and called 'George'; whereupon a man in
      a carter's frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this time as
      to see everything that passed without being seen himself, parted the twigs
      that concealed him, and appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting on his
      legs a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone bottle, and bearing in his
      right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Missus,' said George.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did you find the cold pie, George?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It warn't amiss, mum.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of being
      more interested in this question than the last; 'is it passable, George?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it an't so
      bad for all that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting in
      quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and then smacked
      his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No doubt with the same
      amiable desire, he immediately resumed his knife and fork, as a practical
      assurance that the beer had wrought no bad effect upon his appetite.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and then
      said,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you nearly finished?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wery nigh, mum.' And indeed, after scraping the dish all round with his
      knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and after taking
      such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by degrees almost
      imperceptible to the sight, his head went further and further back until
      he lay nearly at his full length upon the ground, this gentleman declared
      himself quite disengaged, and came forth from his retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who appeared to
      have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you have,' returned the follower, wisely reserving himself for any
      favourable contingency that might occur, 'we must make up for it next
      time, that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are not a heavy load, George?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's always what the ladies say,' replied the man, looking a long way
      round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general against such monstrous
      propositions. 'If you see a woman a driving, you'll always perceive that
      she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go fast enough for
      her. If cattle have got their proper load, you never can persuade a woman
      that they'll not bear something more. What is the cause of this here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses, if we took
      them with us?' asked his mistress, offering no reply to the philosophical
      inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the old man, who were painfully
      preparing to resume their journey on foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They'd make a difference in course,' said George doggedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would they make much difference?' repeated his mistress. 'They can't be
      very heavy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The weight o' the pair, mum,' said George, eyeing them with the look of a
      man who was calculating within half an ounce or so, 'would be a trifle
      under that of Oliver Cromwell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell was very much surprised that the man should be so accurately
      acquainted with the weight of one whom she had read of in books as having
      lived considerably before their time, but speedily forgot the subject in
      the joy of hearing that they were to go forward in the caravan, for which
      she thanked its lady with unaffected earnestness. She helped with great
      readiness and alacrity to put away the tea-things and other matters that
      were lying about, and, the horses being by that time harnessed, mounted
      into the vehicle, followed by her delighted grandfather. Their patroness
      then shut the door and sat herself down by her drum at an open window;
      and, the steps being struck by George and stowed under the carriage, away
      they went, with a great noise of flapping and creaking and straining, and
      the bright brass knocker, which nobody ever knocked at, knocking one
      perpetual double knock of its own accord as they jolted heavily along.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap27"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 27
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen they had travelled slowly forward for some short distance, Nell
      ventured to steal a look round the caravan and observe it more closely.
      One half of it&mdash;that moiety in which the comfortable proprietress was
      then seated&mdash;was carpeted, and so partitioned off at the further end
      as to accommodate a sleeping-place, constructed after the fashion of a
      berth on board ship, which was shaded, like the little windows, with fair
      white curtains, and looked comfortable enough, though by what kind of
      gymnastic exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get into it,
      was an unfathomable mystery. The other half served for a kitchen, and was
      fitted up with a stove whose small chimney passed through the roof. It
      held also a closet or larder, several chests, a great pitcher of water,
      and a few cooking-utensils and articles of crockery. These latter
      necessaries hung upon the walls, which, in that portion of the
      establishment devoted to the lady of the caravan, were ornamented with
      such gayer and lighter decorations as a triangle and a couple of
      well-thumbed tambourines.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the pride and poetry of
      the musical instruments, and little Nell and her grandfather sat at the
      other in all the humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the machine
      jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly. At first the two
      travellers spoke little, and only in whispers, but as they grew more
      familiar with the place they ventured to converse with greater freedom,
      and talked about the country through which they were passing, and the
      different objects that presented themselves, until the old man fell
      asleep; which the lady of the caravan observing, invited Nell to come and
      sit beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, child,' she said, 'how do you like this way of travelling?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant indeed, to which the
      lady assented in the case of people who had their spirits. For herself,
      she said, she was troubled with a lowness in that respect which required a
      constant stimulant; though whether the aforesaid stimulant was derived
      from the suspicious bottle of which mention has been already made or from
      other sources, she did not say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the happiness of you young people,' she continued. 'You don't know
      what it is to be low in your feelings. You always have your appetites too,
      and what a comfort that is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with her own appetite very
      conveniently; and thought, moreover, that there was nothing either in the
      lady's personal appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to lead to the
      conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had at all failed
      her. She silently assented, however, as in duty bound, to what the lady
      had said, and waited until she should speak again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the child for a long time
      in silence, and then getting up, brought out from a corner a large roll of
      canvas about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and spread
      open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the caravan to
      the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, child,' she said, 'read that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the
      inscription, 'JARLEY'S <i>WAX-WORK</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Read it again,' said the lady, complacently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Jarley's Wax-Work,' repeated Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's me,' said the lady. 'I am Mrs Jarley.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reassure her and let her
      know, that, although she stood in the presence of the original Jarley, she
      must not allow herself to be utterly overwhelmed and borne down, the lady
      of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the inscription, 'One
      hundred figures the full size of life,' and then another scroll, on which
      was written, 'The only stupendous collection of real wax-work in the
      world,' and then several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as 'Now
      exhibiting within'&mdash;'The genuine and only Jarley'&mdash;'Jarley's
      unrivalled collection'&mdash;'Jarley is the delight of the Nobility and
      Gentry'&mdash;'The Royal Family are the patrons of Jarley.' When she had
      exhibited these leviathans of public announcement to the astonished child,
      she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in the shape of hand-bills,
      some of which were couched in the form of parodies on popular melodies, as
      'Believe me if all Jarley's wax-work so rare'&mdash;'I saw thy show in
      youthful prime'&mdash;'Over the water to Jarley;' while, to consult all
      tastes, others were composed with a view to the lighter and more facetious
      spirits, as a parody on the favourite air of 'If I had a donkey,'
      beginning,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go<br />
To see Mrs <i>JARLEY'S</i> wax-work show,<br />
Do you think I'd acknowledge him?  Oh no no!<br />
Then run to Jarley's&mdash;<br />
</pre>
    <p>
      &mdash;besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues
      between the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of
      Canterbury and a dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all having
      the same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to Jarley's, and
      that children and servants were admitted at half-price. When she had
      brought all these testimonials of her important position in society to
      bear upon her young companion, Mrs Jarley rolled them up, and having put
      them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at the child in triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,' said Mrs Jarley,
      'after this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw any wax-work, ma'am,' said Nell. 'Is it funnier than Punch?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Funnier!' said Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice. 'It is not funny at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Nell, with all possible humility.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It isn't funny at all,' repeated Mrs Jarley. 'It's calm and&mdash;what's
      that word again&mdash;critical?&mdash;no&mdash;classical, that's it&mdash;it's
      calm and classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and
      squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a
      constantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life,
      that if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you'd hardly know the
      difference. I won't go so far as to say, that, as it is, I've seen
      wax-work quite like life, but I've certainly seen some life that was
      exactly like wax-work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it here, ma'am?' asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this
      description.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is what here, child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The wax-work, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could such a
      collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one
      little cupboard and a few boxes? It's gone on in the other wans to the
      assembly-rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day after to-morrow. You
      are going to the same town, and you'll see it I dare say. It's natural to
      expect that you'll see it, and I've no doubt you will. I suppose you
      couldn't stop away if you was to try ever so much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not there!' cried Mrs Jarley. 'Then where will you be?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&mdash;I&mdash;don't quite know. I am not certain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't mean to say that you're travelling about the country without
      knowing where you're going to?' said the lady of the caravan. 'What
      curious people you are! What line are you in? You looked to me at the
      races, child, as if you were quite out of your element, and had got there
      by accident.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We were there quite by accident,' returned Nell, confused by this abrupt
      questioning. 'We are poor people, ma'am, and are only wandering about. We
      have nothing to do;&mdash;I wish we had.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You amaze me more and more,' said Mrs Jarley, after remaining for some
      time as mute as one of her own figures. 'Why, what do you call yourselves?
      Not beggars?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are,' returned the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord bless me,' said the lady of the caravan. 'I never heard of such a
      thing. Who'd have thought it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell feared she
      felt her having been induced to bestow her protection and conversation
      upon one so poor, to be an outrage upon her dignity that nothing could
      repair. This persuasion was rather confirmed than otherwise by the tone in
      which she at length broke silence and said,
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't wonder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, ma'am,' said the child, fearful of giving new offence by the
      confession.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, and what a thing that is,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'I can't!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell said 'indeed' in a tone which might imply, either that she was
      reasonably surprised to find the genuine and only Jarley, who was the
      delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the peculiar pet of the Royal
      Family, destitute of these familiar arts; or that she presumed so great a
      lady could scarcely stand in need of such ordinary accomplishments. In
      whatever way Mrs Jarley received the response, it did not provoke her to
      further questioning, or tempt her into any more remarks at the time, for
      she relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained in that state so long
      that Nell withdrew to the other window and rejoined her grandfather, who
      was now awake.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of meditation, and,
      summoning the driver to come under the window at which she was seated,
      held a long conversation with him in a low tone of voice, as if she were
      asking his advice on an important point, and discussing the pros and cons
      of some very weighty matter. This conference at length concluded, she drew
      in her head again, and beckoned Nell to approach.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the old gentleman too,' said Mrs Jarley; 'for I want to have a word
      with him. Do you want a good situation for your grand-daughter, master? If
      you do, I can put her in the way of getting one. What do you say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't leave her,' answered the old man. 'We can't separate. What would
      become of me without her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should have thought you were old enough to take care of yourself, if
      you ever will be,' retorted Mrs Jarley sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But he never will be,' said the child in an earnest whisper. 'I fear he
      never will be again. Pray do not speak harshly to him. We are very
      thankful to you,' she added aloud; 'but neither of us could part from the
      other if all the wealth of the world were halved between us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception of her proposal,
      and looked at the old man, who tenderly took Nell's hand and detained it
      in his own, as if she could have very well dispensed with his company or
      even his earthly existence. After an awkward pause, she thrust her head
      out of the window again, and had another conference with the driver upon
      some point on which they did not seem to agree quite so readily as on
      their former topic of discussion; but they concluded at last, and she
      addressed the grandfather again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you're really disposed to employ yourself,' said Mrs Jarley, 'there
      would be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust the figures,
      and take the checks, and so forth. What I want your grand-daughter for, is
      to point 'em out to the company; they would be soon learnt, and she has a
      way with her that people wouldn't think unpleasant, though she does come
      after me; for I've been always accustomed to go round with visitors
      myself, which I should keep on doing now, only that my spirits make a
      little ease absolutely necessary. It's not a common offer, bear in mind,'
      said the lady, rising into the tone and manner in which she was accustomed
      to address her audiences; 'it's Jarley's wax-work, remember. The duty's
      very light and genteel, the company particularly select, the exhibition
      takes place in assembly-rooms, town-halls, large rooms at inns, or auction
      galleries. There is none of your open-air wagrancy at Jarley's, recollect;
      there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's, remember. Every expectation
      held out in the handbills is realised to the utmost, and the whole forms
      an effect of imposing brilliancy hitherto unrivalled in this kingdom.
      Remember that the price of admission is only sixpence, and that this is an
      opportunity which may never occur again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Descending from the sublime when she had reached this point, to the
      details of common life, Mrs Jarley remarked that with reference to salary
      she could pledge herself to no specific sum until she had sufficiently
      tested Nell's abilities, and narrowly watched her in the performance of
      her duties. But board and lodging, both for her and her grandfather, she
      bound herself to provide, and she furthermore passed her word that the
      board should always be good in quality, and in quantity plentiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell and her grandfather consulted together, and while they were so
      engaged, Mrs Jarley with her hands behind her walked up and down the
      caravan, as she had walked after tea on the dull earth, with uncommon
      dignity and self-esteem. Nor will this appear so slight a circumstance as
      to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered that the caravan was in
      uneasy motion all the time, and that none but a person of great natural
      stateliness and acquired grace could have forborne to stagger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, child?' cried Mrs Jarley, coming to a halt as Nell turned towards
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Nell, 'and thankfully
      accept your offer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you'll never be sorry for it,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'I'm pretty sure
      of that. So as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it too had been drinking
      strong beer and was drowsy, and came at last upon the paved streets of a
      town which were clear of passengers, and quiet, for it was by this time
      near midnight, and the townspeople were all abed. As it was too late an
      hour to repair to the exhibition room, they turned aside into a piece of
      waste ground that lay just within the old town-gate, and drew up there for
      the night, near to another caravan, which, notwithstanding that it bore on
      the lawful panel the great name of Jarley, and was employed besides in
      conveying from place to place the wax-work which was its country's pride,
      was designated by a grovelling stamp-office as a 'Common Stage Waggon,'
      and numbered too&mdash;seven thousand odd hundred&mdash;as though its
      precious freight were mere flour or coals!
    </p>
    <p>
      This ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited its burden at the
      place of exhibition, and lingered here until its services were again
      required) was assigned to the old man as his sleeping-place for the night;
      and within its wooden walls, Nell made him up the best bed she could, from
      the materials at hand. For herself, she was to sleep in Mrs Jarley's own
      travelling-carriage, as a signal mark of that lady's favour and
      confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had taken leave of her grandfather and was returning to the other
      waggon, when she was tempted by the coolness of the night to linger for a
      little while in the air. The moon was shining down upon the old gateway of
      the town, leaving the low archway very black and dark; and with a mingled
      sensation of curiosity and fear, she slowly approached the gate, and stood
      still to look up at it, wondering to see how dark, and grim, and old, and
      cold, it looked.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an empty niche from which some old statue had fallen or been
      carried away hundreds of years ago, and she was thinking what strange
      people it must have looked down upon when it stood there, and how many
      hard struggles might have taken place, and how many murders might have
      been done, upon that silent spot, when there suddenly emerged from the
      black shade of the arch, a man. The instant he appeared, she recognised
      him&mdash;Who could have failed to recognise, in that instant, the ugly
      misshapen Quilp!
    </p>
    <p>
      The street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of the houses on one side
      of the way so deep, that he seemed to have risen out of the earth. But
      there he was. The child withdrew into a dark corner, and saw him pass
      close to her. He had a stick in his hand, and, when he had got clear of
      the shadow of the gateway, he leant upon it, looked back&mdash;directly,
      as it seemed, towards where she stood&mdash;and beckoned.
    </p>
    <p>
      To her? oh no, thank God, not to her; for as she stood, in an extremity of
      fear, hesitating whether to scream for help, or come from her hiding-place
      and fly, before he should draw nearer, there issued slowly forth from the
      arch another figure&mdash;that of a boy&mdash;who carried on his back a
      trunk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Faster, sirrah!' cried Quilp, looking up at the old gateway, and showing
      in the moonlight like some monstrous image that had come down from its
      niche and was casting a backward glance at its old house, 'faster!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0203m.jpg" alt="0203m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0203.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'It's a dreadful heavy load, Sir,' the boy pleaded. 'I've come on very
      fast, considering.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>have come fast, considering!' retorted Quilp; 'you creep, you dog,
      you crawl, you measure distance like a worm. There are the chimes now,
      half-past twelve.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy with a suddenness and
      ferocity that made him start, asked at what hour that London coach passed
      the corner of the road. The boy replied, at one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come on then,' said Quilp, 'or I shall be too late. Faster&mdash;do you
      hear me? Faster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led onward, constantly
      turning back to threaten him, and urge him to greater haste. Nell did not
      dare to move until they were out of sight and hearing, and then hurried to
      where she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the very passing of the
      dwarf so near him must have filled him with alarm and terror. But he was
      sleeping soundly, and she softly withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she was making her way to her own bed, she determined to say nothing of
      this adventure, as upon whatever errand the dwarf had come (and she feared
      it must have been in search of them) it was clear by his inquiry about the
      London coach that he was on his way homeward, and as he had passed through
      that place, it was but reasonable to suppose that they were safer from his
      inquiries there, than they could be elsewhere. These reflections did not
      remove her own alarm, for she had been too much terrified to be easily
      composed, and felt as if she were hemmed in by a legion of Quilps, and the
      very air itself were filled with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patronised of Royalty had,
      by some process of self-abridgment known only to herself, got into her
      travelling bed, where she was snoring peacefully, while the large bonnet,
      carefully disposed upon the drum, was revealing its glories by the light
      of a dim lamp that swung from the roof. The child's bed was already made
      upon the floor, and it was a great comfort to her to hear the steps
      removed as soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy
      communication between persons outside and the brass knocker was by this
      means effectually prevented. Certain guttural sounds, too, which from time
      to time ascended through the floor of the caravan, and a rustling of straw
      in the same direction, apprised her that the driver was couched upon the
      ground beneath, and gave her an additional feeling of security.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding these protections, she could get none but broken sleep by
      fits and starts all night, for fear of Quilp, who throughout her uneasy
      dreams was somehow connected with the wax-work, or was wax-work himself,
      or was Mrs Jarley and wax-work too, or was himself, Mrs Jarley, wax-work,
      and a barrel organ all in one, and yet not exactly any of them either. At
      length, towards break of day, that deep sleep came upon her which succeeds
      to weariness and over-watching, and which has no consciousness but one of
      overpowering and irresistible enjoyment.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap28"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 28
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>leep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that, when she awoke,
      Mrs Jarley was already decorated with her large bonnet, and actively
      engaged in preparing breakfast. She received Nell's apology for being so
      late with perfect good humour, and said that she should not have roused
      her if she had slept on until noon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because it does you good,' said the lady of the caravan, 'when you're
      tired, to sleep as long as ever you can, and get the fatigue quite off;
      and that's another blessing of your time of life&mdash;you can sleep so
      very sound.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you had a bad night, ma'am?' asked Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I seldom have anything else, child,' replied Mrs Jarley, with the air of
      a martyr. 'I sometimes wonder how I bear it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Remembering the snores which had proceeded from that cleft in the caravan
      in which the proprietress of the wax-work passed the night, Nell rather
      thought she must have been dreaming of lying awake. However, she expressed
      herself very sorry to hear such a dismal account of her state of health,
      and shortly afterwards sat down with her grandfather and Mrs Jarley to
      breakfast. The meal finished, Nell assisted to wash the cups and saucers,
      and put them in their proper places, and these household duties performed,
      Mrs Jarley arrayed herself in an exceedingly bright shawl for the purpose
      of making a progress through the streets of the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The wan will come on to bring the boxes,' said Mrs Jarley, and you had
      better come in it, child. I am obliged to walk, very much against my will;
      but the people expect it of me, and public characters can't be their own
      masters and mistresses in such matters as these. How do I look, child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs Jarley, after sticking a great
      many pins into various parts of her figure, and making several abortive
      attempts to obtain a full view of her own back, was at last satisfied with
      her appearance, and went forth majestically.
    </p>
    <p>
      The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went jolting through the
      streets, Nell peeped from the window, curious to see in what kind of place
      they were, and yet fearful of encountering at every turn the dreaded face
      of Quilp. It was a pretty large town, with an open square which they were
      crawling slowly across, and in the middle of which was the Town-Hall, with
      a clock-tower and a weather-cock. There were houses of stone, houses of
      red brick, houses of yellow brick, houses of lath and plaster; and houses
      of wood, many of them very old, with withered faces carved upon the beams,
      and staring down into the street. These had very little winking windows,
      and low-arched doors, and, in some of the narrower ways, quite overhung
      the pavement. The streets were very clean, very sunny, very empty, and
      very dull. A few idle men lounged about the two inns, and the empty
      market-place, and the tradesmen's doors, and some old people were dozing
      in chairs outside an alms-house wall; but scarcely any passengers who
      seemed bent on going anywhere, or to have any object in view, went by; and
      if perchance some straggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot bright
      pavement for minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be going on but the
      clocks, and they had such drowzy faces, such heavy lazy hands, and such
      cracked voices that they surely must have been too slow. The very dogs
      were all asleep, and the flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's
      shop, forgot their wings and briskness, and baked to death in dusty
      corners of the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan stopped at last at
      the place of exhibition, where Nell dismounted amidst an admiring group of
      children, who evidently supposed her to be an important item of the
      curiosities, and were fully impressed with the belief that her grandfather
      was a cunning device in wax. The chests were taken out with all convenient
      despatch, and taken in to be unlocked by Mrs Jarley, who, attended by
      George and another man in velveteen shorts and a drab hat ornamented with
      turnpike tickets, were waiting to dispose their contents (consisting of
      red festoons and other ornamental devices in upholstery work) to the best
      advantage in the decoration of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      They all got to work without loss of time, and very busy they were. As the
      stupendous collection were yet concealed by cloths, lest the envious dust
      should injure their complexions, Nell bestirred herself to assist in the
      embellishment of the room, in which her grandfather also was of great
      service. The two men being well used to it, did a great deal in a short
      time; and Mrs Jarley served out the tin tacks from a linen pocket like a
      toll-collector's which she wore for the purpose, and encouraged her
      assistants to renewed exertion.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman with a hook nose and
      black hair, dressed in a military surtout very short and tight in the
      sleeves, and which had once been frogged and braided all over, but was now
      sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare&mdash;dressed too in
      ancient grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a pair of pumps in
      the winter of their existence&mdash;looked in at the door and smiled
      affably. Mrs Jarley's back being then towards him, the military gentleman
      shook his forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to apprise her
      of his presence, and stealing up close behind her, tapped her on the neck,
      and cried playfully 'Boh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What, Mr Slum!' cried the lady of the wax-work. 'Lot! who'd have thought
      of seeing you here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Pon my soul and honour,' said Mr Slum, 'that's a good remark. 'Pon my
      soul and honour that's a wise remark. Who would have thought it! George,
      my faithful feller, how are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      George received this advance with a surly indifference, observing that he
      was well enough for the matter of that, and hammering lustily all the
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I came here,' said the military gentleman turning to Mrs Jarley&mdash;''pon
      my soul and honour I hardly know what I came here for. It would puzzle me
      to tell you, it would by Gad. I wanted a little inspiration, a little
      freshening up, a little change of ideas, and&mdash;'Pon my soul and
      honour,' said the military gentleman, checking himself and looking round
      the room, 'what a devilish classical thing this is! by Gad, it's quite
      Minervian.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished,' observed Mrs
      Jarley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well enough!' said Mr Slum. 'Will you believe me when I say it's the
      delight of my life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I've exercised
      my pen upon this charming theme? By the way&mdash;any orders? Is there any
      little thing I can do for you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It comes so very expensive, sir,' replied Mrs Jarley, 'and I really don't
      think it does much good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush! No, no!' returned Mr Slum, elevating his hand. 'No fibs. I'll not
      hear it. Don't say it don't do good. Don't say it. I know better!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think it does,' said Mrs Jarley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha!' cried Mr Slum, 'you're giving way, you're coming down. Ask the
      perfumers, ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask the old
      lottery-office-keepers&mdash;ask any man among 'em what my poetry has done
      for him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum. If he's an honest
      man, he raises his eyes to heaven, and blesses the name of Slum&mdash;mark
      that! You are acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs Jarley?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, surely.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then upon my soul and honour, ma'am, you'll find in a certain angle of
      that dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a few smaller names than Slum,'
      retorted that gentleman, tapping himself expressively on the forehead to
      imply that there was some slight quantity of brain behind it. 'I've got a
      little trifle here, now,' said Mr Slum, taking off his hat which was full
      of scraps of paper, 'a little trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the
      moment, which I should say was exactly the thing you wanted to set this
      place on fire with. It's an acrostic&mdash;the name at this moment is
      Warren, and the idea's a convertible one, and a positive inspiration for
      Jarley. Have the acrostic.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose it's very dear,' said Mrs Jarley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Five shillings,' returned Mr Slum, using his pencil as a toothpick.
      'Cheaper than any prose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't give more than three,' said Mrs Jarley.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;And six,' retorted Slum. 'Come. Three-and-six.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuating manner, and Mr
      Slum entered the order in a small note-book as a three-and-sixpenny one.
      Mr Slum then withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most
      affectionate leave of his patroness, and promising to return, as soon as
      he possibly could, with a fair copy for the printer.
    </p>
    <p>
      As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted the preparations,
      they were now far advanced, and were completed shortly after his
      departure. When the festoons were all put up as tastily as they might be,
      the stupendous collection was uncovered, and there were displayed, on a
      raised platform some two feet from the floor, running round the room and
      parted from the rude public by a crimson rope breast high, divers
      sprightly effigies of celebrated characters, singly and in groups, clad in
      glittering dresses of various climes and times, and standing more or less
      unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very wide open, and their
      nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of their legs and arms very
      strongly developed, and all their countenances expressing great surprise.
      All the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted and very blue about the
      beards; and all the ladies were miraculous figures; and all the ladies and
      all the gentlemen were looking intensely nowhere, and staring with
      extraordinary earnestness at nothing.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0208m.jpg" alt="0208m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0208.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight, Mrs
      Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child,
      and, sitting herself down in an arm-chair in the centre, formally invested
      Nell with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out the
      characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That,' said Mrs Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a figure
      at the beginning of the platform, 'is an unfortunate Maid of Honour in the
      Time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence
      of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is trickling from her
      finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the period, with which she is at
      work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      All this, Nell repeated twice or thrice: pointing to the finger and the
      needle at the right times: and then passed on to the next.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That, ladies and gentlemen,' said Mrs Jarley, 'is Jasper Packlemerton of
      atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and destroyed
      them all, by tickling the soles of their feet when they were sleeping in
      the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being brought to the
      scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what he had done, he replied yes,
      he was sorry for having let 'em off so easy, and hoped all Christian
      husbands would pardon him the offence. Let this be a warning to all young
      ladies to be particular in the character of the gentlemen of their choice.
      Observe that his fingers are curled as if in the act of tickling, and that
      his face is represented with a wink, as he appeared when committing his
      barbarous murders.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When Nell knew all about Mr Packlemerton, and could say it without
      faltering, Mrs Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin man,
      the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred
      and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who poisoned fourteen
      families with pickled walnuts, and other historical characters and
      interesting but misguided individuals. And so well did Nell profit by her
      instructions, and so apt was she to remember them, that by the time they
      had been shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in full
      possession of the history of the whole establishment, and perfectly
      competent to the enlightenment of visitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy result,
      and carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the remaining
      arrangements within doors, by virtue of which the passage had been already
      converted into a grove of green-baize hung with the inscription she had
      already seen (Mr Slum's productions), and a highly ornamented table placed
      at the upper end for Mrs Jarley herself, at which she was to preside and
      take the money, in company with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr
      Grimaldi as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous gentleman of the
      Quaker persuasion, and Mr Pitt holding in his hand a correct model of the
      bill for the imposition of the window duty. The preparations without doors
      had not been neglected either; a nun of great personal attractions was
      telling her beads on the little portico over the door; and a brigand with
      the blackest possible head of hair, and the clearest possible complexion,
      was at that moment going round the town in a cart, consulting the
      miniature of a lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      It now only remained that Mr Slum's compositions should be judiciously
      distributed; that the pathetic effusions should find their way to all
      private houses and tradespeople; and that the parody commencing 'If I
      know'd a donkey,' should be confined to the taverns, and circulated only
      among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits of the place. When this had
      been done, and Mrs Jarley had waited upon the boarding-schools in person,
      with a handbill composed expressly for them, in which it was distinctly
      proved that wax-work refined the mind, cultivated the taste, and enlarged
      the sphere of the human understanding, that indefatigable lady sat down to
      dinner, and drank out of the suspicious bottle to a flourishing campaign.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap29"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 29
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>nquestionably Mrs Jarley had an inventive genius. In the midst of the
      various devices for attracting visitors to the exhibition, little Nell was
      not forgotten. The light cart in which the Brigand usually made his
      perambulations being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, and the
      Brigand placed therein, contemplating the miniature of his beloved as
      usual, Nell was accommodated with a seat beside him, decorated with
      artificial flowers, and in this state and ceremony rode slowly through the
      town every morning, dispersing handbills from a basket, to the sound of
      drum and trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled with her gentle and
      timid bearing, produced quite a sensation in the little country place. The
      Brigand, heretofore a source of exclusive interest in the streets, became
      a mere secondary consideration, and to be important only as a part of the
      show of which she was the chief attraction. Grown-up folks began to be
      interested in the bright-eyed girl, and some score of little boys fell
      desperately in love, and constantly left enclosures of nuts and apples,
      directed in small-text, at the wax-work door.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0211m.jpg" alt="0211m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0211.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      This desirable impression was not lost on Mrs Jarley, who, lest Nell
      should become too cheap, soon sent the Brigand out alone again, and kept
      her in the exhibition room, where she described the figures every
      half-hour to the great satisfaction of admiring audiences. And these
      audiences were of a very superior description, including a great many
      young ladies' boarding-schools, whose favour Mrs Jarley had been at great
      pains to conciliate, by altering the face and costume of Mr Grimaldi as
      clown to represent Mr Lindley Murray as he appeared when engaged in the
      composition of his English Grammar, and turning a murderess of great
      renown into Mrs Hannah More&mdash;both of which likenesses were admitted
      by Miss Monflathers, who was at the head of the head Boarding and Day
      Establishment in the town, and who condescended to take a Private View
      with eight chosen young ladies, to be quite startling from their extreme
      correctness. Mr Pitt in a nightcap and bedgown, and without his boots,
      represented the poet Cowper with perfect exactness; and Mary Queen of
      Scots in a dark wig, white shirt-collar, and male attire, was such a
      complete image of Lord Byron that the young ladies quite screamed when
      they saw it. Miss Monflathers, however, rebuked this enthusiasm, and took
      occasion to reprove Mrs Jarley for not keeping her collection more select:
      observing that His Lordship had held certain opinions quite incompatible
      with wax-work honours, and adding something about a Dean and Chapter,
      which Mrs Jarley did not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell found in the lady of
      the caravan a very kind and considerate person, who had not only a
      peculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but for making everybody
      about her comfortable also; which latter taste, it may be remarked, is,
      even in persons who live in much finer places than caravans, a far more
      rare and uncommon one than the first, and is not by any means its
      necessary consequence. As her popularity procured her various little fees
      from the visitors on which her patroness never demanded any toll, and as
      her grandfather too was well-treated and useful, she had no cause of
      anxiety in connexion with the wax-work, beyond that which sprung from her
      recollection of Quilp, and her fears that he might return and one day
      suddenly encounter them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp indeed was a perpetual night-mare to the child, who was constantly
      haunted by a vision of his ugly face and stunted figure. She slept, for
      their better security, in the room where the wax-work figures were, and
      she never retired to this place at night but she tortured herself&mdash;she
      could not help it&mdash;with imagining a resemblance, in some one or other
      of their death-like faces, to the dwarf, and this fancy would sometimes so
      gain upon her that she would almost believe he had removed the figure and
      stood within the clothes. Then there were so many of them with their great
      glassy eyes&mdash;and, as they stood one behind the other all about her
      bed, they looked so like living creatures, and yet so unlike in their grim
      stillness and silence, that she had a kind of terror of them for their own
      sakes, and would often lie watching their dusky figures until she was
      obliged to rise and light a candle, or go and sit at the open window and
      feel a companionship in the bright stars. At these times, she would recall
      the old house and the window at which she used to sit alone; and then she
      would think of poor Kit and all his kindness, until the tears came into
      her eyes, and she would weep and smile together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Often and anxiously at this silent hour, her thoughts reverted to her
      grandfather, and she would wonder how much he remembered of their former
      life, and whether he was ever really mindful of the change in their
      condition and of their late helplessness and destitution. When they were
      wandering about, she seldom thought of this, but now she could not help
      considering what would become of them if he fell sick, or her own strength
      were to fail her. He was very patient and willing, happy to execute any
      little task, and glad to be of use; but he was in the same listless state,
      with no prospect of improvement&mdash;a mere child&mdash;a poor,
      thoughtless, vacant creature&mdash;a harmless fond old man, susceptible of
      tender love and regard for her, and of pleasant and painful impressions,
      but alive to nothing more. It made her very sad to know that this was so&mdash;so
      sad to see it that sometimes when he sat idly by, smiling and nodding to
      her when she looked round, or when he caressed some little child and
      carried it to and fro, as he was fond of doing by the hour together,
      perplexed by its simple questions, yet patient under his own infirmity,
      and seeming almost conscious of it too, and humbled even before the mind
      of an infant&mdash;so sad it made her to see him thus, that she would
      burst into tears, and, withdrawing into some secret place, fall down upon
      her knees and pray that he might be restored.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, the bitterness of her grief was not in beholding him in this
      condition, when he was at least content and tranquil, nor in her solitary
      meditations on his altered state, though these were trials for a young
      heart. Cause for deeper and heavier sorrow was yet to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and her grandfather went out
      to walk. They had been rather closely confined for some days, and the
      weather being warm, they strolled a long distance. Clear of the town, they
      took a footpath which struck through some pleasant fields, judging that it
      would terminate in the road they quitted and enable them to return that
      way. It made, however, a much wider circuit than they had supposed, and
      thus they were tempted onward until sunset, when they reached the track of
      which they were in search, and stopped to rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky was dark and
      lowering, save where the glory of the departing sun piled up masses of
      gold and burning fire, decaying embers of which gleamed here and there
      through the black veil, and shone redly down upon the earth. The wind
      began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went down carrying glad day
      elsewhere; and a train of dull clouds coming up against it, menaced
      thunder and lightning. Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as the
      storm clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the void they left
      behind and spread over all the sky. Then was heard the low rumbling of
      distant thunder, then the lightning quivered, and then the darkness of an
      hour seemed to have gathered in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the old man and the
      child hurried along the high road, hoping to find some house in which they
      could seek a refuge from the storm, which had now burst forth in earnest,
      and every moment increased in violence. Drenched with the pelting rain,
      confused by the deafening thunder, and bewildered by the glare of the
      forked lightning, they would have passed a solitary house without being
      aware of its vicinity, had not a man, who was standing at the door, called
      lustily to them to enter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any rate, if you make
      so little of the chance of being struck blind,' he said, retreating from
      the door and shading his eyes with his hands as the jagged lightning came
      again. 'What were you going past for, eh?' he added, as he closed the door
      and led the way along a passage to a room behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard you calling,' Nell replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No wonder,' said the man, 'with this lightning in one's eyes, by-the-by.
      You had better stand by the fire here, and dry yourselves a bit. You can
      call for what you like if you want anything. If you don't want anything,
      you are not obliged to give an order. Don't be afraid of that. This is a
      public-house, that's all. The Valiant Soldier is pretty well known
      hereabouts.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, Sir?' asked Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought everybody knew that,' replied the landlord. 'Where have you
      come from, if you don't know the Valiant Soldier as well as the church
      catechism? This is the Valiant Soldier, by James Groves&mdash;Jem Groves&mdash;honest
      Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral character, and has a good dry
      skittle-ground. If any man has got anything to say again Jem Groves, let
      him say it <i>to</i> Jem Groves, and Jem Groves can accommodate him with a
      customer on any terms from four pound a side to forty.
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, the speaker tapped himself on the waistcoat to intimate
      that he was the Jem Groves so highly eulogized; sparred scientifically at
      a counterfeit Jem Groves, who was sparring at society in general from a
      black frame over the chimney-piece; and, applying a half-emptied glass of
      spirits and water to his lips, drank Jem Groves's health.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn across the room, for
      a barrier against the heat of the fire. It seemed as if somebody on the
      other side of this screen had been insinuating doubts of Mr Groves's
      prowess, and had thereby given rise to these egotistical expressions, for
      Mr Groves wound up his defiance by giving a loud knock upon it with his
      knuckles and pausing for a reply from the other side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There an't many men,' said Mr Groves, no answer being returned, 'who
      would ventur' to cross Jem Groves under his own roof. There's only one
      man, I know, that has nerve enough for that, and that man's not a hundred
      mile from here neither. But he's worth a dozen men, and I let him say of
      me whatever he likes in consequence&mdash;he knows that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In return for this complimentary address, a very gruff hoarse voice bade
      Mr Groves 'hold his noise and light a candle.' And the same voice remarked
      that the same gentleman 'needn't waste his breath in brag, for most people
      knew pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nell, they're&mdash;they're playing cards,' whispered the old man,
      suddenly interested. 'Don't you hear them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look sharp with that candle,' said the voice; 'it's as much as I can do
      to see the pips on the cards as it is; and get this shutter closed as
      quick as you can, will you? Your beer will be the worse for to-night's
      thunder I expect.&mdash;Game! Seven-and-sixpence to me, old Isaac. Hand
      over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them?' whispered the old man again, with
      increased earnestness, as the money chinked upon the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I haven't seen such a storm as this,' said a sharp cracked voice of most
      disagreeable quality, when a tremendous peal of thunder had died away,
      'since the night when old Luke Withers won thirteen times running on the
      red. We all said he had the Devil's luck and his own, and as it was the
      kind of night for the Devil to be out and busy, I suppose he was looking
      over his shoulder, if anybody could have seen him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' returned the gruff voice; 'for all old Luke's winning through thick
      and thin of late years, I remember the time when he was the unluckiest and
      unfortunatest of men. He never took a dice-box in his hand, or held a
      card, but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out completely.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you hear what he says?' whispered the old man. 'Do you hear that,
      Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child saw with astonishment and alarm that his whole appearance had
      undergone a complete change. His face was flushed and eager, his eyes were
      strained, his teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the hand he
      laid upon her arm trembled so violently that she shook beneath its grasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bear witness,' he muttered, looking upward, 'that I always said it; that
      I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was the truth, and that it must be so!
      What money have we, Nell? Come! I saw you with money yesterday. What money
      have we? Give it to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, let me keep it, grandfather,' said the frightened child. 'Let us
      go away from here. Do not mind the rain. Pray let us go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Give it to me, I say,' returned the old man fiercely. 'Hush, hush, don't
      cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it. It's for thy good.
      I have wronged thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet, I will indeed. Where
      is the money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not take it,' said the child. 'Pray do not take it, dear. For both our
      sakes let me keep it, or let me throw it away&mdash;better let me throw it
      away, than you take it now. Let us go; do let us go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Give me the money,' returned the old man, 'I must have it. There&mdash;there&mdash;that's
      my dear Nell. I'll right thee one day, child, I'll right thee, never
      fear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it with the same rapid
      impatience which had characterised his speech, and hastily made his way to
      the other side of the screen. It was impossible to restrain him, and the
      trembling child followed close behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was engaged in drawing
      the curtain of the window. The speakers whom they had heard were two men,
      who had a pack of cards and some silver money between them, while upon the
      screen itself the games they had played were scored in chalk. The man with
      the rough voice was a burly fellow of middle age, with large black
      whiskers, broad cheeks, a coarse wide mouth, and bull neck, which was
      pretty freely displayed as his shirt collar was only confined by a loose
      red neckerchief. He wore his hat, which was of a brownish-white, and had
      beside him a thick knotted stick. The other man, whom his companion had
      called Isaac, was of a more slender figure&mdash;stooping, and high in the
      shoulders&mdash;with a very ill-favoured face, and a most sinister and
      villainous squint.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now old gentleman,' said Isaac, looking round. 'Do you know either of us?
      This side of the screen is private, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No offence, I hope,' returned the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But by G&mdash;, sir, there is offence,' said the other, interrupting
      him, 'when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen who are
      particularly engaged.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had no intention to offend,' said the old man, looking anxiously at the
      cards. 'I thought that&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you had no right to think, sir,' retorted the other. 'What the devil
      has a man at your time of life to do with thinking?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now bully boy,' said the stout man, raising his eyes from his cards for
      the first time, 'can't you let him speak?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord, who had apparently resolved to remain neutral until he knew
      which side of the question the stout man would espouse, chimed in at this
      place with 'Ah, to be sure, can't you let him speak, Isaac List?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can't I let him speak,' sneered Isaac in reply, mimicking as nearly as he
      could, in his shrill voice, the tones of the landlord. 'Yes, I can let him
      speak, Jemmy Groves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well then, do it, will you?' said the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr List's squint assumed a portentous character, which seemed to threaten
      a prolongation of this controversy, when his companion, who had been
      looking sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who knows,' said he, with a cunning look, 'but the gentleman may have
      civilly meant to ask if he might have the honour to take a hand with us!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did mean it,' cried the old man. 'That is what I mean. That is what I
      want now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought so,' returned the same man. 'Then who knows but the gentleman,
      anticipating our objection to play for love, civilly desired to play for
      money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his eager hand, and
      then throwing it down upon the table, and gathering up the cards as a
      miser would clutch at gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! That indeed,' said Isaac; 'if that's what the gentleman meant, I beg
      the gentleman's pardon. Is this the gentleman's little purse? A very
      pretty little purse. Rather a light purse,' added Isaac, throwing it into
      the air and catching it dexterously, 'but enough to amuse a gentleman for
      half an hour or so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in Groves,' said the stout
      man. 'Come, Jemmy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord, who conducted himself like one who was well used to such
      little parties, approached the table and took his seat. The child, in a
      perfect agony, drew her grandfather aside, and implored him, even then, to
      come away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come; and we may be so happy,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We <i>will </i>be happy,' replied the old man hastily. 'Let me go, Nell. The
      means of happiness are on the cards and the dice. We must rise from little
      winnings to great. There's little to be won here; but great will come in
      time. I shall but win back my own, and it's all for thee, my darling.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'God help us!' cried the child. 'Oh! what hard fortune brought us here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' rejoined the old man laying his hand upon her mouth, 'Fortune will
      not bear chiding. We must not reproach her, or she shuns us; I have found
      that out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, mister,' said the stout man. 'If you're not coming yourself, give us
      the cards, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am coming,' cried the old man. 'Sit thee down, Nell, sit thee down and
      look on. Be of good heart, it's all for thee&mdash;all&mdash;every penny.
      I don't tell them, no, no, or else they wouldn't play, dreading the chance
      that such a cause must give me. Look at them. See what they are and what
      thou art. Who doubts that we must win!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't coming,' said Isaac,
      making as though he would rise from the table. 'I'm sorry the gentleman's
      daunted&mdash;nothing venture, nothing have&mdash;but the gentleman knows
      best.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why I am ready. You have all been slow but me,' said the old man. 'I
      wonder who is more anxious to begin than I.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke he drew a chair to the table; and the other three closing
      round it at the same time, the game commenced.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child sat by, and watched its progress with a troubled mind.
      Regardless of the run of luck, and mindful only of the desperate passion
      which had its hold upon her grandfather, losses and gains were to her
      alike. Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by a defeat, there he
      sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and intensely anxious, so terribly
      eager, so ravenous for the paltry stakes, that she could have almost
      better borne to see him dead. And yet she was the innocent cause of all
      this torture, and he, gambling with such a savage thirst for gain as the
      most insatiable gambler never felt, had not one selfish thought!
    </p>
    <p>
      On the contrary, the other three&mdash;knaves and gamesters by their trade&mdash;while
      intent upon their game, were yet as cool and quiet as if every virtue had
      been centered in their breasts. Sometimes one would look up to smile to
      another, or to snuff the feeble candle, or to glance at the lightning as
      it shot through the open window and fluttering curtain, or to listen to
      some louder peal of thunder than the rest, with a kind of momentary
      impatience, as if it put him out; but there they sat, with a calm
      indifference to everything but their cards, perfect philosophers in
      appearance, and with no greater show of passion or excitement than if they
      had been made of stone.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0219m.jpg" alt="0219m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0219.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The storm had raged for full three hours; the lightning had grown fainter
      and less frequent; the thunder, from seeming to roll and break above their
      heads, had gradually died away into a deep hoarse distance; and still the
      game went on, and still the anxious child was quite forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap30"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 30
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t length the play came to an end, and Mr Isaac List rose the only winner.
      Mat and the landlord bore their losses with professional fortitude. Isaac
      pocketed his gains with the air of a man who had quite made up his mind to
      win, all along, and was neither surprised nor pleased.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell's little purse was exhausted; but although it lay empty by his side,
      and the other players had now risen from the table, the old man sat poring
      over the cards, dealing them as they had been dealt before, and turning up
      the different hands to see what each man would have held if they had still
      been playing. He was quite absorbed in this occupation, when the child
      drew near and laid her hand upon his shoulder, telling him it was near
      midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See the curse of poverty, Nell,' he said, pointing to the packs he had
      spread out upon the table. 'If I could have gone on a little longer, only
      a little longer, the luck would have turned on my side. Yes, it's as plain
      as the marks upon the cards. See here&mdash;and there&mdash;and here
      again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Put them away,' urged the child. 'Try to forget them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Try to forget them!' he rejoined, raising his haggard face to hers, and
      regarding her with an incredulous stare. 'To forget them! How are we ever
      to grow rich if I forget them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child could only shake her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, Nell,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'they must not be
      forgotten. We must make amends for this as soon as we can. Patience&mdash;patience,
      and we'll right thee yet, I promise thee. Lose to-day, win to-morrow. And
      nothing can be won without anxiety and care&mdash;nothing. Come, I am
      ready.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know what the time is?' said Mr Groves, who was smoking with his
      friends. 'Past twelve o'clock&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;And a rainy night,' added the stout man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves. Good beds. Cheap entertainment for
      man and beast,' said Mr Groves, quoting his sign-board. 'Half-past twelve
      o'clock.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very late,' said the uneasy child. 'I wish we had gone before. What
      will they think of us! It will be two o'clock by the time we get back.
      What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer one shilling; total two
      shillings and sixpence,' replied the Valiant Soldier.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewn in her dress; and when she came
      to consider the lateness of the hour, and the somnolent habits of Mrs
      Jarley, and to imagine the state of consternation in which they would
      certainly throw that good lady by knocking her up in the middle of the
      night&mdash;and when she reflected, on the other hand, that if they
      remained where they were, and rose early in the morning, they might get
      back before she awoke, and could plead the violence of the storm by which
      they had been overtaken, as a good apology for their absence&mdash;she
      decided, after a great deal of hesitation, to remain. She therefore took
      her grandfather aside, and telling him that she had still enough left to
      defray the cost of their lodging, proposed that they should stay there for
      the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had had but that money before&mdash;If I had only known of it a few
      minutes ago!' muttered the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We will decide to stop here if you please,' said Nell, turning hastily to
      the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that's prudent,' returned Mr Groves. 'You shall have your suppers
      directly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, when Mr Groves had smoked his pipe out, knocked out the
      ashes, and placed it carefully in a corner of the fire-place, with the
      bowl downwards, he brought in the bread and cheese, and beer, with many
      high encomiums upon their excellence, and bade his guests fall to, and
      make themselves at home. Nell and her grandfather ate sparingly, for both
      were occupied with their own reflections; the other gentlemen, for whose
      constitutions beer was too weak and tame a liquid, consoled themselves
      with spirits and tobacco.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they would leave the house very early in the morning, the child was
      anxious to pay for their entertainment before they retired to bed. But as
      she felt the necessity of concealing her little hoard from her
      grandfather, and had to change the piece of gold, she took it secretly
      from its place of concealment, and embraced an opportunity of following
      the landlord when he went out of the room, and tendered it to him in the
      little bar.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you give me the change here, if you please?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked at the money, and rang
      it, and looked at the child, and at the money again, as though he had a
      mind to inquire how she came by it. The coin being genuine, however, and
      changed at his house, he probably felt, like a wise landlord, that it was
      no business of his. At any rate, he counted out the change, and gave it
      her. The child was returning to the room where they had passed the
      evening, when she fancied she saw a figure just gliding in at the door.
      There was nothing but a long dark passage between this door and the place
      where she had changed the money, and, being very certain that no person
      had passed in or out while she stood there, the thought struck her that
      she had been watched.
    </p>
    <p>
      But by whom? When she re-entered the room, she found its inmates exactly
      as she had left them. The stout fellow lay upon two chairs, resting his
      head on his hand, and the squinting man reposed in a similar attitude on
      the opposite side of the table. Between them sat her grandfather, looking
      intently at the winner with a kind of hungry admiration, and hanging upon
      his words as if he were some superior being. She was puzzled for a moment,
      and looked round to see if any else were there. No. Then she asked her
      grandfather in a whisper whether anybody had left the room while she was
      absent. 'No,' he said, 'nobody.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It must have been her fancy then; and yet it was strange, that, without
      anything in her previous thoughts to lead to it, she should have imagined
      this figure so very distinctly. She was still wondering and thinking of
      it, when a girl came to light her to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man took leave of the company at the same time, and they went up
      stairs together. It was a great, rambling house, with dull corridors and
      wide staircases which the flaring candles seemed to make more gloomy. She
      left her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her guide to another,
      which was at the end of a passage, and approached by some half-dozen crazy
      steps. This was prepared for her. The girl lingered a little while to
      talk, and tell her grievances. She had not a good place, she said; the
      wages were low, and the work was hard. She was going to leave it in a
      fortnight; the child couldn't recommend her to another, she supposed?
      Instead she was afraid another would be difficult to get after living
      there, for the house had a very indifferent character; there was far too
      much card-playing, and such like. She was very much mistaken if some of
      the people who came there oftenest were quite as honest as they might be,
      but she wouldn't have it known that she had said so, for the world. Then
      there were some rambling allusions to a rejected sweetheart, who had
      threatened to go a soldiering&mdash;a final promise of knocking at the
      door early in the morning&mdash;and 'Good night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child did not feel comfortable when she was left alone. She could not
      help thinking of the figure stealing through the passage down stairs; and
      what the girl had said did not tend to reassure her. The men were very
      ill-looking. They might get their living by robbing and murdering
      travellers. Who could tell?
    </p>
    <p>
      Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of them for a little
      while, there came the anxiety to which the adventures of the night gave
      rise. Here was the old passion awakened again in her grandfather's breast,
      and to what further distraction it might tempt him Heaven only knew. What
      fears their absence might have occasioned already! Persons might be
      seeking for them even then. Would they be forgiven in the morning, or
      turned adrift again! Oh! why had they stopped in that strange place? It
      would have been better, under any circumstances, to have gone on!
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, sleep gradually stole upon her&mdash;a broken, fitful sleep,
      troubled by dreams of falling from high towers, and waking with a start
      and in great terror. A deeper slumber followed this&mdash;and then&mdash;What!
      That figure in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up the blind to admit the light
      when it should be dawn, and there, between the foot of the bed and the
      dark casement, it crouched and slunk along, groping its way with noiseless
      hands, and stealing round the bed. She had no voice to cry for help, no
      power to move, but lay still, watching it.
    </p>
    <p>
      On it came&mdash;on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's head. The
      breath so near her pillow, that she shrunk back into it, lest those
      wandering hands should light upon her face. Back again it stole to the
      window&mdash;then turned its head towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter darkness of the room, but
      she saw the turning of the head, and felt and knew how the eyes looked and
      the ears listened. There it remained, motionless as she. At length, still
      keeping the face towards her, it busied its hands in something, and she
      heard the chink of money.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before, and replacing the
      garments it had taken from the bedside, dropped upon its hands and knees,
      and crawled away. How slowly it seemed to move, now that she could hear
      but not see it, creeping along the floor! It reached the door at last, and
      stood upon its feet. The steps creaked beneath its noiseless tread, and it
      was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror of being by
      herself in that room&mdash;to have somebody by&mdash;not to be alone&mdash;and
      then her power of speech would be restored. With no consciousness of
      having moved, she gained the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom of the steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not pass it; she might have done so, perhaps, in the darkness
      without being seized, but her blood curdled at the thought. The figure
      stood quite still, and so did she; not boldly, but of necessity; for going
      back into the room was hardly less terrible than going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down in plashing streams
      from the thatched roof. Some summer insect, with no escape into the air,
      flew blindly to and fro, beating its body against the walls and ceiling,
      and filling the silent place with murmurs. The figure moved again. The
      child involuntarily did the same. Once in her grandfather's room, she
      would be safe.
    </p>
    <p>
      It crept along the passage until it came to the very door she longed so
      ardently to reach. The child, in the agony of being so near, had almost
      darted forward with the design of bursting into the room and closing it
      behind her, when the figure stopped again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea flashed suddenly upon her&mdash;what if it entered there, and had
      a design upon the old man's life! She turned faint and sick. It did. It
      went in. There was a light inside. The figure was now within the chamber,
      and she, still dumb&mdash;quite dumb, and almost senseless&mdash;stood
      looking on.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door was partly open. Not knowing what she meant to do, but meaning to
      preserve him or be killed herself, she staggered forward and looked in. What sight was that which met her view!
    </p>
    <p>
      The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and empty. And at a table sat
      the old man himself; the only living creature there; his white face
      pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally
      bright&mdash;counting the money of which his hands had robbed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap31"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 31
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>ith steps more faltering and unsteady than those with which she had
      approached the room, the child withdrew from the door, and groped her way
      back to her own chamber. The terror she had lately felt was nothing
      compared with that which now oppressed her. No strange robber, no
      treacherous host conniving at the plunder of his guests, or stealing to
      their beds to kill them in their sleep, no nightly prowler, however
      terrible and cruel, could have awakened in her bosom half the dread which
      the recognition of her silent visitor inspired. The grey-headed old man
      gliding like a ghost into her room and acting the thief while he supposed
      her fast asleep, then bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the
      ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was worse&mdash;immeasurably worse,
      and far more dreadful, for the moment, to reflect upon&mdash;than anything
      her wildest fancy could have suggested. If he should return&mdash;there
      was no lock or bolt upon the door, and if, distrustful of having left some
      money yet behind, he should come back to seek for more&mdash;a vague awe
      and horror surrounded the idea of his slinking in again with stealthy
      tread, and turning his face toward the empty bed, while she shrank down
      close at his feet to avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable. She
      sat and listened. Hark! A footstep on the stairs, and now the door was
      slowly opening. It was but imagination, yet imagination had all the
      terrors of reality; nay, it was worse, for the reality would have come and
      gone, and there an end, but in imagination it was always coming, and never
      went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The feeling which beset the child was one of dim uncertain horror. She had
      no fear of the dear old grandfather, in whose love for her this disease of
      the brain had been engendered; but the man she had seen that night, wrapt
      in the game of chance, lurking in her room, and counting the money by the
      glimmering light, seemed like another creature in his shape, a monstrous
      distortion of his image, a something to recoil from, and be the more
      afraid of, because it bore a likeness to him, and kept close about her, as
      he did. She could scarcely connect her own affectionate companion, save by
      his loss, with this old man, so like yet so unlike him. She had wept to
      see him dull and quiet. How much greater cause she had for weeping now!
    </p>
    <p>
      The child sat watching and thinking of these things, until the phantom in
      her mind so increased in gloom and terror, that she felt it would be a
      relief to hear the old man's voice, or, if he were asleep, even to see
      him, and banish some of the fears that clustered round his image. She
      stole down the stairs and passage again. The door was still ajar as she
      had left it, and the candle burning as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if he were waking,
      that she was uneasy and could not rest, and had come to see if his were
      still alight. Looking into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his bed,
      and so took courage to enter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fast asleep. No passion in the face, no avarice, no anxiety, no wild
      desire; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace. This was not the gambler, or
      the shadow in her room; this was not even the worn and jaded man whose
      face had so often met her own in the grey morning light; this was her dear
      old friend, her harmless fellow-traveller, her good, kind grandfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering features, but she had a
      deep and weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless him!' said the child, stooping softly to kiss his placid cheek.
      'I see too well now, that they would indeed part us if they found us out,
      and shut him up from the light of the sun and sky. He has only me to help
      him. God bless us both!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come, and,
      gaining her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of that long,
      long, miserable night.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she fell asleep. She
      was quickly roused by the girl who had shown her up to bed; and, as soon
      as she was dressed, prepared to go down to her grandfather. But first she
      searched her pocket and found that her money was all gone&mdash;not a
      sixpence remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were on their road. The
      child thought he rather avoided her eye, and appeared to expect that she
      would tell him of her loss. She felt she must do that, or he might suspect
      the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Grandfather,' she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked about
      a mile in silence, 'do you think they are honest people at the house
      yonder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why?' returned the old man trembling. 'Do I think them honest&mdash;yes,
      they played honestly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll tell you why I ask,' rejoined Nell. 'I lost some money last night&mdash;out
      of my bedroom, I am sure. Unless it was taken by somebody in jest&mdash;only
      in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily if I could
      but know it&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who would take money in jest?' returned the old man in a hurried manner.
      'Those who take money, take it to keep. Don't talk of jest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,' said the child, whose last hope
      was destroyed by the manner of this reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But is there no more, Nell?' said the old man; 'no more anywhere? Was it
      all taken&mdash;every farthing of it&mdash;was there nothing left?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing,' replied the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must get more,' said the old man, 'we must earn it, Nell, hoard it up,
      scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this loss. Tell nobody
      of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don't ask how;&mdash;we may regain
      it, and a great deal more;&mdash;but tell nobody, or trouble may come of
      it. And so they took it out of thy room, when thou wert asleep!' he added
      in a compassionate tone, very different from the secret, cunning way in
      which he had spoken until now. 'Poor Nell, poor little Nell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child hung down her head and wept. The sympathising tone in which he
      spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that. It was not the lightest
      part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a word about it to any one but me,' said the old man, 'no, not even
      to me,' he added hastily, 'for it can do no good. All the losses that ever
      were, are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should they be, when
      we will win them back?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let them go,' said the child looking up. 'Let them go, once and for ever,
      and I would never shed another tear if every penny had been a thousand
      pounds.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well,' returned the old man, checking himself as some impetuous
      answer rose to his lips, 'she knows no better. I ought to be thankful of
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But listen to me,' said the child earnestly, 'will you listen to me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye, aye, I'll listen,' returned the old man, still without looking at
      her; 'a pretty voice. It has always a sweet sound to me. It always had
      when it was her mother's, poor child.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me persuade you, then&mdash;oh, do let me persuade you,' said the
      child, 'to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no fortune but the
      fortune we pursue together.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We pursue this aim together,' retorted her grandfather, still looking
      away and seeming to confer with himself. 'Whose image sanctifies the
      game?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have we been worse off,' resumed the child, 'since you forgot these
      cares, and we have been travelling on together? Have we not been much
      better and happier without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in that
      unhappy house, when they were on your mind?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She speaks the truth,' murmured the old man in the same tone as before.
      'It must not turn me, but it is the truth; no doubt it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we turned
      our backs upon it for the last time,' said Nell, 'only remember what we
      have been since we have been free of all those miseries&mdash;what
      peaceful days and quiet nights we have had&mdash;what pleasant times we
      have known&mdash;what happiness we have enjoyed. If we have been tired or
      hungry, we have been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it. Think
      what beautiful things we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And
      why was this blessed change?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no more
      just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, still
      motioning her to silence, and walked on, looking far before him, and
      sometimes stopping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground, as if
      he were painfully trying to collect his disordered thoughts. Once she saw
      tears in his eyes. When he had gone on thus for some time, he took her
      hand in his as he was accustomed to do, with nothing of the violence or
      animation of his late manner; and so, by degrees so fine that the child
      could not trace them, he settled down into his usual quiet way, and
      suffered her to lead him where she would.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they presented themselves in the midst of the stupendous collection,
      they found, as Nell had anticipated, that Mrs Jarley was not yet out of
      bed, and that, although she had suffered some uneasiness on their account
      overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past eleven o'clock, she
      had retired in the persuasion, that, being overtaken by storm at some
      distance from home, they had sought the nearest shelter, and would not
      return before morning. Nell immediately applied herself with great
      assiduity to the decoration and preparation of the room, and had the
      satisfaction of completing her task, and dressing herself neatly, before
      the beloved of the Royal Family came down to breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We haven't had,' said Mrs Jarley when the meal was over, 'more than eight
      of Miss Monflathers's young ladies all the time we've been here, and
      there's twenty-six of 'em, as I was told by the cook when I asked her a
      question or two and put her on the free-list. We must try 'em with a
      parcel of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear, and see what effect
      that has upon 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The proposed expedition being one of paramount importance, Mrs Jarley
      adjusted Nell's bonnet with her own hands, and declaring that she
      certainly did look very pretty, and reflected credit on the establishment,
      dismissed her with many commendations, and certain needful directions as
      to the turnings on the right which she was to take, and the turnings on
      the left which she was to avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no difficulty
      in finding out Miss Monflathers's Boarding and Day Establishment, which
      was a large house, with a high wall, and a large garden-gate with a large
      brass plate, and a small grating through which Miss Monflathers's
      parlour-maid inspected all visitors before admitting them; for nothing in
      the shape of a man&mdash;no, not even a milkman&mdash;was suffered,
      without special license, to pass that gate. Even the tax-gatherer, who was
      stout, and wore spectacles and a broad-brimmed hat, had the taxes handed
      through the grating. More obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this
      gate of Miss Monflathers's frowned on all mankind. The very butcher
      respected it as a gate of mystery, and left off whistling when he rang the
      bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges with a
      creaking noise, and, forth from the solemn grove beyond, came a long file
      of young ladies, two and two, all with open books in their hands, and some
      with parasols likewise. And last of the goodly procession came Miss
      Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk, and supported by two
      smiling teachers, each mortally envious of the other, and devoted unto
      Miss Monflathers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell stood with downcast
      eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until Miss Monflathers,
      bringing up the rear, approached her, when she curtseyed and presented her
      little packet; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers commanded that the line
      should halt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're the wax-work child, are you not?' said Miss Monflathers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, ma'am,' replied Nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies had
      collected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes were fixed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And don't you think you must be a very wicked little child,' said Miss
      Monflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no opportunity
      of impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of the young ladies, 'to
      be a wax-work child at all?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not knowing
      what to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you know,' said Miss Monflathers, 'that it's very naughty and
      unfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and benignantly
      transmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused from their dormant
      state through the medium of cultivation?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The two teachers murmured their respectful approval of this home-thrust,
      and looked at Nell as though they would have said that there indeed Miss
      Monflathers had hit her very hard. Then they smiled and glanced at Miss
      Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they exchanged looks which
      plainly said that each considered herself smiler in ordinary to Miss
      Monflathers, and regarded the other as having no right to smile, and that
      her so doing was an act of presumption and impertinence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you feel how naughty it is of you,' resumed Miss Monflathers, 'to
      be a wax-work child, when you might have the proud consciousness of
      assisting, to the extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of your
      country; of improving your mind by the constant contemplation of the
      steam-engine; and of earning a comfortable and independent subsistence of
      from two-and-ninepence to three shillings per week? Don't you know that
      the harder you are at work, the happier you are?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"How doth the little&mdash;"' murmured one of the teachers, in quotation
      from Doctor Watts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' said Miss Monflathers, turning smartly round. 'Who said that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated the rival who had,
      whom Miss Monflathers frowningly requested to hold her peace; by that
      means throwing the informing teacher into raptures of joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The little busy bee,' said Miss Monflathers, drawing herself up, 'is
      applicable only to genteel children.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In books, or work, or healthful play"<br />
    </p>
    <p>
      is quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means painting
      on velvet, fancy needle-work, or embroidery. In such cases as these,'
      pointing to Nell, with her parasol, 'and in the case of all poor people's
      children, we should read it thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="poem">
      "In work, work, work. In work alway<br /> Let my first years be past,<br />
      That I may give for ev'ry day<br /> Some good account at last."'<br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two teachers, but from all
      the pupils, who were equally astonished to hear Miss Monflathers
      improvising after this brilliant style; for although she had been long
      known as a politician, she had never appeared before as an original poet.
      Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell was crying, and all eyes
      were again turned towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her handkerchief to
      brush them away, she happened to let it fall. Before she could stoop to
      pick it up, one young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who had been
      standing a little apart from the others, as though she had no recognised
      place among them, sprang forward and put it in her hand. She was gliding
      timidly away again, when she was arrested by the governess.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was Miss Edwards who did that, I <i>know</i>,' said Miss Monflathers
      predictively. 'Now I am sure that was Miss Edwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss Edwards, and Miss
      Edwards herself admitted that it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it not,' said Miss Monflathers, putting down her parasol to take a
      severer view of the offender, 'a most remarkable thing, Miss Edwards, that
      you have an attachment to the lower classes which always draws you to
      their sides; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing that all I
      say and do will not wean you from propensities which your original station
      in life have unhappily rendered habitual to you, you extremely
      vulgar-minded girl?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I really intended no harm, ma'am,' said a sweet voice. 'It was a
      momentary impulse, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An impulse!' repeated Miss Monflathers scornfully. 'I wonder that you
      presume to speak of impulses to me'&mdash;both the teachers assented&mdash;'I
      am astonished'&mdash;both the teachers were astonished&mdash;'I suppose it
      is an impulse which induces you to take the part of every grovelling and
      debased person that comes in your way'&mdash;both the teachers supposed so
      too.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I would have you know, Miss Edwards,' resumed the governess in a tone
      of increased severity, 'that you cannot be permitted&mdash;if it be only
      for the sake of preserving a proper example and decorum in this
      establishment&mdash;that you cannot be permitted, and that you shall not
      be permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in this exceedingly
      gross manner. If you have no reason to feel a becoming pride before
      wax-work children, there are young ladies here who have, and you must
      either defer to those young ladies or leave the establishment, Miss
      Edwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This young lady, being motherless and poor, was apprenticed at the school&mdash;taught
      for nothing&mdash;teaching others what she learnt, for nothing&mdash;boarded
      for nothing&mdash;lodged for nothing&mdash;and set down and rated as
      something immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers in the
      house. The servant-maids felt her inferiority, for they were better
      treated; free to come and go, and regarded in their stations with much
      more respect. The teachers were infinitely superior, for they had paid to
      go to school in their time, and were paid now. The pupils cared little for
      a companion who had no grand stories to tell about home; no friends to
      come with post-horses, and be received in all humility, with cake and
      wine, by the governess; no deferential servant to attend and bear her home
      for the holidays; nothing genteel to talk about, and nothing to display.
      But why was Miss Monflathers always vexed and irritated with the poor
      apprentice&mdash;how did that come to pass?
    </p>
    <p>
      Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap, and the brightest glory
      of Miss Monflathers's school, was a baronet's daughter&mdash;the real live
      daughter of a real live baronet&mdash;who, by some extraordinary reversal
      of the Laws of Nature, was not only plain in features but dull in
      intellect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit, and a handsome
      face and figure. It seems incredible. Here was Miss Edwards, who only paid
      a small premium which had been spent long ago, every day outshining and
      excelling the baronet's daughter, who learned all the extras (or was
      taught them all) and whose half-yearly bill came to double that of any
      other young lady's in the school, making no account of the honour and
      reputation of her pupilage. Therefore, and because she was a dependent,
      Miss Monflathers had a great dislike to Miss Edwards, and was spiteful to
      her, and aggravated by her, and, when she had compassion on little Nell,
      verbally fell upon and maltreated her as we have already seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will not take the air to-day, Miss Edwards,' said Miss Monflathers.
      'Have the goodness to retire to your own room, and not to leave it without
      permission.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was suddenly, in nautical
      phrase, 'brought to' by a subdued shriek from Miss Monflathers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She has passed me without any salute!' cried the governess, raising her
      eyes to the sky. 'She has actually passed me without the slightest
      acknowledgment of my presence!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The young lady turned and curtsied. Nell could see that she raised her
      dark eyes to the face of her superior, and that their expression, and that
      of her whole attitude for the instant, was one of mute but most touching
      appeal against this ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers only tossed her
      head in reply, and the great gate closed upon a bursting heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for you, you wicked child,' said Miss Monflathers, turning to Nell,
      'tell your mistress that if she presumes to take the liberty of sending to
      me any more, I will write to the legislative authorities and have her put
      in the stocks, or compelled to do penance in a white sheet; and you may
      depend upon it that you shall certainly experience the treadmill if you
      dare to come here again. Now ladies, on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The procession filed off, two and two, with the books and parasols, and
      Miss Monflathers, calling the Baronet's daughter to walk with her and
      smooth her ruffled feelings, discarded the two teachers&mdash;who by this
      time had exchanged their smiles for looks of sympathy&mdash;and left them
      to bring up the rear, and hate each other a little more for being obliged
      to walk together.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap32"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 32
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>rs Jarley's wrath on first learning that she had been threatened with the
      indignity of Stocks and Penance, passed all description. The genuine and
      only Jarley exposed to public scorn, jeered by children, and flouted by
      beadles! The delight of the Nobility and Gentry shorn of a bonnet which a
      Lady Mayoress might have sighed to wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as a
      spectacle of mortification and humility! And Miss Monflathers, the
      audacious creature who presumed, even in the dimmest and remotest distance
      of her imagination, to conjure up the degrading picture, 'I am a'most
      inclined,' said Mrs Jarley, bursting with the fulness of her anger and the
      weakness of her means of revenge, 'to turn atheist when I think of it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      But instead of adopting this course of retaliation, Mrs Jarley, on second
      thoughts, brought out the suspicious bottle, and ordering glasses to be
      set forth upon her favourite drum, and sinking into a chair behind it,
      called her satellites about her, and to them several times recounted, word
      for word, the affronts she had received. This done, she begged them in a
      kind of deep despair to drink; then laughed, then cried, then took a
      little sip herself, then laughed and cried again, and took a little more;
      and so, by degrees, the worthy lady went on, increasing in smiles and
      decreasing in tears, until at last she could not laugh enough at Miss
      Monflathers, who, from being an object of dire vexation, became one of
      sheer ridicule and absurdity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For which of us is best off, I wonder,' quoth Mrs Jarley, 'she or me!
      It's only talking, when all is said and done, and if she talks of me in
      the stocks, why I can talk of her in the stocks, which is a good deal
      funnier if we come to that. Lord, what does it matter, after all!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having arrived at this comfortable frame of mind (to which she had been
      greatly assisted by certain short interjectional remarks of the
      philosophical George), Mrs Jarley consoled Nell with many kind words, and
      requested as a personal favour that whenever she thought of Miss
      Monflathers, she would do nothing else but laugh at her, all the days of
      her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      So ended Mrs Jarley's wrath, which subsided long before the going down of
      the sun. Nell's anxieties, however, were of a deeper kind, and the checks
      they imposed upon her cheerfulness were not so easily removed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole away, and did not
      come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was, and fatigued
      in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes, until he
      returned&mdash;penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still hotly
      bent upon his infatuation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Get me money,' he said wildly, as they parted for the night. 'I must have
      money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with gallant interest one day, but
      all the money that comes into thy hands, must be mine&mdash;not for
      myself, but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee!'
    </p>
    <p>
      What could the child do with the knowledge she had, but give him every
      penny that came into her hands, lest he should be tempted on to rob their
      benefactress? If she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be
      treated as a madman; if she did not supply him with money, he would supply
      himself; supplying him, she fed the fire that burnt him up, and put him
      perhaps beyond recovery. Distracted by these thoughts, borne down by the
      weight of the sorrow which she dared not tell, tortured by a crowd of
      apprehensions whenever the old man was absent, and dreading alike his stay
      and his return, the colour forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her
      heart was oppressed and heavy. All her old sorrows had come back upon her,
      augmented by new fears and doubts; by day they were ever present to her
      mind; by night they hovered round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she should often
      revert to that sweet young lady of whom she had only caught a hasty
      glance, but whose sympathy, expressed in one slight brief action, dwelt in
      her memory like the kindnesses of years. She would often think, if she had
      such a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs, how much lighter her
      heart would be&mdash;that if she were but free to hear that voice, she
      would be happier. Then she would wish that she were something better, that
      she were not quite so poor and humble, that she dared address her without
      fearing a repulse; and then feel that there was an immeasurable distance
      between them, and have no hope that the young lady thought of her any
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now holiday-time at the schools, and the young ladies had gone
      home, and Miss Monflathers was reported to be flourishing in London, and
      damaging the hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but nobody said anything
      about Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home, or whether she had any home
      to go to, whether she was still at the school, or anything about her. But
      one evening, as Nell was returning from a lonely walk, she happened to
      pass the inn where the stage-coaches stopped, just as one drove up, and
      there was the beautiful girl she so well remembered, pressing forward to
      embrace a young child whom they were helping down from the roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger than Nell, whom
      she had not seen (so the story went afterwards) for five years, and to
      bring whom to that place on a short visit, she had been saving her poor
      means all that time. Nell felt as if her heart would break when she saw
      them meet. They went a little apart from the knot of people who had
      congregated about the coach, and fell upon each other's neck, and sobbed,
      and wept with joy. Their plain and simple dress, the distance which the
      child had come alone, their agitation and delight, and the tears they
      shed, would have told their history by themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      They became a little more composed in a short time, and went away, not so
      much hand in hand as clinging to each other. 'Are you sure you're happy,
      sister?' said the child as they passed where Nell was standing. 'Quite
      happy now,' she answered. 'But always?' said the child. 'Ah, sister, why
      do you turn away your face?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell could not help following at a little distance. They went to the house
      of an old nurse, where the elder sister had engaged a bed-room for the
      child. 'I shall come to you early every morning,' she said, 'and we can be
      together all the day.'
</p>
    <p>
'Why not at night-time too? Dear sister, would
      they be angry with you for that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with tears like those of
      the two sisters? Why did she bear a grateful heart because they had met,
      and feel it pain to think that they would shortly part? Let us not believe
      that any selfish reference&mdash;unconscious though it might have been&mdash;to
      her own trials awoke this sympathy, but thank God that the innocent joys
      of others can strongly move us, and that we, even in our fallen nature,
      have one source of pure emotion which must be prized in Heaven!
    </p>
    <p>
      By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by evening's gentle light,
      the child, with a respect for the short and happy intercourse of these two
      sisters which forbade her to approach and say a thankful word, although
      she yearned to do so, followed them at a distance in their walks and
      rambles, stopping when they stopped, sitting on the grass when they sat
      down, rising when they went on, and feeling it a companionship and delight
      to be so near them. Their evening walk was by a river's side. Here, every
      night, the child was too, unseen by them, unthought of, unregarded; but
      feeling as if they were her friends, as if they had confidences and trusts
      together, as if her load were lightened and less hard to bear; as if they
      mingled their sorrows, and found mutual consolation. It was a weak fancy
      perhaps, the childish fancy of a young and lonely creature; but night
      after night, and still the sisters loitered in the same place, and still
      the child followed with a mild and softened heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was much startled, on returning home one night, to find that Mrs
      Jarley had commanded an announcement to be prepared, to the effect that
      the stupendous collection would only remain in its present quarters one
      day longer; in fulfilment of which threat (for all announcements connected
      with public amusements are well known to be irrevocable and most exact),
      the stupendous collection shut up next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are we going from this place directly, ma'am?' said Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look here, child,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'That'll inform you.' And so
      saying Mrs Jarley produced another announcement, wherein it was stated,
      that, in consequence of numerous inquiries at the wax-work door, and in
      consequence of crowds having been disappointed in obtaining admission, the
      Exhibition would be continued for one week longer, and would re-open next
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For now that the schools are gone, and the regular sight-seers
      exhausted,' said Mrs Jarley, 'we come to the General Public, and they want
      stimulating.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0235m.jpg" alt="0235m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0235.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Upon the following day at noon, Mrs Jarley established herself behind the
      highly-ornamented table, attended by the distinguished effigies before
      mentioned, and ordered the doors to be thrown open for the readmission of
      a discerning and enlightened public. But the first day's operations were
      by no means of a successful character, inasmuch as the general public,
      though they manifested a lively interest in Mrs Jarley personally, and
      such of her waxen satellites as were to be seen for nothing, were not
      affected by any impulses moving them to the payment of sixpence a head.
      Thus, notwithstanding that a great many people continued to stare at the
      entry and the figures therein displayed; and remained there with great
      perseverance, by the hour at a time, to hear the barrel-organ played and
      to read the bills; and notwithstanding that they were kind enough to
      recommend their friends to patronise the exhibition in the like manner,
      until the door-way was regularly blockaded by half the population of the
      town, who, when they went off duty, were relieved by the other half; it
      was not found that the treasury was any the richer, or that the prospects
      of the establishment were at all encouraging.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs Jarley made
      extraordinary efforts to stimulate the popular taste, and whet the popular
      curiosity. Certain machinery in the body of the nun on the leads over the
      door was cleaned up and put in motion, so that the figure shook its head
      paralytically all day long, to the great admiration of a drunken, but very
      Protestant, barber over the way, who looked upon the said paralytic motion
      as typical of the degrading effect wrought upon the human mind by the
      ceremonies of the Romish Church and discoursed upon that theme with great
      eloquence and morality. The two carters constantly passed in and out of
      the exhibition-room, under various disguises, protesting aloud that the
      sight was better worth the money than anything they had beheld in all
      their lives, and urging the bystanders, with tears in their eyes, not to
      neglect such a brilliant gratification. Mrs Jarley sat in the pay-place,
      chinking silver moneys from noon till night, and solemnly calling upon the
      crowd to take notice that the price of admission was only sixpence, and
      that the departure of the whole collection, on a short tour among the
      Crowned Heads of Europe, was positively fixed for that day week.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So be in time, be in time, be in time,' said Mrs Jarley at the close of
      every such address. 'Remember that this is Jarley's stupendous collection
      of upwards of One Hundred Figures, and that it is the only collection in
      the world; all others being imposters and deceptions. Be in time, be in
      time, be in time!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap33"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 33
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s the course of this tale requires that we should become acquainted,
      somewhere hereabouts, with a few particulars connected with the domestic
      economy of Mr Sampson Brass, and as a more convenient place than the
      present is not likely to occur for that purpose, the historian takes the
      friendly reader by the hand, and springing with him into the air, and
      cleaving the same at a greater rate than ever Don Cleophas Leandro Perez
      Zambullo and his familiar travelled through that pleasant region in
      company, alights with him upon the pavement of Bevis Marks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The intrepid aeronauts alight before a small dark house, once the
      residence of Mr Sampson Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the parlour window of this little habitation, which is so close upon
      the footway that the passenger who takes the wall brushes the dim glass
      with his coat sleeve&mdash;much to its improvement, for it is very dirty&mdash;in
      this parlour window in the days of its occupation by Sampson Brass, there
      hung, all awry and slack, and discoloured by the sun, a curtain of faded
      green, so threadbare from long service as by no means to intercept the
      view of the little dark room, but rather to afford a favourable medium
      through which to observe it accurately. There was not much to look at. A
      rickety table, with spare bundles of papers, yellow and ragged from long
      carriage in the pocket, ostentatiously displayed upon its top; a couple of
      stools set face to face on opposite sides of this crazy piece of
      furniture; a treacherous old chair by the fire-place, whose withered arms
      had hugged full many a client and helped to squeeze him dry; a second-hand
      wig box, used as a depository for blank writs and declarations and other
      small forms of law, once the sole contents of the head which belonged to
      the wig which belonged to the box, as they were now of the box itself; two
      or three common books of practice; a jar of ink, a pounce box, a stunted
      hearth-broom, a carpet trodden to shreds but still clinging with the
      tightness of desperation to its tacks&mdash;these, with the yellow
      wainscot of the walls, the smoke-discoloured ceiling, the dust and
      cobwebs, were among the most prominent decorations of the office of Mr
      Sampson Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was mere still-life, of no greater importance than the plate,
      '<i>Brass</i>, Solicitor,' upon the door, and the bill, 'First floor to let to a
      single gentleman,' which was tied to the knocker. The office commonly held
      two examples of animated nature, more to the purpose of this history, and
      in whom it has a stronger interest and more particular concern.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of these, one was Mr Brass himself, who has already appeared in these
      pages. The other was his clerk, assistant, housekeeper, secretary,
      confidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill of cost increaser, Miss
      Brass&mdash;a kind of amazon at common law, of whom it may be desirable to
      offer a brief description.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-five or thereabouts, of a
      gaunt and bony figure, and a resolute bearing, which if it repressed the
      softer emotions of love, and kept admirers at a distance, certainly
      inspired a feeling akin to awe in the breasts of those male strangers who
      had the happiness to approach her. In face she bore a striking resemblance
      to her brother, Sampson&mdash;so exact, indeed, was the likeness between
      them, that had it consorted with Miss Brass's maiden modesty and gentle
      womanhood to have assumed her brother's clothes in a frolic and sat down
      beside him, it would have been difficult for the oldest friend of the
      family to determine which was Sampson and which Sally, especially as the
      lady carried upon her upper lip certain reddish demonstrations, which, if
      the imagination had been assisted by her attire, might have been mistaken
      for a beard. These were, however, in all probability, nothing more than
      eyelashes in a wrong place, as the eyes of Miss Brass were quite free from
      any such natural impertinencies. In complexion Miss Brass was sallow&mdash;rather
      a dirty sallow, so to speak&mdash;but this hue was agreeably relieved by
      the healthy glow which mantled in the extreme tip of her laughing nose.
      Her voice was exceedingly impressive&mdash;deep and rich in quality, and,
      once heard, not easily forgotten. Her usual dress was a green gown, in
      colour not unlike the curtain of the office window, made tight to the
      figure, and terminating at the throat, where it was fastened behind by a
      peculiarly large and massive button. Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity
      and plainness are the soul of elegance, Miss Brass wore no collar or
      kerchief except upon her head, which was invariably ornamented with a
      brown gauze scarf, like the wing of the fabled vampire, and which, twisted
      into any form that happened to suggest itself, formed an easy and graceful
      head-dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind, she was of a strong and vigorous
      turn, having from her earliest youth devoted herself with uncommon ardour
      to the study of law; not wasting her speculations upon its eagle flights,
      which are rare, but tracing it attentively through all the slippery and
      eel-like crawlings in which it commonly pursues its way. Nor had she, like
      many persons of great intellect, confined herself to theory, or stopped
      short where practical usefulness begins; inasmuch as she could ingross,
      fair-copy, fill up printed forms with perfect accuracy, and, in short,
      transact any ordinary duty of the office down to pouncing a skin of
      parchment or mending a pen. It is difficult to understand how, possessed
      of these combined attractions, she should remain Miss Brass; but whether
      she had steeled her heart against mankind, or whether those who might have
      wooed and won her, were deterred by fears that, being learned in the law,
      she might have too near her fingers' ends those particular statutes which
      regulate what are familiarly termed actions for breach, certain it is that
      she was still in a state of celibacy, and still in daily occupation of her
      old stool opposite to that of her brother Sampson. And equally certain it
      is, by the way, that between these two stools a great many people had come
      to the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning Mr Sampson Brass sat upon his stool copying some legal
      process, and viciously digging his pen deep into the paper, as if he were
      writing upon the very heart of the party against whom it was directed; and
      Miss Sally Brass sat upon her stool making a new pen preparatory to
      drawing out a little bill, which was her favourite occupation; and so they
      sat in silence for a long time, until Miss Brass broke silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you nearly done, Sammy?' said Miss Brass; for in her mild and
      feminine lips, Sampson became Sammy, and all things were softened down.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned her brother. 'It would have been all done though, if you
      had helped at the right time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, indeed,' cried Miss Sally; 'you want my help, don't you?&mdash;<i>you</i>,
      too, that are going to keep a clerk!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Am I going to keep a clerk for my own pleasure, or because of my own
      wish, you provoking rascal!' said Mr Brass, putting his pen in his mouth,
      and grinning spitefully at his sister. 'What do you taunt me about going
      to keep a clerk for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be observed in this place, lest the fact of Mr Brass calling a lady
      a rascal, should occasion any wonderment or surprise, that he was so
      habituated to having her near him in a man's capacity, that he had
      gradually accustomed himself to talk to her as though she were really a
      man. And this feeling was so perfectly reciprocal, that not only did Mr
      Brass often call Miss Brass a rascal, or even put an adjective before the
      rascal, but Miss Brass looked upon it as quite a matter of course, and was
      as little moved as any other lady would be by being called an angel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you taunt me, after three hours' talk last night, with going to
      keep a clerk for?' repeated Mr Brass, grinning again with the pen in his
      mouth, like some nobleman's or gentleman's crest. 'Is it my fault?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All I know is,' said Miss Sally, smiling drily, for she delighted in
      nothing so much as irritating her brother, 'that if every one of your
      clients is to force us to keep a clerk, whether we want to or not, you had
      better leave off business, strike yourself off the roll, and get taken in
      execution, as soon as you can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have we got any other client like him?' said Brass. 'Have we got another
      client like him now&mdash;will you answer me that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you mean in the face!' said his sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do I mean in the face!' sneered Sampson Brass, reaching over to take up
      the bill-book, and fluttering its leaves rapidly. 'Look here&mdash;Daniel
      Quilp, Esquire&mdash;Daniel Quilp, Esquire&mdash;Daniel Quilp, Esquire&mdash;all
      through. Whether should I take a clerk that he recommends, and says, "this
      is the man for you," or lose all this, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sally deigned to make no reply, but smiled again, and went on with
      her work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I know what it is,' resumed Brass after a short silence. 'You're
      afraid you won't have as long a finger in the business as you've been used
      to have. Do you think I don't see through that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The business wouldn't go on very long, I expect, without me,' returned
      his sister composedly. 'Don't you be a fool and provoke me, Sammy, but
      mind what you're doing, and do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sampson Brass, who was at heart in great fear of his sister, sulkily bent
      over his writing again, and listened as she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I determined that the clerk ought not to come, of course he wouldn't
      be allowed to come. You know that well enough, so don't talk nonsense.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass received this observation with increased meekness, merely
      remarking, under his breath, that he didn't like that kind of joking, and
      that Miss Sally would be 'a much better fellow' if she forbore to
      aggravate him. To this compliment Miss Sally replied, that she had a
      relish for the amusement, and had no intention to forego its
      gratification. Mr Brass not caring, as it seemed, to pursue the subject
      any further, they both plied their pens at a great pace, and there the
      discussion ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were thus employed, the window was suddenly darkened, as by
      some person standing close against it. As Mr Brass and Miss Sally looked
      up to ascertain the cause, the top sash was nimbly lowered from without,
      and Quilp thrust in his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hallo!' he said, standing on tip-toe on the window-sill, and looking down
      into the room. 'Is there anybody at home? Is there any of the Devil's ware
      here? Is Brass at a premium, eh?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0240m.jpg" alt="0240m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0240.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the lawyer in an affected ecstasy. 'Oh, very good,
      Sir! Oh, very good indeed! Quite eccentric! Dear me, what humour he has!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that my Sally?' croaked the dwarf, ogling the fair Miss Brass. 'Is it
      Justice with the bandage off her eyes, and without the sword and scales?
      Is it the Strong Arm of the Law? Is it the Virgin of Bevis?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What an amazing flow of spirits!' cried Brass. 'Upon my word, it's quite
      extraordinary!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Open the door,' said Quilp, 'I've got him here. Such a clerk for you,
      Brass, such a prize, such an ace of trumps. Be quick and open the door, or
      if there's another lawyer near and he should happen to look out of window,
      he'll snap him up before your eyes, he will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is probable that the loss of the phoenix of clerks, even to a rival
      practitioner, would not have broken Mr Brass's heart; but, pretending
      great alacrity, he rose from his seat, and going to the door, returned,
      introducing his client, who led by the hand no less a person than Mr
      Richard Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There she is,' said Quilp, stopping short at the door, and wrinkling up
      his eyebrows as he looked towards Miss Sally; 'there is the woman I ought
      to have married&mdash;there is the beautiful Sarah&mdash;there is the
      female who has all the charms of her sex and none of their weaknesses. Oh
      Sally, Sally!'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this amorous address Miss Brass briefly responded 'Bother!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hard-hearted as the metal from which she takes her name,' said Quilp.
      'Why don't she change it&mdash;melt down the brass, and take another
      name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your nonsense, Mr Quilp, do,' returned Miss Sally, with a grim
      smile. 'I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself before a strange young
      man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The strange young man,' said Quilp, handing Dick Swiveller forward, 'is
      too susceptible himself not to understand me well. This is Mr Swiveller,
      my intimate friend&mdash;a gentleman of good family and great
      expectations, but who, having rather involved himself by youthful
      indiscretion, is content for a time to fill the humble station of a clerk&mdash;humble,
      but here most enviable. What a delicious atmosphere!'
    </p>
    <p>
      If Mr Quilp spoke figuratively, and meant to imply that the air breathed
      by Miss Sally Brass was sweetened and rarefied by that dainty creature, he
      had doubtless good reason for what he said. But if he spoke of the
      delights of the atmosphere of Mr Brass's office in a literal sense, he had
      certainly a peculiar taste, as it was of a close and earthy kind, and,
      besides being frequently impregnated with strong whiffs of the second-hand
      wearing apparel exposed for sale in Duke's Place and Houndsditch, had a
      decided flavour of rats and mice, and a taint of mouldiness. Perhaps some
      doubts of its pure delight presented themselves to Mr Swiveller, as he
      gave vent to one or two short abrupt sniffs, and looked incredulously at
      the grinning dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Swiveller,' said Quilp, 'being pretty well accustomed to the
      agricultural pursuits of sowing wild oats, Miss Sally, prudently considers
      that half a loaf is better than no bread. To be out of harm's way he
      prudently thinks is something too, and therefore he accepts your brother's
      offer. Brass, Mr Swiveller is yours.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very glad, Sir,' said Mr Brass, 'very glad indeed. Mr Swiveller,
      Sir, is fortunate enough to have your friendship. You may be very proud,
      Sir, to have the friendship of Mr Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick murmured something about never wanting a friend or a bottle to give
      him, and also gasped forth his favourite allusion to the wing of
      friendship and its never moulting a feather; but his faculties appeared to
      be absorbed in the contemplation of Miss Sally Brass, at whom he stared
      with blank and rueful looks, which delighted the watchful dwarf beyond
      measure. As to the divine Miss Sally herself, she rubbed her hands as men
      of business do, and took a few turns up and down the office with her pen
      behind her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose,' said the dwarf, turning briskly to his legal friend, 'that Mr
      Swiveller enters upon his duties at once? It's Monday morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At once, if you please, Sir, by all means,' returned Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Sally will teach him law, the delightful study of the law,' said
      Quilp; 'she'll be his guide, his friend, his companion, his Blackstone,
      his Coke upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer's Best Companion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is exceedingly eloquent,' said Brass, like a man abstracted, and
      looking at the roofs of the opposite houses, with his hands in his
      pockets; 'he has an extraordinary flow of language. Beautiful, really.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With Miss Sally,' Quilp went on, 'and the beautiful fictions of the law,
      his days will pass like minutes. Those charming creations of the poet,
      John Doe and Richard Roe, when they first dawn upon him, will open a new
      world for the enlargement of his mind and the improvement of his heart.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Beau-ti-ful indeed!' cried Brass. 'It's a treat
      to hear him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where will Mr Swiveller sit?' said Quilp, looking round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, we'll buy another stool, sir,' returned Brass. 'We hadn't any
      thoughts of having a gentleman with us, sir, until you were kind enough to
      suggest it, and our accommodation's not extensive. We'll look about for a
      second-hand stool, sir. In the meantime, if Mr Swiveller will take my
      seat, and try his hand at a fair copy of this ejectment, as I shall be out
      pretty well all the morning&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Walk with me,' said Quilp. 'I have a word or two to say to you on points
      of business. Can you spare the time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can I spare the time to walk with you, sir? You're joking, sir, you're
      joking with me,' replied the lawyer, putting on his hat. 'I'm ready, sir,
      quite ready. My time must be fully occupied indeed, sir, not to leave me
      time to walk with you. It's not everybody, sir, who has an opportunity of
      improving himself by the conversation of Mr Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf glanced sarcastically at his brazen friend, and, with a short
      dry cough, turned upon his heel to bid adieu to Miss Sally. After a very
      gallant parting on his side, and a very cool and gentlemanly sort of one
      on hers, he nodded to Dick Swiveller, and withdrew with the attorney.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick stood at the desk in a state of utter stupefaction, staring with all
      his might at the beauteous Sally, as if she had been some curious animal
      whose like had never lived. When the dwarf got into the street, he mounted
      again upon the window-sill, and looked into the office for a moment with a
      grinning face, as a man might peep into a cage. Dick glanced upward at
      him, but without any token of recognition; and long after he had
      disappeared, still stood gazing upon Miss Sally Brass, seeing or thinking
      of nothing else, and rooted to the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Brass being by this time deep in the bill of costs, took no notice
      whatever of Dick, but went scratching on, with a noisy pen, scoring down
      the figures with evident delight, and working like a steam-engine. There
      stood Dick, gazing now at the green gown, now at the brown head-dress, now
      at the face, and now at the rapid pen, in a state of stupid perplexity,
      wondering how he got into the company of that strange monster, and whether
      it was a dream and he would ever wake. At last he heaved a deep sigh, and
      began slowly pulling off his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller pulled off his coat, and folded it up with great elaboration,
      staring at Miss Sally all the time; then put on a blue jacket with a
      double row of gilt buttons, which he had originally ordered for aquatic
      expeditions, but had brought with him that morning for office purposes;
      and, still keeping his eye upon her, suffered himself to drop down
      silently upon Mr Brass's stool. Then he underwent a relapse, and becoming
      powerless again, rested his chin upon his hand, and opened his eyes so
      wide, that it appeared quite out of the question that he could ever close
      them any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had looked so long that he could see nothing, Dick took his eyes
      off the fair object of his amazement, turned over the leaves of the draft
      he was to copy, dipped his pen into the inkstand, and at last, and by slow
      approaches, began to write. But he had not written half-a-dozen words
      when, reaching over to the inkstand to take a fresh dip, he happened to
      raise his eyes. There was the intolerable brown head-dress&mdash;there was
      the green gown&mdash;there, in short, was Miss Sally Brass, arrayed in all
      her charms, and more tremendous than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      This happened so often, that Mr Swiveller by degrees began to feel strange
      influences creeping over him&mdash;horrible desires to annihilate this
      Sally Brass&mdash;mysterious promptings to knock her head-dress off and
      try how she looked without it. There was a very large ruler on the table;
      a large, black, shining ruler. Mr Swiveller took it up and began to rub
      his nose with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      From rubbing his nose with the ruler, to poising it in his hand and giving
      it an occasional flourish after the tomahawk manner, the transition was
      easy and natural. In some of these flourishes it went close to Miss
      Sally's head; the ragged edges of the head-dress fluttered with the wind
      it raised; advance it but an inch, and that great brown knot was on the
      ground: yet still the unconscious maiden worked away, and never raised her
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, this was a great relief. It was a good thing to write doggedly and
      obstinately until he was desperate, and then snatch up the ruler and whirl
      it about the brown head-dress with the consciousness that he could have it
      off if he liked. It was a good thing to draw it back, and rub his nose
      very hard with it, if he thought Miss Sally was going to look up, and to
      recompense himself with more hardy flourishes when he found she was still
      absorbed. By these means Mr Swiveller calmed the agitation of his
      feelings, until his applications to the ruler became less fierce and
      frequent, and he could even write as many as half-a-dozen consecutive
      lines without having recourse to it&mdash;which was a great victory.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap34"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 34
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n course of time, that is to say, after a couple of hours or so, of
      diligent application, Miss Brass arrived at the conclusion of her task,
      and recorded the fact by wiping her pen upon the green gown, and taking a
      pinch of snuff from a little round tin box which she carried in her
      pocket. Having disposed of this temperate refreshment, she arose from her
      stool, tied her papers into a formal packet with red tape, and taking them
      under her arm, marched out of the office.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller had scarcely sprung off his seat and commenced the
      performance of a maniac hornpipe, when he was interrupted, in the fulness
      of his joy at being again alone, by the opening of the door, and the
      reappearance of Miss Sally's head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am going out,' said Miss Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good, ma'am,' returned Dick. 'And don't hurry yourself on my account
      to come back, ma'am,' he added inwardly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If anybody comes on office business, take their messages, and say that
      the gentleman who attends to that matter isn't in at present, will you?'
      said Miss Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will, ma'am,' replied Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shan't be very long,' said Miss Brass, retiring.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sorry to hear it, ma'am,' rejoined Dick when she had shut the door.
      'I hope you may be unexpectedly detained, ma'am. If you could manage to be
      run over, ma'am, but not seriously, so much the better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Uttering these expressions of good-will with extreme gravity, Mr Swiveller
      sat down in the client's chair and pondered; then took a few turns up and
      down the room and fell into the chair again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I'm Brass's clerk, am I?' said Dick. 'Brass's clerk, eh? And the clerk
      of Brass's sister&mdash;clerk to a female Dragon. Very good, very good!
      What shall I be next? Shall I be a convict in a felt hat and a grey suit,
      trotting about a dockyard with my number neatly embroidered on my uniform,
      and the order of the garter on my leg, restrained from chafing my ankle by
      a twisted belcher handkerchief? Shall I be that? Will that do, or is it
      too genteel? Whatever you please, have it your own way, of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he was entirely alone, it may be presumed that, in these remarks, Mr
      Swiveller addressed himself to his fate or destiny, whom, as we learn by
      the precedents, it is the custom of heroes to taunt in a very bitter and
      ironical manner when they find themselves in situations of an unpleasant
      nature. This is the more probable from the circumstance of Mr Swiveller
      directing his observations to the ceiling, which these bodily personages
      are usually supposed to inhabit&mdash;except in theatrical cases, when
      they live in the heart of the great chandelier.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quilp offers me this place, which he says he can insure me,' resumed Dick
      after a thoughtful silence, and telling off the circumstances of his
      position, one by one, upon his fingers; 'Fred, who, I could have taken my
      affidavit, would not have heard of such a thing, backs Quilp to my
      astonishment, and urges me to take it also&mdash;staggerer, number one! My
      aunt in the country stops the supplies, and writes an affectionate note to
      say that she has made a new will, and left me out of it&mdash;staggerer,
      number two. No money; no credit; no support from Fred, who seems to turn
      steady all at once; notice to quit the old lodgings&mdash;staggerers,
      three, four, five, and six! Under an accumulation of staggerers, no man
      can be considered a free agent. No man knocks himself down; if his destiny
      knocks him down, his destiny must pick him up again. Then I'm very glad
      that mine has brought all this upon itself, and I shall be as careless as
      I can, and make myself quite at home to spite it. So go on my buck,' said
      Mr Swiveller, taking his leave of the ceiling with a significant nod, 'and
      let us see which of us will be tired first!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dismissing the subject of his downfall with these reflections, which were
      no doubt very profound, and are indeed not altogether unknown in certain
      systems of moral philosophy, Mr Swiveller shook off his despondency and
      assumed the cheerful ease of an irresponsible clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a means towards his composure and self-possession, he entered into a
      more minute examination of the office than he had yet had time to make;
      looked into the wig-box, the books, and ink-bottle; untied and inspected
      all the papers; carved a few devices on the table with a sharp blade of Mr
      Brass's penknife; and wrote his name on the inside of the wooden
      coal-scuttle. Having, as it were, taken formal possession of his clerkship
      in virtue of these proceedings, he opened the window and leaned
      negligently out of it until a beer-boy happened to pass, whom he commanded
      to set down his tray and to serve him with a pint of mild porter, which he
      drank upon the spot and promptly paid for, with the view of breaking
      ground for a system of future credit and opening a correspondence tending
      thereto, without loss of time. Then, three or four little boys dropped in,
      on legal errands from three or four attorneys of the Brass grade: whom Mr
      Swiveller received and dismissed with about as professional a manner, and
      as correct and comprehensive an understanding of their business, as would
      have been shown by a clown in a pantomime under similar circumstances.
      These things done and over, he got upon his stool again and tried his hand
      at drawing caricatures of Miss Brass with a pen and ink, whistling very
      cheerfully all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was occupied in this diversion when a coach stopped near the door, and
      presently afterwards there was a loud double-knock. As this was no
      business of Mr Swiveller's, the person not ringing the office bell, he
      pursued his diversion with perfect composure, notwithstanding that he
      rather thought there was nobody else in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this, however, he was mistaken; for, after the knock had been repeated
      with increased impatience, the door was opened, and somebody with a very
      heavy tread went up the stairs and into the room above. Mr Swiveller was
      wondering whether this might be another Miss Brass, twin sister to the
      Dragon, when there came a rapping of knuckles at the office door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in!' said Dick. 'Don't stand upon ceremony. The business will get
      rather complicated if I've many more customers. Come in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, please,' said a little voice very low down in the doorway, 'will you
      come and show the lodgings?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick leant over the table, and descried a small slipshod girl in a dirty
      coarse apron and bib, which left nothing of her visible but her face and
      feet. She might as well have been dressed in a violin-case.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, who are you?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the only reply was, 'Oh, please will you come and show the
      lodgings?'
    </p>
    <p>
      There never was such an old-fashioned child in her looks and manner. She
      must have been at work from her cradle. She seemed as much afraid of Dick,
      as Dick was amazed at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hav'n't got anything to do with the lodgings,' said Dick. 'Tell 'em to
      call again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, but please will you come and show the lodgings,' returned the girl;
      'It's eighteen shillings a week and us finding plate and linen. Boots and
      clothes is extra, and fires in winter-time is eightpence a day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why don't you show 'em yourself? You seem to know all about 'em,' said
      Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Sally said I wasn't to, because people wouldn't believe the
      attendance was good if they saw how small I was first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, but they'll see how small you are afterwards, won't they?' said
      Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! But then they'll have taken 'em for a fortnight certain,' replied the
      child with a shrewd look; 'and people don't like moving when they're once
      settled.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a queer sort of thing,' muttered Dick, rising. 'What do you mean
      to say you are&mdash;the cook?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I do plain cooking;' replied the child. 'I'm housemaid too; I do all
      the work of the house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose Brass and the Dragon and I do the dirtiest part of it,' thought
      Dick. And he might have thought much more, being in a doubtful and
      hesitating mood, but that the girl again urged her request, and certain
      mysterious bumping sounds on the passage and staircase seemed to give note
      of the applicant's impatience. Richard Swiveller, therefore, sticking a
      pen behind each ear, and carrying another in his mouth as a token of his
      great importance and devotion to business, hurried out to meet and treat
      with the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a little surprised to perceive that the bumping sounds were
      occasioned by the progress up-stairs of the single gentleman's trunk,
      which, being nearly twice as wide as the staircase, and exceedingly heavy
      withal, it was no easy matter for the united exertions of the single
      gentleman and the coachman to convey up the steep ascent. But there they
      were, crushing each other, and pushing and pulling with all their might,
      and getting the trunk tight and fast in all kinds of impossible angles,
      and to pass them was out of the question; for which sufficient reason, Mr
      Swiveller followed slowly behind, entering a new protest on every stair
      against the house of Mr Sampson Brass being thus taken by storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these remonstrances, the single gentleman answered not a word, but when
      the trunk was at last got into the bed-room, sat down upon it and wiped
      his bald head and face with his handkerchief. He was very warm, and well
      he might be; for, not to mention the exertion of getting the trunk up
      stairs, he was closely muffled in winter garments, though the thermometer
      had stood all day at eighty-one in the shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe, sir,' said Richard Swiveller, taking his pen out of his mouth,
      'that you desire to look at these apartments. They are very charming
      apartments, sir. They command an uninterrupted view of&mdash;of over the
      way, and they are within one minute's walk of&mdash;of the corner of the
      street. There is exceedingly mild porter, sir, in the immediate vicinity,
      and the contingent advantages are extraordinary.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the rent?' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One pound per week,' replied Dick, improving on the terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll take 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The boots and clothes are extras,' said Dick; 'and the fires in winter
      time are&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are all agreed to,' answered the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two weeks certain,' said Dick, 'are the&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two weeks!' cried the single gentleman gruffly, eyeing him from top to
      toe. 'Two years. I shall live here for two years. Here. Ten pounds down.
      The bargain's made.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why you see,' said Dick, 'my name is not Brass, and&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who said it was? My name's not Brass. What then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The name of the master of the house is,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad of it,' returned the single gentleman; 'it's a good name for a
      lawyer. Coachman, you may go. So may you, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller was so much confounded by the single gentleman riding
      roughshod over him at this rate, that he stood looking at him almost as
      hard as he had looked at Miss Sally. The single gentleman, however, was
      not in the slightest degree affected by this circumstance, but proceeded
      with perfect composure to unwind the shawl which was tied round his neck,
      and then to pull off his boots. Freed of these encumbrances, he went on to
      divest himself of his other clothing, which he folded up, piece by piece,
      and ranged in order on the trunk. Then, he pulled down the window-blinds,
      drew the curtains, wound up his watch, and, quite leisurely and
      methodically, got into bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take down the bill,' were his parting words, as he looked out from
      between the curtains; 'and let nobody call me till I ring the bell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that the curtains closed, and he seemed to snore immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a most remarkable and supernatural sort of house!' said Mr
      Swiveller, as he walked into the office with the bill in his hand.
      'She-dragons in the business, conducting themselves like professional
      gentlemen; plain cooks of three feet high appearing mysteriously from
      under ground; strangers walking in and going to bed without leave or
      licence in the middle of the day! If he should be one of the miraculous
      fellows that turn up now and then, and has gone to sleep for two years, I
      shall be in a pleasant situation. It's my destiny, however, and I hope
      Brass may like it. I shall be sorry if he don't. But it's no business of
      mine&mdash;I have nothing whatever to do with it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap35"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 35
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r Brass on returning home received the report of his clerk with much
      complacency and satisfaction, and was particular in inquiring after the
      ten-pound note, which, proving on examination to be a good and lawful note
      of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, increased his
      good-humour considerably. Indeed he so overflowed with liberality and
      condescension, that, in the fulness of his heart, he invited Mr Swiveller
      to partake of a bowl of punch with him at that remote and indefinite
      period which is currently denominated 'one of these days,' and paid him
      many handsome compliments on the uncommon aptitude for business which his
      conduct on the first day of his devotion to it had so plainly evinced.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a maxim with Mr Brass that the habit of paying compliments kept a
      man's tongue oiled without any expense; and, as that useful member ought
      never to grow rusty or creak in turning on its hinges in the case of a
      practitioner of the law, in whom it should be always glib and easy, he
      lost few opportunities of improving himself by the utterance of handsome
      speeches and eulogistic expressions. And this had passed into such a habit
      with him, that, if he could not be correctly said to have his tongue at
      his fingers' ends, he might certainly be said to have it anywhere but in
      his face: which being, as we have already seen, of a harsh and repulsive
      character, was not oiled so easily, but frowned above all the smooth
      speeches&mdash;one of nature's beacons, warning off those who navigated
      the shoals and breakers of the World, or of that dangerous strait the Law,
      and admonishing them to seek less treacherous harbours and try their
      fortune elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mr Brass by turns overwhelmed his clerk with compliments and
      inspected the ten-pound note, Miss Sally showed little emotion and that of
      no pleasurable kind, for as the tendency of her legal practice had been to
      fix her thoughts on small gains and gripings, and to whet and sharpen her
      natural wisdom, she was not a little disappointed that the single
      gentleman had obtained the lodgings at such an easy rate, arguing that
      when he was seen to have set his mind upon them, he should have been at
      the least charged double or treble the usual terms, and that, in exact
      proportion as he pressed forward, Mr Swiveller should have hung back. But
      neither the good opinion of Mr Brass, nor the dissatisfaction of Miss
      Sally, wrought any impression upon that young gentleman, who, throwing the
      responsibility of this and all other acts and deeds thereafter to be done
      by him, upon his unlucky destiny, was quite resigned and comfortable:
      fully prepared for the worst, and philosophically indifferent to the best.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good morning, Mr Richard,' said Brass, on the second day of Mr
      Swiveller's clerkship. 'Sally found you a second-hand stool, Sir,
      yesterday evening, in Whitechapel. She's a rare fellow at a bargain, I can
      tell you, Mr Richard. You'll find that a first-rate stool, Sir, take my
      word for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's rather a crazy one to look at,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll find it a most amazing stool to sit down upon, you may depend,'
      returned Mr Brass. 'It was bought in the open street just opposite the
      hospital, and as it has been standing there a month of two, it has got
      rather dusty and a little brown from being in the sun, that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope it hasn't got any fevers or anything of that sort in it,' said
      Dick, sitting himself down discontentedly, between Mr Sampson and the
      chaste Sally. 'One of the legs is longer than the others.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we get a bit of timber in, Sir,' retorted Brass. 'Ha, ha, ha! We get
      a bit of timber in, Sir, and that's another advantage of my sister's going
      to market for us. Miss Brass, Mr Richard is the&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you keep quiet?' interrupted the fair subject of these remarks,
      looking up from her papers. 'How am I to work if you keep on chattering?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What an uncertain chap you are!' returned the lawyer. 'Sometimes you're
      all for a chat. At another time you're all for work. A man never knows
      what humour he'll find you in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm in a working humour now,' said Sally, 'so don't disturb me, if you
      please. And don't take him,' Miss Sally pointed with the feather of her
      pen to Richard, 'off his business. He won't do more than he can help, I
      dare say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass had evidently a strong inclination to make an angry reply, but
      was deterred by prudent or timid considerations, as he only muttered
      something about aggravation and a vagabond; not associating the terms with
      any individual, but mentioning them as connected with some abstract ideas
      which happened to occur to him. They went on writing for a long time in
      silence after this&mdash;in such a dull silence that Mr Swiveller (who
      required excitement) had several times fallen asleep, and written divers
      strange words in an unknown character with his eyes shut, when Miss Sally
      at length broke in upon the monotony of the office by pulling out the
      little tin box, taking a noisy pinch of snuff, and then expressing her
      opinion that Mr Richard Swiveller had 'done it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done what, ma'am?' said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know,' returned Miss Brass, 'that the lodger isn't up yet&mdash;
      that nothing has been seen or heard of him since he went to bed yesterday
      afternoon?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, ma'am,' said Dick, 'I suppose he may sleep his ten pound out, in
      peace and quietness, if he likes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! I begin to think he'll never wake,' observed Miss Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a very remarkable circumstance,' said Brass, laying down his pen;
      'really, very remarkable. Mr Richard, you'll remember, if this gentleman
      should be found to have hung himself to the bed-post, or any unpleasant
      accident of that kind should happen&mdash;you'll remember, Mr Richard,
      that this ten pound note was given to you in part payment of two years'
      rent? You'll bear that in mind, Mr Richard; you had better make a note of
      it, sir, in case you should ever be called upon to give evidence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller took a large sheet of foolscap, and with a countenance of
      profound gravity, began to make a very small note in one corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We can never be too cautious,' said Mr Brass. 'There is a deal of
      wickedness going about the world, a deal of wickedness. Did the gentleman
      happen to say, Sir&mdash;but never mind that at present, sir; finish that
      little memorandum first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick did so, and handed it to Mr Brass, who had dismounted from his stool,
      and was walking up and down the office.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, this is the memorandum, is it?' said Brass, running his eye over the
      document. 'Very good. Now, Mr Richard, did the gentleman say anything
      else?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you sure, Mr Richard,' said Brass, solemnly, 'that the gentleman said
      nothing else?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Devil a word, Sir,' replied Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Think again, Sir,' said Brass; 'it's my duty, Sir, in the position in
      which I stand, and as an honourable member of the legal profession&mdash;the
      first profession in this country, Sir, or in any other country, or in any
      of the planets that shine above us at night and are supposed to be
      inhabited&mdash;it's my duty, Sir, as an honourable member of that
      profession, not to put to you a leading question in a matter of this
      delicacy and importance. Did the gentleman, Sir, who took the first floor
      of you yesterday afternoon, and who brought with him a box of property&mdash;a
      box of property&mdash;say anything more than is set down in this
      memorandum?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, don't be a fool,' said Miss Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick looked at her, and then at Brass, and then at Miss Sally again, and
      still said 'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh, pooh! Deuce take it, Mr Richard, how dull you are!' cried Brass,
      relaxing into a smile. 'Did he say anything about his property?&mdash;there!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the way to put it,' said Miss Sally, nodding to her brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did he say, for instance,' added Brass, in a kind of comfortable, cozy
      tone&mdash;'I don't assert that he did say so, mind; I only ask you, to
      refresh your memory&mdash;did he say, for instance, that he was a stranger
      in London&mdash;that it was not his humour or within his ability to give
      any references&mdash;that he felt we had a right to require them&mdash;and
      that, in case anything should happen to him, at any time, he particularly
      desired that whatever property he had upon the premises should be
      considered mine, as some slight recompense for the trouble and annoyance I
      should sustain&mdash;and were you, in short,' added Brass, still more
      comfortably and cozily than before, 'were you induced to accept him on my
      behalf, as a tenant, upon those conditions?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly not,' replied Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then, Mr Richard,' said Brass, darting at him a supercilious and
      reproachful look, 'it's my opinion that you've mistaken your calling, and
      will never make a lawyer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not if you live a thousand years,' added Miss Sally. Whereupon the
      brother and sister took each a noisy pinch of snuff from the little tin
      box, and fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing further passed up to Mr Swiveller's dinner-time, which was at
      three o'clock, and seemed about three weeks in coming. At the first stroke
      of the hour, the new clerk disappeared. At the last stroke of five, he
      reappeared, and the office, as if by magic, became fragrant with the smell
      of gin and water and lemon-peel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Richard,' said Brass, 'this man's not up yet. Nothing will wake him,
      sir. What's to be done?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should let him have his sleep out,' returned Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sleep out!' cried Brass; 'why he has been asleep now, six-and-twenty
      hours. We have been moving chests of drawers over his head, we have
      knocked double knocks at the street-door, we have made the servant-girl
      fall down stairs several times (she's a light weight, and it don't hurt
      her much,) but nothing wakes him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps a ladder,' suggested Dick, 'and getting in at the first-floor
      window&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But then there's a door between; besides, the neighbours would be up in
      arms,' said Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you say to getting on the roof of the house through the
      trap-door, and dropping down the chimney?' suggested Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That would be an excellent plan,' said Brass, 'if anybody would be&mdash;'
      and here he looked very hard at Mr Swiveller&mdash;'would be kind, and
      friendly, and generous enough, to undertake it. I dare say it would not be
      anything like as disagreeable as one supposes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick had made the suggestion, thinking that the duty might possibly fall
      within Miss Sally's department. As he said nothing further, and declined
      taking the hint, Mr Brass was fain to propose that they should go up
      stairs together, and make a last effort to awaken the sleeper by some less
      violent means, which, if they failed on this last trial, must positively
      be succeeded by stronger measures. Mr Swiveller, assenting, armed himself
      with his stool and the large ruler, and repaired with his employer to the
      scene of action, where Miss Brass was already ringing a hand-bell with all
      her might, and yet without producing the smallest effect upon their
      mysterious lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are his boots, Mr Richard!' said Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very obstinate-looking articles they are too,' quoth Richard Swiveller.
      And truly, they were as sturdy and bluff a pair of boots as one would wish
      to see; as firmly planted on the ground as if their owner's legs and feet
      had been in them; and seeming, with their broad soles and blunt toes, to
      hold possession of their place by main force.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't see anything but the curtain of the bed,' said Brass, applying
      his eye to the keyhole of the door. 'Is he a strong man, Mr Richard?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0254m.jpg" alt="0254m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0254.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Very,' answered Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would be an extremely unpleasant circumstance if he was to bounce out
      suddenly,' said Brass. 'Keep the stairs clear. I should be more than a
      match for him, of course, but I'm the master of the house, and the laws of
      hospitality must be respected.&mdash;Hallo there! Hallo, hallo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mr Brass, with his eye curiously twisted into the keyhole, uttered
      these sounds as a means of attracting the lodger's attention, and while
      Miss Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr Swiveller put his stool close against
      the wall by the side of the door, and mounting on the top and standing
      bolt upright, so that if the lodger did make a rush, he would most
      probably pass him in its onward fury, began a violent battery with the
      ruler upon the upper panels of the door. Captivated with his own
      ingenuity, and confident in the strength of his position, which he had
      taken up after the method of those hardy individuals who open the pit and
      gallery doors of theatres on crowded nights, Mr Swiveller rained down such
      a shower of blows, that the noise of the bell was drowned; and the small
      servant, who lingered on the stairs below, ready to fly at a moment's
      notice, was obliged to hold her ears lest she should be rendered deaf for
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the door was unlocked on the inside, and flung violently open.
      The small servant flew to the coal-cellar; Miss Sally dived into her own
      bed-room; Mr Brass, who was not remarkable for personal courage, ran into
      the next street, and finding that nobody followed him, armed with a poker
      or other offensive weapon, put his hands in his pockets, walked very
      slowly all at once, and whistled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Mr Swiveller, on the top of the stool, drew himself into as
      flat a shape as possible against the wall, and looked, not unconcernedly,
      down upon the single gentleman, who appeared at the door growling and
      cursing in a very awful manner, and, with the boots in his hand, seemed to
      have an intention of hurling them down stairs on speculation. This idea,
      however, he abandoned. He was turning into his room again, still growling
      vengefully, when his eyes met those of the watchful Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have <i>you </i>been making that horrible noise?' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been helping, sir,' returned Dick, keeping his eye upon him, and
      waving the ruler gently in his right hand, as an indication of what the
      single gentleman had to expect if he attempted any violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How dare you then,' said the lodger, 'Eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, Dick made no other reply than by inquiring whether the lodger
      held it to be consistent with the conduct and character of a gentleman to
      go to sleep for six-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and whether the peace
      of an amiable and virtuous family was to weigh as nothing in the balance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is my peace nothing?' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is their peace nothing, sir?' returned Dick. 'I don't wish to hold out
      any threats, sir&mdash;indeed the law does not allow of threats, for to
      threaten is an indictable offence&mdash;but if ever you do that again,
      take care you're not sat upon by the coroner and buried in a cross road
      before you wake. We have been distracted with fears that you were dead,
      Sir,' said Dick, gently sliding to the ground, 'and the short and the long
      of it is, that we cannot allow single gentlemen to come into this
      establishment and sleep like double gentlemen without paying extra for
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' cried the lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Sir, indeed,' returned Dick, yielding to his destiny and saying
      whatever came uppermost; 'an equal quantity of slumber was never got out
      of one bed and bedstead, and if you're going to sleep in that way, you
      must pay for a double-bedded room.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of being thrown into a greater passion by these remarks, the
      lodger lapsed into a broad grin and looked at Mr Swiveller with twinkling
      eyes. He was a brown-faced sun-burnt man, and appeared browner and more
      sun-burnt from having a white nightcap on. As it was clear that he was a
      choleric fellow in some respects, Mr Swiveller was relieved to find him in
      such good humour, and, to encourage him in it, smiled himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lodger, in the testiness of being so rudely roused, had pushed his
      nightcap very much on one side of his bald head. This gave him a rakish
      eccentric air which, now that he had leisure to observe it, charmed Mr
      Swiveller exceedingly; therefore, by way of propitiation, he expressed his
      hope that the gentleman was going to get up, and further that he would
      never do so any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here, you impudent rascal!' was the lodger's answer as he re-entered
      his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller followed him in, leaving the stool outside, but reserving the
      ruler in case of a surprise. He rather congratulated himself on his
      prudence when the single gentleman, without notice or explanation of any
      kind, double-locked the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can you drink anything?' was his next inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller replied that he had very recently been assuaging the pangs of
      thirst, but that he was still open to 'a modest quencher,' if the
      materials were at hand. Without another word spoken on either side, the
      lodger took from his great trunk, a kind of temple, shining as of polished
      silver, and placed it carefully on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Greatly interested in his proceedings, Mr Swiveller observed him closely.
      Into one little chamber of this temple, he dropped an egg; into another
      some coffee; into a third a compact piece of raw steak from a neat tin
      case; into a fourth, he poured some water. Then, with the aid of a
      phosphorus-box and some matches, he procured a light and applied it to a
      spirit-lamp which had a place of its own below the temple; then, he shut
      down the lids of all the little chambers; then he opened them; and then,
      by some wonderful and unseen agency, the steak was done, the egg was
      boiled, the coffee was accurately prepared, and his breakfast was ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hot water&mdash;' said the lodger, handing it to Mr Swiveller with as
      much coolness as if he had a kitchen fire before him&mdash;'extraordinary
      rum&mdash;sugar&mdash;and a travelling glass. Mix for yourself. And make
      haste.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick complied, his eyes wandering all the time from the temple on the
      table, which seemed to do everything, to the great trunk which seemed to
      hold everything. The lodger took his breakfast like a man who was used to
      work these miracles, and thought nothing of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The man of the house is a lawyer, is he not?' said the lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick nodded. The rum was amazing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The woman of the house&mdash;what's she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A dragon,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      The single gentleman, perhaps because he had met with such things in his
      travels, or perhaps because he <i>was </i>a single gentleman, evinced no
      surprise, but merely inquired 'Wife or sister?'&mdash;'Sister,' said Dick.&mdash;'So
      much the better,' said the single gentleman, 'he can get rid of her when
      he likes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to do as I like, young man,' he added after a short silence; 'to
      go to bed when I like, get up when I like, come in when I like, go out
      when I like&mdash;to be asked no questions and be surrounded by no spies.
      In this last respect, servants are the devil. There's only one here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a very little one,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a very little one,' repeated the lodger. 'Well, the place will suit
      me, will it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sharks, I suppose?' said the lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick nodded assent, and drained his glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let them know my humour,' said the single gentleman, rising. 'If they
      disturb me, they lose a good tenant. If they know me to be that, they know
      enough. If they try to know more, it's a notice to quit. It's better to
      understand these things at once. Good day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon,' said Dick, halting in his passage to the door, which
      the lodger prepared to open. 'When he who adores thee has left but the
      name&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;But the name,' said Dick&mdash;'has left but the name&mdash;in
      case of letters or parcels&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never have any,' returned the lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or in the case anybody should call.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody ever calls on me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If any mistake should arise from not having the name, don't say it was my
      fault, Sir,' added Dick, still lingering.&mdash;'Oh blame not the bard&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll blame nobody,' said the lodger, with such irascibility that in a
      moment Dick found himself on the staircase, and the locked door between
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass and Miss Sally were lurking hard by, having been, indeed, only
      routed from the keyhole by Mr Swiveller's abrupt exit. As their utmost
      exertions had not enabled them to overhear a word of the interview,
      however, in consequence of a quarrel for precedence, which, though limited
      of necessity to pushes and pinches and such quiet pantomime, had lasted
      the whole time, they hurried him down to the office to hear his account of
      the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      This Mr Swiveller gave them&mdash;faithfully as regarded the wishes and
      character of the single gentleman, and poetically as concerned the great
      trunk, of which he gave a description more remarkable for brilliancy of
      imagination than a strict adherence to truth; declaring, with many strong
      asseverations, that it contained a specimen of every kind of rich food and
      wine, known in these times, and in particular that it was of a self-acting
      kind and served up whatever was required, as he supposed by clock-work. He
      also gave them to understand that the cooking apparatus roasted a fine
      piece of sirloin of beef, weighing about six pounds avoir-dupoise, in two
      minutes and a quarter, as he had himself witnessed, and proved by his
      sense of taste; and further, that, however the effect was produced, he had
      distinctly seen water boil and bubble up when the single gentleman winked;
      from which facts he (Mr Swiveller) was led to infer that the lodger was
      some great conjuror or chemist, or both, whose residence under that roof
      could not fail at some future days to shed a great credit and distinction
      on the name of Brass, and add a new interest to the history of Bevis
      Marks.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was one point which Mr Swiveller deemed it unnecessary to enlarge
      upon, and that was the fact of the modest quencher, which, by reason of
      its intrinsic strength and its coming close upon the heels of the
      temperate beverage he had discussed at dinner, awakened a slight degree of
      fever, and rendered necessary two or three other modest quenchers at the
      public-house in the course of the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap36"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 36
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s the single gentleman after some weeks' occupation of his lodgings,
      still declined to correspond, by word or gesture, either with Mr Brass or
      his sister Sally, but invariably chose Richard Swiveller as his channel of
      communication; and as he proved himself in all respects a highly desirable
      inmate, paying for everything beforehand, giving very little trouble,
      making no noise, and keeping early hours; Mr Richard imperceptibly rose to
      an important position in the family, as one who had influence over this
      mysterious lodger, and could negotiate with him, for good or evil, when
      nobody else durst approach his person.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the truth must be told, even Mr Swiveller's approaches to the single
      gentleman were of a very distant kind, and met with small encouragement;
      but, as he never returned from a monosyllabic conference with the unknown,
      without quoting such expressions as 'Swiveller, I know I can rely upon
      you,'&mdash;'I have no hesitation in saying, Swiveller, that I entertain a
      regard for you,'&mdash;'Swiveller, you are my friend, and will stand by me
      I am sure,' with many other short speeches of the same familiar and
      confiding kind, purporting to have been addressed by the single gentleman
      to himself, and to form the staple of their ordinary discourse, neither Mr
      Brass nor Miss Sally for a moment questioned the extent of his influence,
      but accorded to him their fullest and most unqualified belief.
</p>
    <p>
But quite
      apart from, and independent of, this source of popularity, Mr Swiveller
      had another, which promised to be equally enduring, and to lighten his
      position considerably.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found favour in the eyes of Miss Sally Brass. Let not the light
      scorners of female fascination erect their ears to listen to a new tale of
      love which shall serve them for a jest; for Miss Brass, however accurately
      formed to be beloved, was not of the loving kind. That amiable virgin,
      having clung to the skirts of the Law from her earliest youth; having
      sustained herself by their aid, as it were, in her first running alone,
      and maintained a firm grasp upon them ever since; had passed her life in a
      kind of legal childhood. She had been remarkable, when a tender prattler
      for an uncommon talent in counterfeiting the walk and manner of a bailiff:
      in which character she had learned to tap her little playfellows on the
      shoulder, and to carry them off to imaginary sponging-houses, with a
      correctness of imitation which was the surprise and delight of all who
      witnessed her performances, and which was only to be exceeded by her
      exquisite manner of putting an execution into her doll's house, and taking
      an exact inventory of the chairs and tables. These artless sports had
      naturally soothed and cheered the decline of her widowed father: a most
      exemplary gentleman (called 'old Foxey' by his friends from his extreme
      sagacity,) who encouraged them to the utmost, and whose chief regret, on
      finding that he drew near to Houndsditch churchyard, was, that his
      daughter could not take out an attorney's certificate and hold a place
      upon the roll. Filled with this affectionate and touching sorrow, he had
      solemnly confided her to his son Sampson as an invaluable auxiliary; and
      from the old gentleman's decease to the period of which we treat, Miss
      Sally Brass had been the prop and pillar of his business.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is obvious that, having devoted herself from infancy to this one
      pursuit and study, Miss Brass could know but little of the world,
      otherwise than in connection with the law; and that from a lady gifted
      with such high tastes, proficiency in those gentler and softer arts in
      which women usually excel, was scarcely to be looked for. Miss Sally's
      accomplishments were all of a masculine and strictly legal kind. They
      began with the practice of an attorney and they ended with it. She was in
      a state of lawful innocence, so to speak. The law had been her nurse. And,
      as bandy-legs or such physical deformities in children are held to be the
      consequence of bad nursing, so, if in a mind so beautiful any moral twist
      or handiness could be found, Miss Sally Brass's nurse was alone to blame.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was upon this lady, then, that Mr Swiveller burst in full freshness as
      something new and hitherto undreamed of, lighting up the office with
      scraps of song and merriment, conjuring with inkstands and boxes of
      wafers, catching three oranges in one hand, balancing stools upon his chin
      and penknives on his nose, and constantly performing a hundred other feats
      with equal ingenuity; for with such unbendings did Richard, in Mr Brass's
      absence, relieve the tedium of his confinement. These social qualities,
      which Miss Sally first discovered by accident, gradually made such an
      impression upon her, that she would entreat Mr Swiveller to relax as
      though she were not by, which Mr Swiveller, nothing loth, would readily
      consent to do. By these means a friendship sprung up between them. Mr
      Swiveller gradually came to look upon her as her brother Sampson did, and
      as he would have looked upon any other clerk. He imparted to her the
      mystery of going the odd man or plain Newmarket for fruit, ginger-beer,
      baked potatoes, or even a modest quencher, of which Miss Brass did not
      scruple to partake. He would often persuade her to undertake his share of
      writing in addition to her own; nay, he would sometimes reward her with a
      hearty slap on the back, and protest that she was a devilish good fellow,
      a jolly dog, and so forth; all of which compliments Miss Sally would
      receive in entire good part and with perfect satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      One circumstance troubled Mr Swiveller's mind very much, and that was that
      the small servant always remained somewhere in the bowels of the earth
      under Bevis Marks, and never came to the surface unless the single
      gentleman rang his bell, when she would answer it and immediately
      disappear again. She never went out, or came into the office, or had a
      clean face, or took off the coarse apron, or looked out of any one of the
      windows, or stood at the street-door for a breath of air, or had any rest
      or enjoyment whatever. Nobody ever came to see her, nobody spoke of her,
      nobody cared about her. Mr Brass had said once, that he believed she was a
      'love-child' (which means anything but a child of love), and that was all
      the information Richard Swiveller could obtain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's of no use asking the dragon,' thought Dick one day, as he sat
      contemplating the features of Miss Sally Brass. 'I suspect if I asked any
      questions on that head, our alliance would be at an end. I wonder whether
      she is a dragon by-the-bye, or something in the mermaid way. She has
      rather a scaly appearance. But mermaids are fond of looking at themselves
      in the glass, which she can't be. And they have a habit of combing their
      hair, which she hasn't. No, she's a dragon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you going, old fellow?' said Dick aloud, as Miss Sally wiped
      her pen as usual on the green dress, and uprose from her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To dinner,' answered the dragon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To dinner!' thought Dick, 'that's another circumstance. I don't believe
      that small servant ever has anything to eat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sammy won't be home,' said Miss Brass. 'Stop till I come back. I sha'n't
      be long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick nodded, and followed Miss Brass&mdash;with his eyes to the door, and
      with his ears to a little back parlour, where she and her brother took
      their meals.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Dick, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, 'I'd
      give something&mdash;if I had it&mdash;to know how they use that child,
      and where they keep her. My mother must have been a very inquisitive
      woman; I have no doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation somewhere.
      My feelings I smother, but thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my&mdash;upon
      my word,' said Mr Swiveller, checking himself and falling thoughtfully
      into the client's chair, 'I should like to know how they use her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      After running on, in this way, for some time, Mr Swiveller softly opened
      the office door, with the intention of darting across the street for a
      glass of the mild porter. At that moment he caught a parting glimpse of
      the brown head-dress of Miss Brass flitting down the kitchen stairs. 'And
      by Jove!' thought Dick, 'she's going to feed the small servant. Now or
      never!'
    </p>
    <p>
      First peeping over the handrail and allowing the head-dress to disappear
      in the darkness below, he groped his way down, and arrived at the door of
      a back kitchen immediately after Miss Brass had entered the same, bearing
      in her hand a cold leg of mutton. It was a very dark miserable place, very
      low and very damp: the walls disfigured by a thousand rents and blotches.
      The water was trickling out of a leaky butt, and a most wretched cat was
      lapping up the drops with the sickly eagerness of starvation. The grate,
      which was a wide one, was wound and screwed up tight, so as to hold no
      more than a little thin sandwich of fire. Everything was locked up; the
      coal-cellar, the candle-box, the salt-box, the meat-safe, were all
      padlocked. There was nothing that a beetle could have lunched upon. The
      pinched and meagre aspect of the place would have killed a chameleon. He
      would have known, at the first mouthful, that the air was not eatable, and
      must have given up the ghost in despair. The small servant stood with humility in presence of Miss Sally, and hung
      her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you there?' said Miss Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, ma'am,' was the answer in a weak voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go further away from the leg of mutton, or you'll be picking it, I know,'
      said Miss Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl withdrew into a corner, while Miss Brass took a key from her
      pocket, and opening the safe, brought from it a dreary waste of cold
      potatoes, looking as eatable as Stonehenge. This she placed before the
      small servant, ordering her to sit down before it, and then, taking up a
      great carving-knife, made a mighty show of sharpening it upon the
      carving-fork.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you see this?' said Miss Brass, slicing off about two square inches of
      cold mutton, after all this preparation, and holding it out on the point
      of the fork.
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant looked hard enough at it with her hungry eyes to see
      every shred of it, small as it was, and answered, 'yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then don't you ever go and say,' retorted Miss Sally, 'that you hadn't
      meat here. There, eat it up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was soon done. 'Now, do you want any more?' said Miss Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hungry creature answered with a faint 'No.' They were evidently going
      through an established form.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've been helped once to meat,' said Miss Brass, summing up the facts;
      'you have had as much as you can eat, you're asked if you want any more,
      and you answer, 'no!' Then don't you ever go and say you were allowanced,
      mind that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With those words, Miss Sally put the meat away and locked the safe, and
      then drawing near to the small servant, overlooked her while she finished
      the potatoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was plain that some extraordinary grudge was working in Miss Brass's
      gentle breast, and that it was that which impelled her, without the
      smallest present cause, to rap the child with the blade of the knife, now
      on her hand, now on her head, and now on her back, as if she found it
      quite impossible to stand so close to her without administering a few
      slight knocks. But Mr Swiveller was not a little surprised to see his
      fellow-clerk, after walking slowly backwards towards the door, as if she
      were trying to withdraw herself from the room but could not accomplish it,
      dart suddenly forward, and falling on the small servant give her some hard
      blows with her clenched hand. The victim cried, but in a subdued manner as
      if she feared to raise her voice, and Miss Sally, comforting herself with
      a pinch of snuff, ascended the stairs, just as Richard had safely reached
      the office.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap37"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 37
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he single gentleman among his other peculiarities&mdash;and he had a very
      plentiful stock, of which he every day furnished some new specimen&mdash;took
      a most extraordinary and remarkable interest in the exhibition of Punch.
      If the sound of a Punch's voice, at ever so remote a distance, reached
      Bevis Marks, the single gentleman, though in bed and asleep, would start
      up, and, hurrying on his clothes, make for the spot with all speed, and
      presently return at the head of a long procession of idlers, having in the
      midst the theatre and its proprietors. Straightway, the stage would be set
      up in front of Mr Brass's house; the single gentleman would establish
      himself at the first floor window; and the entertainment would proceed,
      with all its exciting accompaniments of fife and drum and shout, to the
      excessive consternation of all sober votaries of business in that silent
      thoroughfare. It might have been expected that when the play was done,
      both players and audience would have dispersed; but the epilogue was as
      bad as the play, for no sooner was the Devil dead, than the manager of the
      puppets and his partner were summoned by the single gentleman to his
      chamber, where they were regaled with strong waters from his private
      store, and where they held with him long conversations, the purport of
      which no human being could fathom. But the secret of these discussions was
      of little importance. It was sufficient to know that while they were
      proceeding, the concourse without still lingered round the house; that
      boys beat upon the drum with their fists, and imitated Punch with their
      tender voices; that the office-window was rendered opaque by flattened
      noses, and the key-hole of the street-door luminous with eyes; that every
      time the single gentleman or either of his guests was seen at the upper
      window, or so much as the end of one of their noses was visible, there was
      a great shout of execration from the excluded mob, who remained howling
      and yelling, and refusing consolation, until the exhibitors were delivered
      up to them to be attended elsewhere. It was sufficient, in short, to know
      that Bevis Marks was revolutionised by these popular movements, and that
      peace and quietness fled from its precincts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody was rendered more indignant by these proceedings than Mr Sampson
      Brass, who, as he could by no means afford to lose so profitable an
      inmate, deemed it prudent to pocket his lodger's affront along with his
      cash, and to annoy the audiences who clustered round his door by such
      imperfect means of retaliation as were open to him, and which were
      confined to the trickling down of foul water on their heads from unseen
      watering pots, pelting them with fragments of tile and mortar from the
      roof of the house, and bribing the drivers of hackney cabriolets to come
      suddenly round the corner and dash in among them precipitately. It may, at
      first sight, be matter of surprise to the thoughtless few that Mr Brass,
      being a professional gentleman, should not have legally indicted some
      party or parties, active in the promotion of the nuisance, but they will
      be good enough to remember, that as Doctors seldom take their own
      prescriptions, and Divines do not always practise what they preach, so
      lawyers are shy of meddling with the Law on their own account: knowing it
      to be an edged tool of uncertain application, very expensive in the
      working, and rather remarkable for its properties of close shaving, than
      for its always shaving the right person.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said Mr Brass one afternoon, 'this is two days without a Punch.
      I'm in hopes he has run through 'em all, at last.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why are you in hopes?' returned Miss Sally. 'What harm do they do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's a pretty sort of a fellow!' cried Brass, laying down his pen in
      despair. 'Now here's an aggravating animal!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what harm do they do?' retorted Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What harm!' cried Brass. 'Is it no harm to have a constant hallooing and
      hooting under one's very nose, distracting one from business, and making
      one grind one's teeth with vexation? Is it no harm to be blinded and
      choked up, and have the king's highway stopped with a set of screamers and
      roarers whose throats must be made of&mdash;of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brass,' suggested Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! of brass,' said the lawyer, glancing at his clerk, to assure himself
      that he had suggested the word in good faith and without any sinister
      intention. 'Is that no harm?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The lawyer stopped short in his invective, and listening for a moment, and
      recognising the well-known voice, rested his head upon his hand, raised
      his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered faintly, 'There's another!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Up went the single gentleman's window directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's another,' repeated Brass; 'and if I could get a break and four
      blood horses to cut into the Marks when the crowd is at its thickest, I'd
      give eighteen-pence and never grudge it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The distant squeak was heard again. The single gentleman's door burst
      open. He ran violently down the stairs, out into the street, and so past
      the window, without any hat, towards the quarter whence the sound
      proceeded&mdash;bent, no doubt, upon securing the strangers' services
      directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I only knew who his friends were,' muttered Sampson, filling his
      pocket with papers; 'if they'd just get up a pretty little Commission de
      lunatico at the Gray's Inn Coffee House and give me the job, I'd be
      content to have the lodgings empty for one while, at all events.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which words, and knocking his hat over his eyes as if for the purpose
      of shutting out even a glimpse of the dreadful visitation, Mr Brass rushed
      from the house and hurried away.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr Swiveller was decidedly favourable to these performances, upon the
      ground that looking at a Punch, or indeed looking at anything out of
      window, was better than working; and as he had been, for this reason, at
      some pains to awaken in his fellow clerk a sense of their beauties and
      manifold deserts; both he and Miss Sally rose as with one accord and took
      up their positions at the window: upon the sill whereof, as in a post of
      honour, sundry young ladies and gentlemen who were employed in the dry
      nurture of babies, and who made a point of being present, with their young
      charges, on such occasions, had already established themselves as
      comfortably as the circumstances would allow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The glass being dim, Mr Swiveller, agreeably to a friendly custom which he
      had established between them, hitched off the brown head-dress from Miss
      Sally's head, and dusted it carefully therewith. By the time he had handed
      it back, and its beautiful wearer had put it on again (which she did with
      perfect composure and indifference), the lodger returned with the show and
      showmen at his heels, and a strong addition to the body of spectators. The
      exhibitor disappeared with all speed behind the drapery; and his partner,
      stationing himself by the side of the Theatre, surveyed the audience with
      a remarkable expression of melancholy, which became more remarkable still
      when he breathed a hornpipe tune into that sweet musical instrument which
      is popularly termed a mouth-organ, without at all changing the mournful
      expression of the upper part of his face, though his mouth and chin were,
      of necessity, in lively spasms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The drama proceeded to its close, and held the spectators enchained in the
      customary manner. The sensation which kindles in large assemblies, when
      they are relieved from a state of breathless suspense and are again free
      to speak and move, was yet rife, when the lodger, as usual, summoned the
      men up stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Both of you,' he called from the window; for only the actual exhibitor&mdash;a
      little fat man&mdash;prepared to obey the summons. 'I want to talk to you.
      Come both of you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, Tommy,' said the little man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I an't a talker,' replied the other. 'Tell him so. What should I go and
      talk for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you see the gentleman's got a bottle and glass up there?' returned
      the little man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And couldn't you have said so at first?' retorted the other with sudden
      alacrity. 'Now, what are you waiting for? Are you going to keep the
      gentleman expecting us all day? haven't you no manners?'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this remonstrance, the melancholy man, who was no other than Mr
      Thomas Codlin, pushed past his friend and brother in the craft, Mr Harris,
      otherwise Short or Trotters, and hurried before him to the single
      gentleman's apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, my men,' said the single gentleman; 'you have done very well. What
      will you take? Tell that little man behind, to shut the door.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shut the door, can't you?' said Mr Codlin, turning gruffly to his friend.
      'You might have knowed that the gentleman wanted the door shut, without
      being told, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Short obeyed, observing under his breath that his friend seemed
      unusually 'cranky,' and expressing a hope that there was no dairy in the
      neighbourhood, or his temper would certainly spoil its contents.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman pointed to a couple of chairs, and intimated by an emphatic
      nod of his head that he expected them to be seated. Messrs Codlin and
      Short, after looking at each other with considerable doubt and indecision,
      at length sat down&mdash;each on the extreme edge of the chair pointed out
      to him&mdash;and held their hats very tight, while the single gentleman
      filled a couple of glasses from a bottle on the table beside him, and
      presented them in due form.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0267m.jpg" alt="0267m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0267.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'You're pretty well browned by the sun, both of you,' said their
      entertainer. 'Have you been travelling?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Short replied in the affirmative with a nod and a smile. Mr Codlin
      added a corroborative nod and a short groan, as if he still felt the
      weight of the Temple on his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To fairs, markets, races, and so forth, I suppose?' pursued the single
      gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' returned Short, 'pretty nigh all over the West of England.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have talked to men of your craft from North, East, and South,' returned
      their host, in rather a hasty manner; 'but I never lighted on any from the
      West before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's our reg'lar summer circuit is the West, master,' said Short; 'that's
      where it is. We takes the East of London in the spring and winter, and the
      West of England in the summer time. Many's the hard day's walking in rain
      and mud, and with never a penny earned, we've had down in the West.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me fill your glass again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much obleeged to you sir, I think I will,' said Mr Codlin, suddenly
      thrusting in his own and turning Short's aside. 'I'm the sufferer, sir, in
      all the travelling, and in all the staying at home. In town or country,
      wet or dry, hot or cold, Tom Codlin suffers. But Tom Codlin isn't to
      complain for all that. Oh, no! Short may complain, but if Codlin grumbles
      by so much as a word&mdash;oh dear, down with him, down with him directly.
      It isn't his place to grumble. That's quite out of the question.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Codlin an't without his usefulness,' observed Short with an arch look,
      'but he don't always keep his eyes open. He falls asleep sometimes, you
      know. Remember them last races, Tommy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you never leave off aggravating a man?' said Codlin. 'It's very like
      I was asleep when five-and-tenpence was collected, in one round, isn't it?
      I was attending to my business, and couldn't have my eyes in twenty places
      at once, like a peacock, no more than you could. If I an't a match for an
      old man and a young child, you an't neither, so don't throw that out
      against me, for the cap fits your head quite as correct as it fits mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may as well drop the subject, Tom,' said Short. 'It isn't particular
      agreeable to the gentleman, I dare say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you shouldn't have brought it up,' returned Mr Codlin; 'and I ask
      the gentleman's pardon on your account, as a giddy chap that likes to hear
      himself talk, and don't much care what he talks about, so that he does
      talk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Their entertainer had sat perfectly quiet in the beginning of this
      dispute, looking first at one man and then at the other, as if he were
      lying in wait for an opportunity of putting some further question, or
      reverting to that from which the discourse had strayed. But, from the
      point where Mr Codlin was charged with sleepiness, he had shown an
      increasing interest in the discussion: which now attained a very high
      pitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are the two men I want,' he said, 'the two men I have been looking
      for, and searching after! Where are that old man and that child you speak
      of?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir?' said Short, hesitating, and looking towards his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The old man and his grandchild who travelled with you&mdash;where are
      they? It will be worth your while to speak out, I assure you; much better
      worth your while than you believe. They left you, you say&mdash;at those
      races, as I understand. They have been traced to that place, and there
      lost sight of. Have you no clue, can you suggest no clue, to their
      recovery?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did I always say, Thomas,' cried Short, turning with a look of amazement
      to his friend, 'that there was sure to be an inquiry after them two
      travellers?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>said!' returned Mr Codlin. 'Did I always say that that 'ere blessed
      child was the most interesting I ever see? Did I always say I loved her,
      and doated on her? Pretty creetur, I think I hear her now. "Codlin's my
      friend," she says, with a tear of gratitude a trickling down her little
      eye; "Codlin's my friend," she says&mdash;"not Short. Short's very well,"
      she says; "I've no quarrel with Short; he means kind, I dare say; but
      Codlin," she says, "has the feelings for my money, though he mayn't look
      it."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Repeating these words with great emotion, Mr Codlin rubbed the bridge of
      his nose with his coat-sleeve, and shaking his head mournfully from side
      to side, left the single gentleman to infer that, from the moment when he
      lost sight of his dear young charge, his peace of mind and happiness had
      fled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good Heaven!' said the single gentleman, pacing up and down the room,
      'have I found these men at last, only to discover that they can give me no
      information or assistance! It would have been better to have lived on, in
      hope, from day to day, and never to have lighted on them, than to have my
      expectations scattered thus.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0269m.jpg" alt="0269m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0269.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Stay a minute,' said Short. 'A man of the name of Jerry&mdash;you know
      Jerry, Thomas?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, don't talk to me of Jerrys,' replied Mr Codlin. 'How can I care a
      pinch of snuff for Jerrys, when I think of that 'ere darling child?
      "Codlin's my friend," she says, "dear, good, kind Codlin, as is always a
      devising pleasures for me! I don't object to Short," she says, "but I
      cotton to Codlin." Once,' said that gentleman reflectively, 'she called me
      Father Codlin. I thought I should have bust!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A man of the name of Jerry, sir,' said Short, turning from his selfish
      colleague to their new acquaintance, 'wot keeps a company of dancing dogs,
      told me, in a accidental sort of way, that he had seen the old gentleman
      in connexion with a travelling wax-work, unbeknown to him. As they'd given
      us the slip, and nothing had come of it, and this was down in the country
      that he'd been seen, I took no measures about it, and asked no questions&mdash;But
      I can, if you like.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is this man in town?' said the impatient single gentleman. 'Speak
      faster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No he isn't, but he will be to-morrow, for he lodges in our house,'
      replied Mr Short rapidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then bring him here,' said the single gentleman. 'Here's a sovereign
      a-piece. If I can find these people through your means, it is but a
      prelude to twenty more. Return to me to-morrow, and keep your own counsel
      on this subject&mdash;though I need hardly tell you that; for you'll do so
      for your own sakes. Now, give me your address, and leave me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The address was given, the two men departed, the crowd went with them, and
      the single gentleman for two mortal hours walked in uncommon agitation up
      and down his room, over the wondering heads of Mr Swiveller and Miss Sally
      Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap38"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 38
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it&mdash;for it happens at this juncture, not only that we have breathing
      time to follow his fortunes, but that the necessities of these adventures
      so adapt themselves to our ease and inclination as to call upon us
      imperatively to pursue the track we most desire to take&mdash;Kit, while
      the matters treated of in the last fifteen chapters were yet in progress,
      was, as the reader may suppose, gradually familiarising himself more and
      more with Mr and Mrs Garland, Mr Abel, the pony, and Barbara, and
      gradually coming to consider them one and all as his particular private
      friends, and Abel Cottage, Finchley, as his own proper home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stay&mdash;the words are written, and may go, but if they convey any
      notion that Kit, in the plentiful board and comfortable lodging of his new
      abode, began to think slightingly of the poor fare and furniture of his
      old dwelling, they do their office badly and commit injustice. Who so
      mindful of those he left at home&mdash;albeit they were but a mother and
      two young babies&mdash;as Kit? What boastful father in the fulness of his
      heart ever related such wonders of his infant prodigy, as Kit never
      wearied of telling Barbara in the evening time, concerning little Jacob?
      Was there ever such a mother as Kit's mother, on her son's showing; or was
      there ever such comfort in poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family, if
      any correct judgment might be arrived at, from his own glowing account!
    </p>
    <p>
      And let me linger in this place, for an instant, to remark that if ever
      household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in
      the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home may be
      forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth
      are of the truer metal and bear the stamp of Heaven. The man of high
      descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as part of
      himself: as trophies of his birth and power; his associations with them
      are associations of pride and wealth and triumph; the poor man's
      attachment to the tenements he holds, which strangers have held before,
      and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a
      purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of
      silver, gold, or precious stone; he has no property but in the affections
      of his own heart; and when they endear bare floors and walls, despite of
      rags and toil and scanty fare, that man has his love of home from God, and
      his rude hut becomes a solemn place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh! if those who rule the destinies of nations would but remember this&mdash;if
      they would but think how hard it is for the very poor to have engendered
      in their hearts, that love of home from which all domestic virtues spring,
      when they live in dense and squalid masses where social decency is lost,
      or rather never found&mdash;if they would but turn aside from the wide
      thoroughfares and great houses, and strive to improve the wretched
      dwellings in bye-ways where only Poverty may walk&mdash;many low roofs
      would point more truly to the sky, than the loftiest steeple that now
      rears proudly up from the midst of guilt, and crime, and horrible disease,
      to mock them by its contrast. In hollow voices from Workhouse, Hospital,
      and jail, this truth is preached from day to day, and has been proclaimed
      for years. It is no light matter&mdash;no outcry from the working vulgar&mdash;no
      mere question of the people's health and comforts that may be whistled
      down on Wednesday nights. In love of home, the love of country has its
      rise; and who are the truer patriots or the better in time of need&mdash;those
      who venerate the land, owning its wood, and stream, and earth, and all
      that they produce? or those who love their country, boasting not a foot of
      ground in all its wide domain!
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit knew nothing about such questions, but he knew that his old home was a
      very poor place, and that his new one was very unlike it, and yet he was
      constantly looking back with grateful satisfaction and affectionate
      anxiety, and often indited square-folded letters to his mother, enclosing
      a shilling or eighteenpence or such other small remittance, which Mr
      Abel's liberality enabled him to make. Sometimes being in the
      neighbourhood, he had leisure to call upon her, and then great was the joy
      and pride of Kit's mother, and extremely noisy the satisfaction of little
      Jacob and the baby, and cordial the congratulations of the whole court,
      who listened with admiring ears to the accounts of Abel Cottage, and could
      never be told too much of its wonders and magnificence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although Kit was in the very highest favour with the old lady and
      gentleman, and Mr Abel, and Barbara, it is certain that no member of the
      family evinced such a remarkable partiality for him as the self-willed
      pony, who, from being the most obstinate and opinionated pony on the face
      of the earth, was, in his hands, the meekest and most tractable of
      animals. It is true that in exact proportion as he became manageable by
      Kit he became utterly ungovernable by anybody else (as if he had
      determined to keep him in the family at all risks and hazards), and that,
      even under the guidance of his favourite, he would sometimes perform a
      great variety of strange freaks and capers, to the extreme discomposure of
      the old lady's nerves; but as Kit always represented that this was only
      his fun, or a way he had of showing his attachment to his employers, Mrs
      Garland gradually suffered herself to be persuaded into the belief, in
      which she at last became so strongly confirmed, that if, in one of these
      ebullitions, he had overturned the chaise, she would have been quite
      satisfied that he did it with the very best intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides becoming in a short time a perfect marvel in all stable matters,
      Kit soon made himself a very tolerable gardener, a handy fellow within
      doors, and an indispensable attendant on Mr Abel, who every day gave him
      some new proof of his confidence and approbation. Mr Witherden the notary,
      too, regarded him with a friendly eye; and even Mr Chuckster would
      sometimes condescend to give him a slight nod, or to honour him with that
      peculiar form of recognition which is called 'taking a sight,' or to
      favour him with some other salute combining pleasantry with patronage.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning Kit drove Mr Abel to the Notary's office, as he sometimes did,
      and having set him down at the house, was about to drive off to a livery
      stable hard by, when this same Mr Chuckster emerged from the office door,
      and cried 'Woa-a-a-a-a-a!'&mdash;dwelling upon the note a long time, for
      the purpose of striking terror into the pony's heart, and asserting the
      supremacy of man over the inferior animals.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pull up, Snobby,' cried Mr Chuckster, addressing himself to Kit. 'You're
      wanted inside here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has Mr Abel forgotten anything, I wonder?' said Kit as he dismounted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ask no questions, Snobby,' returned Mr Chuckster, 'but go and see.
      Woa-a-a then, will you? If that pony was mine, I'd break him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must be very gentle with him, if you please,' said Kit, 'or you'll
      find him troublesome. You'd better not keep on pulling his ears, please. I
      know he won't like it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this remonstrance Mr Chuckster deigned no other answer, than addressing
      Kit with a lofty and distant air as 'young feller,' and requesting him to
      cut and come again with all speed. The 'young feller' complying, Mr
      Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and tried to look as if he were
      not minding the pony, but happened to be lounging there by accident.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit scraped his shoes very carefully (for he had not yet lost his
      reverence for the bundles of papers and the tin boxes,) and tapped at the
      office-door, which was quickly opened by the Notary himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! come in, Christopher,' said Mr Witherden.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that the lad?' asked an elderly gentleman, but of a stout, bluff
      figure&mdash;who was in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the lad,' said Mr Witherden. 'He fell in with my client, Mr
      Garland, sir, at this very door. I have reason to think he is a good lad,
      sir, and that you may believe what he says. Let me introduce Mr Abel
      Garland, sir&mdash;his young master; my articled pupil, sir, and most
      particular friend:&mdash;my most particular friend, sir,' repeated the
      Notary, drawing out his silk handkerchief and flourishing it about his
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your servant, sir,' said the stranger gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours, sir, I'm sure,' replied Mr Abel mildly. 'You were wishing to speak
      to Christopher, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I was. Have I your permission?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My business is no secret; or I should rather say it need be no secret
      here,' said the stranger, observing that Mr Abel and the Notary were
      preparing to retire. 'It relates to a dealer in curiosities with whom he
      lived, and in whom I am earnestly and warmly interested. I have been a
      stranger to this country, gentlemen, for very many years, and if I am
      deficient in form and ceremony, I hope you will forgive me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No forgiveness is necessary, sir;&mdash;none whatever,' replied the
      Notary. And so said Mr Abel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been making inquiries in the neighbourhood in which his old master
      lived,' said the stranger, 'and I learn that he was served by this lad. I
      have found out his mother's house, and have been directed by her to this
      place as the nearest in which I should be likely to find him. That's the
      cause of my presenting myself here this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very glad of any cause, sir,' said the Notary, 'which procures me
      the honour of this visit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' retorted the stranger, 'you speak like a mere man of the world, and
      I think you something better. Therefore, pray do not sink your real
      character in paying unmeaning compliments to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' coughed the Notary. 'You're a plain speaker, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a plain dealer,' returned the stranger. 'It may be my long absence
      and inexperience that lead me to the conclusion; but if plain speakers are
      scarce in this part of the world, I fancy plain dealers are still scarcer.
      If my speaking should offend you, sir, my dealing, I hope, will make
      amends.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Witherden seemed a little disconcerted by the elderly gentleman's mode
      of conducting the dialogue; and as for Kit, he looked at him in
      open-mouthed astonishment: wondering what kind of language he would
      address to him, if he talked in that free and easy way to a Notary. It was
      with no harshness, however, though with something of constitutional
      irritability and haste, that he turned to Kit and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing these inquiries with any other
      view than that of serving and reclaiming those I am in search of, you do
      me a very great wrong, and deceive yourself. Don't be deceived, I beg of
      you, but rely upon my assurance. The fact is, gentlemen,' he added,
      turning again to the Notary and his pupil, 'that I am in a very painful
      and wholly unexpected position. I came to this city with a darling object
      at my heart, expecting to find no obstacle or difficulty in the way of its
      attainment. I find myself suddenly checked and stopped short, in the
      execution of my design, by a mystery which I cannot penetrate. Every
      effort I have made to penetrate it, has only served to render it darker
      and more obscure; and I am afraid to stir openly in the matter, lest those
      whom I anxiously pursue, should fly still farther from me. I assure you
      that if you could give me any assistance, you would not be sorry to do so,
      if you knew how greatly I stand in need of it, and what a load it would
      relieve me from.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a simplicity in this confidence which occasioned it to find a
      quick response in the breast of the good-natured Notary, who replied, in
      the same spirit, that the stranger had not mistaken his desire, and that
      if he could be of service to him, he would, most readily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit was then put under examination and closely questioned by the unknown
      gentleman, touching his old master and the child, their lonely way of
      life, their retired habits, and strict seclusion. The nightly absence of
      the old man, the solitary existence of the child at those times, his
      illness and recovery, Quilp's possession of the house, and their sudden
      disappearance, were all the subjects of much questioning and answer.
      Finally, Kit informed the gentleman that the premises were now to let, and
      that a board upon the door referred all inquirers to Mr Sampson Brass,
      Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, from whom he might perhaps learn some further
      particulars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not by inquiry,' said the gentleman shaking his head. 'I live there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Live at Brass's the attorney's!' cried Mr Witherden in some surprise:
      having professional knowledge of the gentleman in question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye,' was the reply. 'I entered on his lodgings t'other day, chiefly
      because I had seen this very board. It matters little to me where I live,
      and I had a desperate hope that some intelligence might be cast in my way
      there, which would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at Brass's&mdash;more
      shame for me, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a mere matter of opinion,' said the Notary, shrugging his
      shoulders. 'He is looked upon as rather a doubtful character.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Doubtful?' echoed the other. 'I am glad to hear there's any doubt about
      it. I supposed that had been thoroughly settled, long ago. But will you
      let me speak a word or two with you in private?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentleman's private closet,
      and remained there, in close conversation, for some quarter of an hour,
      when they returned into the outer office. The stranger had left his hat in
      Mr Witherden's room, and seemed to have established himself in this short
      interval on quite a friendly footing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll not detain you any longer now,' he said, putting a crown into Kit's
      hand, and looking towards the Notary. 'You shall hear from me again. Not a
      word of this, you know, except to your master and mistress.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother, sir, would be glad to know&mdash;' said Kit, faltering.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Glad to know what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anything&mdash;so that it was no harm&mdash;about Miss Nell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would she? Well then, you may tell her if she can keep a secret. But
      mind, not a word of this to anybody else. Don't forget that. Be
      particular.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll take care, sir,' said Kit. 'Thankee, sir, and good morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, it happened that the gentleman, in his anxiety to impress upon Kit
      that he was not to tell anybody what had passed between them, followed him
      out to the door to repeat his caution, and it further happened that at
      that moment the eyes of Mr Richard Swiveller were turned in that
      direction, and beheld his mysterious friend and Kit together.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was quite an accident, and the way in which it came about was this. Mr
      Chuckster, being a gentleman of a cultivated taste and refined spirit, was
      one of that Lodge of Glorious Apollos whereof Mr Swiveller was Perpetual
      Grand. Mr Swiveller, passing through the street in the execution of some
      Brazen errand, and beholding one of his Glorious Brotherhood intently
      gazing on a pony, crossed over to give him that fraternal greeting with
      which Perpetual Grands are, by the very constitution of their office,
      bound to cheer and encourage their disciples. He had scarcely bestowed
      upon him his blessing, and followed it with a general remark touching the
      present state and prospects of the weather, when, lifting up his eyes, he
      beheld the single gentleman of Bevis Marks in earnest conversation with
      Christopher Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hallo!' said Dick, 'who is that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He called to see my Governor this morning,' replied Mr Chuckster; 'beyond
      that, I don't know him from Adam.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At least you know his name?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Mr Chuckster replied, with an elevation of speech becoming a
      Glorious Apollo, that he was 'everlastingly blessed' if he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All I know, my dear feller,' said Mr Chuckster, running his fingers
      through his hair, 'is, that he is the cause of my having stood here twenty
      minutes, for which I hate him with a mortal and undying hatred, and would
      pursue him to the confines of eternity if I could afford the time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were thus discoursing, the subject of their conversation (who
      had not appeared to recognise Mr Richard Swiveller) re-entered the house,
      and Kit came down the steps and joined them; to whom Mr Swiveller again
      propounded his inquiry with no better success.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is a very nice gentleman, Sir,' said Kit, 'and that's all I know about
      him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Chuckster waxed wroth at this answer, and without applying the remark
      to any particular case, mentioned, as a general truth, that it was
      expedient to break the heads of Snobs, and to tweak their noses. Without
      expressing his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr Swiveller after a few
      moments of abstraction inquired which way Kit was driving, and, being
      informed, declared it was his way, and that he would trespass on him for a
      lift. Kit would gladly have declined the proffered honour, but as Mr
      Swiveller was already established in the seat beside him, he had no means
      of doing so, otherwise than by a forcible ejectment, and therefore, drove
      briskly off&mdash;so briskly indeed, as to cut short the leave-taking
      between Mr Chuckster and his Grand Master, and to occasion the former
      gentleman some inconvenience from having his corns squeezed by the
      impatient pony.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Whisker was tired of standing, and Mr Swiveller was kind enough to
      stimulate him by shrill whistles, and various sporting cries, they rattled
      off at too sharp a pace to admit of much conversation: especially as the
      pony, incensed by Mr Swiveller's admonitions, took a particular fancy for
      the lamp-posts and cart-wheels, and evinced a strong desire to run on the
      pavement and rasp himself against the brick walls. It was not, therefore,
      until they had arrived at the stable, and the chaise had been extricated
      from a very small doorway, into which the pony dragged it under the
      impression that he could take it along with him into his usual stall, that
      Mr Swiveller found time to talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's hard work,' said Richard. 'What do you say to some beer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit at first declined, but presently consented, and they adjourned to the
      neighbouring bar together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll drink our friend what's-his-name,' said Dick, holding up the bright
      frothy pot; '&mdash;that was talking to you this morning, you know&mdash;I
      know him&mdash;a good fellow, but eccentric&mdash;very&mdash;here's
      what's-his-name!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit pledged him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He lives in my house,' said Dick; 'at least in the house occupied by the
      firm in which I'm a sort of a&mdash;of a managing partner&mdash;a
      difficult fellow to get anything out of, but we like him&mdash;we like
      him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must be going, sir, if you please,' said Kit, moving away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be in a hurry, Christopher,' replied his patron, 'we'll drink your
      mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An excellent woman that mother of yours, Christopher,' said Mr Swiveller.
      'Who ran to catch me when I fell, and kissed the place to make it well? My
      mother. A charming woman. He's a liberal sort of fellow. We must get him
      to do something for your mother. Does he know her, Christopher?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit shook his head, and glancing slyly at his questioner, thanked him, and
      made off before he could say another word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' said Mr Swiveller pondering, 'this is queer. Nothing but
      mysteries in connection with Brass's house. I'll keep my own counsel,
      however. Everybody and anybody has been in my confidence as yet, but now I
      think I'll set up in business for myself. Queer&mdash;very queer!'
    </p>
    <p>
      After pondering deeply and with a face of exceeding wisdom for some time,
      Mr Swiveller drank some more of the beer, and summoning a small boy who
      had been watching his proceedings, poured forth the few remaining drops as
      a libation on the gravel, and bade him carry the empty vessel to the bar
      with his compliments, and above all things to lead a sober and temperate
      life, and abstain from all intoxicating and exciting liquors. Having given
      him this piece of moral advice for his trouble (which, as he wisely
      observed, was far better than half-pence) the Perpetual Grand Master of
      the Glorious Apollos thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered away:
      still pondering as he went.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0278m.jpg" alt="0278m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0278.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap39"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 39
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ll that day, though he waited for Mr Abel until evening, Kit kept clear
      of his mother's house, determined not to anticipate the pleasures of the
      morrow, but to let them come in their full rush of delight; for to-morrow
      was the great and long looked-for epoch in his life&mdash;to-morrow was
      the end of his first quarter&mdash;the day of receiving, for the first
      time, one fourth part of his annual income of Six Pounds in one vast sum
      of Thirty Shillings&mdash;to-morrow was to be a half-holiday devoted to a
      whirl of entertainments, and little Jacob was to know what oysters meant,
      and to see a play.
    </p>
    <p>
      All manner of incidents combined in favour of the occasion: not only had
      Mr and Mrs Garland forewarned him that they intended to make no deduction
      for his outfit from the great amount, but to pay it him unbroken in all
      its gigantic grandeur; not only had the unknown gentleman increased the
      stock by the sum of five shillings, which was a perfect god-send and in
      itself a fortune; not only had these things come to pass which nobody
      could have calculated upon, or in their wildest dreams have hoped; but it
      was Barbara's quarter too&mdash;Barbara's quarter, that very day&mdash;and
      Barbara had a half-holiday as well as Kit, and Barbara's mother was going
      to make one of the party, and to take tea with Kit's mother, and cultivate
      her acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be sure Kit looked out of his window very early that morning to see
      which way the clouds were flying, and to be sure Barbara would have been
      at hers too, if she had not sat up so late over-night, starching and
      ironing small pieces of muslin, and crimping them into frills, and sewing
      them on to other pieces to form magnificent wholes for next day's wear.
      But they were both up very early for all that, and had small appetites for
      breakfast and less for dinner, and were in a state of great excitement
      when Barbara's mother came in, with astonishing accounts of the fineness
      of the weather out of doors (but with a very large umbrella
      notwithstanding, for people like Barbara's mother seldom make holiday
      without one), and when the bell rang for them to go up stairs and receive
      their quarter's money in gold and silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, wasn't Mr Garland kind when he said 'Christopher, here's your money,
      and you have earned it well;' and wasn't Mrs Garland kind when she said
      'Barbara, here's yours, and I'm much pleased with you;' and didn't Kit
      sign his name bold to his receipt, and didn't Barbara sign her name all a
      trembling to hers; and wasn't it beautiful to see how Mrs Garland poured
      out Barbara's mother a glass of wine; and didn't Barbara's mother speak up
      when she said 'Here's blessing you, ma'am, as a good lady, and you, sir,
      as a good gentleman, and Barbara, my love to you, and here's towards you,
      Mr Christopher;' and wasn't she as long drinking it as if it had been a
      tumblerful; and didn't she look genteel, standing there with her gloves
      on; and wasn't there plenty of laughing and talking among them as they
      reviewed all these things upon the top of the coach, and didn't they pity
      the people who hadn't got a holiday!
    </p>
    <p>
      But Kit's mother, again&mdash;wouldn't anybody have supposed she had come
      of a good stock and been a lady all her life! There she was, quite ready
      to receive them, with a display of tea-things that might have warmed the
      heart of a china-shop; and little Jacob and the baby in such a state of
      perfection that their clothes looked as good as new, though Heaven knows
      they were old enough! Didn't she say before they had sat down five minutes
      that Barbara's mother was exactly the sort of lady she expected, and
      didn't Barbara's mother say that Kit's mother was the very picture of what
      she had expected, and didn't Kit's mother compliment Barbara's mother on
      Barbara, and didn't Barbara's mother compliment Kit's mother on Kit, and
      wasn't Barbara herself quite fascinated with little Jacob, and did ever a
      child show off when he was wanted, as that child did, or make such friends
      as he made!
    </p>
    <p>
      'And we are both widows too!' said Barbara's mother. 'We must have been
      made to know each other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I haven't a doubt about it,' returned Mrs Nubbles. 'And what a pity it is
      we didn't know each other sooner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But then, you know, it's such a pleasure,' said Barbara's mother, 'to
      have it brought about by one's son and daughter, that it's fully made up
      for. Now, an't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, Kit's mother yielded her full assent, and tracing things back
      from effects to causes, they naturally reverted to their deceased
      husbands, respecting whose lives, deaths, and burials, they compared
      notes, and discovered sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful
      exactness; such as Barbara's father having been exactly four years and ten
      months older than Kit's father, and one of them having died on a Wednesday
      and the other on a Thursday, and both of them having been of a very fine
      make and remarkably good-looking, with other extraordinary coincidences.
      These recollections being of a kind calculated to cast a shadow on the
      brightness of the holiday, Kit diverted the conversation to general
      topics, and they were soon in great force again, and as merry as before.
      Among other things, Kit told them about his old place, and the
      extraordinary beauty of Nell (of whom he had talked to Barbara a thousand
      times already); but the last-named circumstance failed to interest his
      hearers to anything like the extent he had supposed, and even his mother
      said (looking accidentally at Barbara at the same time) that there was no
      doubt Miss Nell was very pretty, but she was but a child after all, and
      there were many young women quite as pretty as she; and Barbara mildly
      observed that she should think so, and that she never could help believing
      Mr Christopher must be under a mistake&mdash;which Kit wondered at very
      much, not being able to conceive what reason she had for doubting him.
      Barbara's mother too, observed that it was very common for young folks to
      change at about fourteen or fifteen, and whereas they had been very pretty
      before, to grow up quite plain; which truth she illustrated by many
      forcible examples, especially one of a young man, who, being a builder
      with great prospects, had been particular in his attentions to Barbara,
      but whom Barbara would have nothing to say to; which (though everything
      happened for the best) she almost thought was a pity. Kit said he thought
      so too, and so he did honestly, and he wondered what made Barbara so
      silent all at once, and why his mother looked at him as if he shouldn't
      have said it.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, it was high time now to be thinking of the play; for which great
      preparation was required, in the way of shawls and bonnets, not to mention
      one handkerchief full of oranges and another of apples, which took some
      time tying up, in consequence of the fruit having a tendency to roll out
      at the corners. At length, everything was ready, and they went off very
      fast; Kit's mother carrying the baby, who was dreadfully wide awake, and
      Kit holding little Jacob in one hand, and escorting Barbara with the other&mdash;a
      state of things which occasioned the two mothers, who walked behind, to
      declare that they looked quite family folks, and caused Barbara to blush
      and say, 'Now don't, mother!' But Kit said she had no call to mind what
      they said; and indeed she need not have had, if she had known how very far
      from Kit's thoughts any love-making was. Poor Barbara!
    </p>
    <p>
      At last they got to the theatre, which was Astley's: and in some two
      minutes after they had reached the yet unopened door, little Jacob was
      squeezed flat, and the baby had received divers concussions, and Barbara's
      mother's umbrella had been carried several yards off and passed back to
      her over the shoulders of the people, and Kit had hit a man on the head
      with the handkerchief of apples for 'scrowdging' his parent with
      unnecessary violence, and there was a great uproar. But, when they were
      once past the pay-place and tearing away for very life with their checks
      in their hands, and, above all, when they were fairly in the theatre, and
      seated in such places that they couldn't have had better if they had
      picked them out, and taken them beforehand, all this was looked upon as
      quite a capital joke, and an essential part of the entertainment.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0282m.jpg" alt="0282m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0282.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Dear, dear, what a place it looked, that Astley's; with all the paint,
      gilding, and looking-glass; the vague smell of horses suggestive of coming
      wonders; the curtain that hid such gorgeous mysteries; the clean white
      sawdust down in the circus; the company coming in and taking their places;
      the fiddlers looking carelessly up at them while they tuned their
      instruments, as if they didn't want the play to begin, and knew it all
      beforehand! What a glow was that, which burst upon them all, when that
      long, clear, brilliant row of lights came slowly up; and what the feverish
      excitement when the little bell rang and the music began in good earnest,
      with strong parts for the drums, and sweet effects for the triangles! Well
      might Barbara's mother say to Kit's mother that the gallery was the place
      to see from, and wonder it wasn't much dearer than the boxes; well might
      Barbara feel doubtful whether to laugh or cry, in her flutter of delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the play itself! the horses which little Jacob believed from the
      first to be alive, and the ladies and gentlemen of whose reality he could
      be by no means persuaded, having never seen or heard anything at all like
      them&mdash;the firing, which made Barbara wink&mdash;the forlorn lady, who
      made her cry&mdash;the tyrant, who made her tremble&mdash;the man who sang
      the song with the lady's-maid and danced the chorus, who made her laugh&mdash;the
      pony who reared up on his hind legs when he saw the murderer, and wouldn't
      hear of walking on all fours again until he was taken into custody&mdash;the
      clown who ventured on such familiarities with the military man in boots&mdash;the
      lady who jumped over the nine-and-twenty ribbons and came down safe upon
      the horse's back&mdash;everything was delightful, splendid, and
      surprising! Little Jacob applauded till his hands were sore; Kit cried
      'an-kor' at the end of everything, the three-act piece included; and
      Barbara's mother beat her umbrella on the floor, in her ecstasies, until
      it was nearly worn down to the gingham.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of all these fascinations, Barbara's thoughts seemed to have
      been still running on what Kit had said at tea-time; for, when they were
      coming out of the play, she asked him, with an hysterical simper, if Miss
      Nell was as handsome as the lady who jumped over the ribbons.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As handsome as her?' said Kit. 'Double as handsome.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Christopher! I'm sure she was the beautifullest creature ever was,'
      said Barbara.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense!' returned Kit. 'She was well enough, I don't deny that; but
      think how she was dressed and painted, and what a difference that made.
      Why <i>you </i>are a good deal better looking than her, Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Christopher!' said Barbara, looking down.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are, any day,' said Kit, '&mdash;and so's your mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Barbara!
    </p>
    <p>
      What was all this though&mdash;even all this&mdash;to the extraordinary
      dissipation that ensued, when Kit, walking into an oyster-shop as bold as
      if he lived there, and not so much as looking at the counter or the man
      behind it, led his party into a box&mdash;a private box, fitted up with
      red curtains, white table-cloth, and cruet-stand complete&mdash;and
      ordered a fierce gentleman with whiskers, who acted as waiter and called
      him, him Christopher Nubbles, 'sir,' to bring three dozen of his
      largest-sized oysters, and to look sharp about it! Yes, Kit told this
      gentleman to look sharp, and he not only said he would look sharp, but he
      actually did, and presently came running back with the newest loaves, and
      the freshest butter, and the largest oysters, ever seen. Then said Kit to
      this gentleman, 'a pot of beer'&mdash;just so&mdash;and the gentleman,
      instead of replying, 'Sir, did you address that language to me?' only
      said, 'Pot o' beer, sir? Yes, sir,' and went off and fetched it, and put
      it on the table in a small decanter-stand, like those which blind-men's
      dogs carry about the streets in their mouths, to catch the half-pence in;
      and both Kit's mother and Barbara's mother declared as he turned away that
      he was one of the slimmest and gracefullest young men she had ever looked
      upon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then they fell to work upon the supper in earnest; and there was Barbara,
      that foolish Barbara, declaring that she could not eat more than two, and
      wanting more pressing than you would believe before she would eat four:
      though her mother and Kit's mother made up for it pretty well, and ate and
      laughed and enjoyed themselves so thoroughly that it did Kit good to see
      them, and made him laugh and eat likewise from strong sympathy. But the
      greatest miracle of the night was little Jacob, who ate oysters as if he
      had been born and bred to the business&mdash;sprinkled the pepper and the
      vinegar with a discretion beyond his years&mdash;and afterwards built a
      grotto on the table with the shells. There was the baby too, who had never
      closed an eye all night, but had sat as good as gold, trying to force a
      large orange into his mouth, and gazing intently at the lights in the
      chandelier&mdash;there he was, sitting up in his mother's lap, staring at
      the gas without winking, and making indentations in his soft visage with
      an oyster-shell, to that degree that a heart of iron must have loved him!
      In short, there never was a more successful supper; and when Kit ordered
      in a glass of something hot to finish with, and proposed Mr and Mrs
      Garland before sending it round, there were not six happier people in all
      the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all happiness has an end&mdash;hence the chief pleasure of its next
      beginning&mdash;and as it was now growing late, they agreed it was time to
      turn their faces homewards. So, after going a little out of their way to
      see Barbara and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they were
      to pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the door, with an early
      appointment for returning to Finchley next morning, and a great many plans
      for next quarter's enjoyment. Then, Kit took little Jacob on his back, and
      giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the baby, they all trudged
      merrily home together.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap40"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 40
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ull of that vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next morning,
      Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his faith in last night's enjoyments
      a little shaken by cool daylight and the return to every-day duties and
      occupations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the appointed place.
      And being careful not to awaken any of the little household, who were yet
      resting from their unusual fatigues, Kit left his money on the
      chimney-piece, with an inscription in chalk calling his mother's attention
      to the circumstance, and informing her that it came from her dutiful son;
      and went his way, with a heart something heavier than his pockets, but
      free from any very great oppression notwithstanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh these holidays! why will they leave us some regret? why cannot we push
      them back, only a week or two in our memories, so as to put them at once
      at that convenient distance whence they may be regarded either with a calm
      indifference or a pleasant effort of recollection! why will they hang
      about us, like the flavour of yesterday's wine, suggestive of headaches
      and lassitude, and those good intentions for the future, which, under the
      earth, form the everlasting pavement of a large estate, and, upon it,
      usually endure until dinner-time or thereabouts!
    </p>
    <p>
      Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that Barbara's mother was
      disposed to be cross, or that she slightly underrated Astley's, and
      thought the clown was older than they had taken him to be last night? Kit
      was not surprised to hear her say so&mdash;not he. He had already had a
      misgiving that the inconstant actors in that dazzling vision had been
      doing the same thing the night before last, and would do it again that
      night, and the next, and for weeks and months to come, though he would not
      be there. Such is the difference between yesterday and today. We are all
      going to the play, or coming home from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the Sun himself is weak when he first rises, and gathers strength
      and courage as the day gets on. By degrees, they began to recall
      circumstances more and more pleasant in their nature, until, what between
      talking, walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in such good heart,
      that Barbara's mother declared she never felt less tired or in better
      spirits. And so said Kit. Barbara had been silent all the way, but she
      said so too. Poor little Barbara! She was very quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were at home in such good time that Kit had rubbed down the pony and
      made him as spruce as a race-horse, before Mr Garland came down to
      breakfast; which punctual and industrious conduct the old lady, and the
      old gentleman, and Mr Abel, highly extolled. At his usual hour (or rather
      at his usual minute and second, for he was the soul of punctuality) Mr
      Abel walked out, to be overtaken by the London coach, and Kit and the old
      gentleman went to work in the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was not the least pleasant of Kit's employments. On a fine day they
      were quite a family party; the old lady sitting hard by with her
      work-basket on a little table; the old gentleman digging, or pruning, or
      clipping about with a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some way or
      other with great assiduity; and Whisker looking on from his paddock in
      placid contemplation of them all. To-day they were to trim the grape-vine,
      so Kit mounted half-way up a short ladder, and began to snip and hammer
      away, while the old gentleman, with a great interest in his proceedings,
      handed up the nails and shreds of cloth as he wanted them. The old lady
      and Whisker looked on as usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Christopher,' said Mr Garland, 'and so you have made a new friend,
      eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon, Sir?' returned Kit, looking down from the ladder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have made a new friend, I hear from Mr Abel,' said the old gentleman,
      'at the office!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Yes Sir, yes. He behaved very handsome, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad to hear it,' returned the old gentlemen with a smile. 'He is
      disposed to behave more handsomely still, though, Christopher.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, Sir! It's very kind in him, but I don't want him to, I'm sure,'
      said Kit, hammering stoutly at an obdurate nail.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is rather anxious,' pursued the old gentleman, 'to have you in his own
      service&mdash;take care what you're doing, or you will fall down and hurt
      yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To have me in his service, Sir?' cried Kit, who had stopped short in his
      work and faced about on the ladder like some dexterous tumbler. 'Why, Sir,
      I don't think he can be in earnest when he says that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! But he is indeed,' said Mr Garland. 'And he has told Mr Abel so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never heard of such a thing!' muttered Kit, looking ruefully at his
      master and mistress. 'I wonder at him; that I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland, 'this is a point of much
      importance to you, and you should understand and consider it in that
      light. This gentleman is able to give you more money than I&mdash;not, I
      hope, to carry through the various relations of master and servant, more
      kindness and confidence, but certainly, Christopher, to give you more
      money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Kit, 'after that, Sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait a moment,' interposed Mr Garland. 'That is not all. You were a very
      faithful servant to your old employers, as I understand, and should this
      gentleman recover them, as it is his purpose to attempt doing by every
      means in his power, I have no doubt that you, being in his service, would
      meet with your reward. Besides,' added the old gentleman with stronger
      emphasis, 'besides having the pleasure of being again brought into
      communication with those to whom you seem to be very strongly and
      disinterestedly attached. You must think of all this, Christopher, and not
      be rash or hasty in your choice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit did suffer one twinge, one momentary pang, in keeping the resolution
      he had already formed, when this last argument passed swiftly into his
      thoughts, and conjured up the realization of all his hopes and fancies.
      But it was gone in a minute, and he sturdily rejoined that the gentleman
      must look out for somebody else, as he did think he might have done at
      first.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0288m.jpg" alt="0288m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0288.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'He has no right to think that I'd be led away to go to him, sir,' said
      Kit, turning round again after half a minute's hammering. 'Does he think
      I'm a fool?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse his offer,' said Mr Garland
      gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then let him, sir,' retorted Kit; 'what do I care, sir, what he thinks?
      why should I care for his thinking, sir, when I know that I should be a
      fool, and worse than a fool, sir, to leave the kindest master and mistress
      that ever was or can be, who took me out of the streets a very poor and
      hungry lad indeed&mdash;poorer and hungrier perhaps than even you think
      for, sir&mdash;to go to him or anybody? If Miss Nell was to come back,
      ma'am,' added Kit, turning suddenly to his mistress, 'why that would be
      another thing, and perhaps if she wanted me, I might ask you now and then
      to let me work for her when all was done at home. But when she comes back,
      I see now that she'll be rich as old master always said she would, and
      being a rich young lady, what could she want of me? No, no,' added Kit,
      shaking his head sorrowfully, 'she'll never want me any more, and bless
      her, I hope she never may, though I should like to see her too!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Kit drove a nail into the wall, very hard&mdash;much harder than was
      necessary&mdash;and having done so, faced about again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's the pony, sir,' said Kit&mdash;'Whisker, ma'am (and he knows so
      well I'm talking about him that he begins to neigh directly, Sir)&mdash;would
      he let anybody come near him but me, ma'am? Here's the garden, sir, and Mr
      Abel, ma'am. Would Mr Abel part with me, Sir, or is there anybody that
      could be fonder of the garden, ma'am? It would break mother's heart, Sir,
      and even little Jacob would have sense enough to cry his eyes out, ma'am,
      if he thought that Mr Abel could wish to part with me so soon, after
      having told me, only the other day, that he hoped we might be together for
      years to come&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no telling how long Kit might have stood upon the ladder,
      addressing his master and mistress by turns, and generally turning towards
      the wrong person, if Barbara had not at that moment come running up to say
      that a messenger from the office had brought a note, which, with an
      expression of some surprise at Kit's oratorical appearance, she put into
      her master's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said the old gentleman after reading it, 'ask the messenger to walk
      this way.' Barbara tripping off to do as she was bid, he turned to Kit and
      said that they would not pursue the subject any further, and that Kit
      could not be more unwilling to part with them, than they would be to part
      with Kit; a sentiment which the old lady very generously echoed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the same time, Christopher,' added Mr Garland, glancing at the note in
      his hand, 'if the gentleman should want to borrow you now and then for an
      hour or so, or even a day or so, at a time, we must consent to lend you,
      and you must consent to be lent.&mdash;Oh! here is the young gentleman.
      How do you do, Sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This salutation was addressed to Mr Chuckster, who, with his hat extremely
      on one side, and his hair a long way beyond it, came swaggering up the
      walk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hope I see you well sir,' returned that gentleman. 'Hope I see <i>you </i>well,
      ma'am. Charming box this, sir. Delicious country to be sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You want to take Kit back with you, I find?' observed Mr Garland.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have got a chariot-cab waiting on purpose,' replied the clerk. 'A very
      spanking grey in that cab, sir, if you're a judge of horse-flesh.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Declining to inspect the spanking grey, on the plea that he was but poorly
      acquainted with such matters, and would but imperfectly appreciate his
      beauties, Mr Garland invited Mr Chuckster to partake of a slight repast in
      the way of lunch. That gentleman readily consenting, certain cold viands,
      flanked with ale and wine, were speedily prepared for his refreshment.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this repast, Mr Chuckster exerted his utmost abilities to enchant his
      entertainers, and impress them with a conviction of the mental superiority
      of those who dwelt in town; with which view he led the discourse to the
      small scandal of the day, in which he was justly considered by his friends
      to shine prodigiously. Thus, he was in a condition to relate the exact
      circumstances of the difference between the Marquis of Mizzler and Lord
      Bobby, which it appeared originated in a disputed bottle of champagne, and
      not in a pigeon-pie, as erroneously reported in the newspapers; neither
      had Lord Bobby said to the Marquis of Mizzler, 'Mizzler, one of us two
      tells a lie, and I'm not the man,' as incorrectly stated by the same
      authorities; but 'Mizzler, you know where I'm to be found, and damme, sir,
      find me if you want me'&mdash;which, of course, entirely changed the
      aspect of this interesting question, and placed it in a very different
      light. He also acquainted them with the precise amount of the income
      guaranteed by the Duke of Thigsberry to Violetta Stetta of the Italian
      Opera, which it appeared was payable quarterly, and not half-yearly, as
      the public had been given to understand, and which was <i>ex</i>clusive, and not
      <i>in</i>clusive (as had been monstrously stated,) of jewellery, perfumery,
      hair-powder for five footmen, and two daily changes of kid-gloves for a
      page. Having entreated the old lady and gentleman to set their minds at
      rest on these absorbing points, for they might rely on his statement being
      the correct one, Mr Chuckster entertained them with theatrical chit-chat
      and the court circular; and so wound up a brilliant and fascinating
      conversation which he had maintained alone, and without any assistance
      whatever, for upwards of three-quarters of an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now that the nag has got his wind again,' said Mr Chuckster rising in
      a graceful manner, 'I'm afraid I must cut my stick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither Mr nor Mrs Garland offered any opposition to his tearing himself
      away (feeling, no doubt, that such a man could ill be spared from his
      proper sphere of action), and therefore Mr Chuckster and Kit were shortly
      afterwards upon their way to town; Kit being perched upon the box of the
      cabriolet beside the driver, and Mr Chuckster seated in solitary state
      inside, with one of his boots sticking out at each of the front windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the Notary's house, Kit followed into the office, and
      was desired by Mr Abel to sit down and wait, for the gentleman who wanted
      him had gone out, and perhaps might not return for some time. This
      anticipation was strictly verified, for Kit had had his dinner, and his
      tea, and had read all the lighter matter in the Law-List, and the
      Post-Office Directory, and had fallen asleep a great many times, before
      the gentleman whom he had seen before, came in; which he did at last in a
      very great hurry.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was closeted with Mr Witherden for some little time, and Mr Abel had
      been called in to assist at the conference, before Kit, wondering very
      much what he was wanted for, was summoned to attend them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christopher,' said the gentleman, turning to him directly he entered the
      room, 'I have found your old master and young mistress.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Sir! Have you, though?' returned Kit, his eyes sparkling with
      delight. 'Where are they, Sir? How are they, Sir? Are they&mdash;are they
      near here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A long way from here,' returned the gentleman, shaking his head. 'But I
      am going away to-night to bring them back, and I want you to go with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me, Sir?' cried Kit, full of joy and surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The place,' said the strange gentleman, turning thoughtfully to the
      Notary, 'indicated by this man of the dogs, is&mdash;how far from here&mdash;sixty
      miles?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'From sixty to seventy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph! If we travel post all night, we shall reach there in good time
      to-morrow morning. Now, the only question is, as they will not know me,
      and the child, God bless her, would think that any stranger pursuing them
      had a design upon her grandfather's liberty&mdash;can I do better than
      take this lad, whom they both know and will readily remember, as an
      assurance to them of my friendly intentions?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly not,' replied the Notary. 'Take Christopher by all means.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Kit, who had listened to this discourse
      with a lengthening countenance, 'but if that's the reason, I'm afraid I
      should do more harm than good&mdash;Miss Nell, Sir, she knows me, and
      would trust in me, I am sure; but old master&mdash;I don't know why,
      gentlemen; nobody does&mdash;would not bear me in his sight after he had
      been ill, and Miss Nell herself told me that I must not go near him or let
      him see me any more. I should spoil all that you were doing if I went, I'm
      afraid. I'd give the world to go, but you had better not take me, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Another difficulty!' cried the impetuous gentleman. 'Was ever man so
      beset as I? Is there nobody else that knew them, nobody else in whom they
      had any confidence? Solitary as their lives were, is there no one person
      who would serve my purpose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Is</i> there, Christopher?' said the Notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not one, Sir,' replied Kit.&mdash;'Yes, though&mdash;there's my mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did they know her?' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Know her, Sir! why, she was always coming backwards and forwards. They
      were as kind to her as they were to me. Bless you, Sir, she expected
      they'd come back to her house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then where the devil is the woman?' said the impatient gentleman,
      catching up his hat. 'Why isn't she here? Why is that woman always out of
      the way when she is most wanted?'
    </p>
    <p>
      In a word, the single gentleman was bursting out of the office, bent upon
      laying violent hands on Kit's mother, forcing her into a post-chaise, and
      carrying her off, when this novel kind of abduction was with some
      difficulty prevented by the joint efforts of Mr Abel and the Notary, who
      restrained him by dint of their remonstrances, and persuaded him to sound
      Kit upon the probability of her being able and willing to undertake such a
      journey on so short a notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      This occasioned some doubts on the part of Kit, and some violent
      demonstrations on that of the single gentleman, and a great many soothing
      speeches on that of the Notary and Mr Abel. The upshot of the business
      was, that Kit, after weighing the matter in his mind and considering it
      carefully, promised, on behalf of his mother, that she should be ready
      within two hours from that time to undertake the expedition, and engaged
      to produce her in that place, in all respects equipped and prepared for
      the journey, before the specified period had expired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having given this pledge, which was rather a bold one, and not
      particularly easy of redemption, Kit lost no time in sallying forth, and
      taking measures for its immediate fulfilment.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap41"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 41
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it made his way through the crowded streets, dividing the stream of
      people, dashing across the busy road-ways, diving into lanes and alleys,
      and stopping or turning aside for nothing, until he came in front of the
      Old Curiosity Shop, when he came to a stand; partly from habit and partly
      from being out of breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the old place had never
      looked so dismal as in its dreary twilight. The windows broken, the rusty
      sashes rattling in their frames, the deserted house a dull barrier
      dividing the glaring lights and bustle of the street into two long lines,
      and standing in the midst, cold, dark, and empty&mdash;presented a
      cheerless spectacle which mingled harshly with the bright prospects the
      boy had been building up for its late inmates, and came like a
      disappointment or misfortune. Kit would have had a good fire roaring up
      the empty chimneys, lights sparkling and shining through the windows,
      people moving briskly to and fro, voices in cheerful conversation,
      something in unison with the new hopes that were astir. He had not
      expected that the house would wear any different aspect&mdash;had known
      indeed that it could not&mdash;but coming upon it in the midst of eager
      thoughts and expectations, it checked the current in its flow, and
      darkened it with a mournful shadow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, however, fortunately for himself, was not learned enough or
      contemplative enough to be troubled with presages of evil afar off, and,
      having no mental spectacles to assist his vision in this respect, saw
      nothing but the dull house, which jarred uncomfortably upon his previous
      thoughts. So, almost wishing that he had not passed it, though hardly
      knowing why, he hurried on again, making up by his increased speed for the
      few moments he had lost.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, if she should be out,' thought Kit, as he approached the poor
      dwelling of his mother, 'and I not able to find her, this impatient
      gentleman would be in a pretty taking. And sure enough there's no light,
      and the door's fast. Now, God forgive me for saying so, but if this is
      Little Bethel's doing, I wish Little Bethel was&mdash;was farther off,'
      said Kit checking himself, and knocking at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      A second knock brought no reply from within the house; but caused a woman
      over the way to look out and inquire who that was, awanting Mrs Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me,' said Kit. 'She's at&mdash;at Little Bethel, I suppose?'&mdash;getting
      out the name of the obnoxious conventicle with some reluctance, and laying
      a spiteful emphasis upon the words.
    </p>
    <p>
      The neighbour nodded assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then pray tell me where it is,' said Kit, 'for I have come on a pressing
      matter, and must fetch her out, even if she was in the pulpit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold in question, as
      none of the neighbours were of the flock that resorted thither, and few
      knew anything more of it than the name. At last, a gossip of Mrs
      Nubbles's, who had accompanied her to chapel on one or two occasions when
      a comfortable cup of tea had preceded her devotions, furnished the needful
      information, which Kit had no sooner obtained than he started off again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Bethel might have been nearer, and might have been in a straighter
      road, though in that case the reverend gentleman who presided over its
      congregation would have lost his favourite allusion to the crooked ways by
      which it was approached, and which enabled him to liken it to Paradise
      itself, in contradistinction to the parish church and the broad
      thoroughfare leading thereunto. Kit found it, at last, after some trouble,
      and pausing at the door to take breath that he might enter with becoming
      decency, passed into the chapel.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not badly named in one respect, being in truth a particularly
      little Bethel&mdash;a Bethel of the smallest dimensions&mdash;with a small
      number of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a small gentleman (by
      trade a Shoemaker, and by calling a Divine) was delivering in a by no
      means small voice, a by no means small sermon, judging of its dimensions
      by the condition of his audience, which, if their gross amount were but
      small, comprised a still smaller number of hearers, as the majority were
      slumbering.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter of extreme difficulty
      to keep her eyes open after the fatigues of last night, and feeling their
      inclination to close strongly backed and seconded by the arguments of the
      preacher, had yielded to the drowsiness that overpowered her, and fallen
      asleep; though not so soundly but that she could, from time to time, utter
      a slight and almost inaudible groan, as if in recognition of the orator's
      doctrines. The baby in her arms was as fast asleep as she; and little
      Jacob, whose youth prevented him from recognising in this prolonged
      spiritual nourishment anything half as interesting as oysters, was
      alternately very fast asleep and very wide awake, as his inclination to
      slumber, or his terror of being personally alluded to in the discourse,
      gained the mastery over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now I'm here,' thought Kit, gliding into the nearest empty pew which
      was opposite his mother's, and on the other side of the little aisle, 'how
      am I ever to get at her, or persuade her to come out! I might as well be
      twenty miles off. She'll never wake till it's all over, and there goes the
      clock again! If he would but leave off for a minute, or if they'd only
      sing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was little encouragement to believe that either event would
      happen for a couple of hours to come. The preacher went on telling them
      what he meant to convince them of before he had done, and it was clear
      that if he only kept to one-half of his promises and forgot the other, he
      was good for that time at least.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes about the chapel,
      and happening to let them fall upon a little seat in front of the clerk's
      desk, could scarcely believe them when they showed him&mdash;Quilp!
    </p>
    <p>
      He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted that Quilp was
      there, and there indeed he was, sitting with his hands upon his knees, and
      his hat between them on a little wooden bracket, with the accustomed grin
      on his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He certainly did
      not glance at Kit or at his mother, and appeared utterly unconscious of
      their presence; still Kit could not help feeling, directly, that the
      attention of the sly little fiend was fastened upon them, and upon nothing
      else.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the Little
      Bethelites, and not free from a misgiving that it was the forerunner of
      some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue his wonder and to
      take active measures for the withdrawal of his parent, as the evening was
      now creeping on, and the matter grew serious. Therefore, the next time
      little Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract his wandering attention, and
      this not being a very difficult task (one sneeze effected it), he signed
      to him to rouse his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ill-luck would have it, however, that, just then, the preacher, in a
      forcible exposition of one head of his discourse, leaned over upon the
      pulpit-desk so that very little more of him than his legs remained inside;
      and, while he made vehement gestures with his right hand, and held on with
      his left, stared, or seemed to stare, straight into little Jacob's eyes,
      threatening him by his strained look and attitude&mdash;so it appeared to
      the child&mdash;that if he so much as moved a muscle, he, the preacher,
      would be literally, and not figuratively, 'down upon him' that instant. In
      this fearful state of things, distracted by the sudden appearance of Kit,
      and fascinated by the eyes of the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat bolt
      upright, wholly incapable of motion, strongly disposed to cry but afraid
      to do so, and returning his pastor's gaze until his infant eyes seemed
      starting from their sockets.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I must do it openly, I must,' thought Kit. With that he walked softly
      out of his pew and into his mother's, and as Mr Swiveller would have
      observed if he had been present, 'collared' the baby without speaking a
      word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush, mother!' whispered Kit. 'Come along with me, I've got something to
      tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where am I?' said Mrs Nubbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In this blessed Little Bethel,' returned her son, peevishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Blessed indeed!' cried Mrs Nubbles, catching at the word. 'Oh,
      Christopher, how have I been edified this night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, I know,' said Kit hastily; 'but come along, mother, everybody's
      looking at us. Don't make a noise&mdash;bring Jacob&mdash;that's right!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay, Satan, stay!' cried the preacher, as Kit was moving off.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'This gentleman says you're to stay, Christopher,' whispered his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay, Satan, stay!' roared the preacher again. 'Tempt not the woman that
      doth incline her ear to thee, but harken to the voice of him that calleth.
      He hath a lamb from the fold!' cried the preacher, raising his voice still
      higher and pointing to the baby. 'He beareth off a lamb, a precious lamb!
      He goeth about, like a wolf in the night season, and inveigleth the tender
      lambs!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit was the best-tempered fellow in the world, but considering this strong
      language, and being somewhat excited by the circumstances in which he was
      placed, he faced round to the pulpit with the baby in his arms, and
      replied aloud, 'No, I don't. He's my brother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's <i>my</i> brother!' cried the preacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He isn't,' said Kit indignantly. 'How can you say such a thing? And don't
      call me names if you please; what harm have I done? I shouldn't have come
      to take 'em away, unless I was obliged, you may depend upon that. I wanted
      to do it very quiet, but you wouldn't let me. Now, you have the goodness
      to abuse Satan and them, as much as you like, Sir, and to let me alone if
      you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by his mother and
      little Jacob, and found himself in the open air, with an indistinct
      recollection of having seen the people wake up and look surprised, and of
      Quilp having remained, throughout the interruption, in his old attitude,
      without moving his eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to take the
      smallest notice of anything that passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Kit!' said his mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes, 'what have
      you done! I never can go there again&mdash;never!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad of it, mother. What was there in the little bit of pleasure you
      took last night that made it necessary for you to be low-spirited and
      sorrowful tonight? That's the way you do. If you're happy or merry ever,
      you come here to say, along with that chap, that you're sorry for it. More
      shame for you, mother, I was going to say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush, dear!' said Mrs Nubbles; 'you don't mean what you say I know, but
      you're talking sinfulness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't mean it? But I do mean it!' retorted Kit. 'I don't believe, mother,
      that harmless cheerfulness and good humour are thought greater sins in
      Heaven than shirt-collars are, and I do believe that those chaps are just
      about as right and sensible in putting down the one as in leaving off the
      other&mdash;that's my belief. But I won't say anything more about it, if
      you'll promise not to cry, that's all; and you take the baby that's a
      lighter weight, and give me little Jacob; and as we go along (which we
      must do pretty quick) I'll give you the news I bring, which will surprise
      you a little, I can tell you. There&mdash;that's right. Now you look as if
      you'd never seen Little Bethel in all your life, as I hope you never will
      again; and here's the baby; and little Jacob, you get atop of my back and
      catch hold of me tight round the neck, and whenever a Little Bethel parson
      calls you a precious lamb or says your brother's one, you tell him it's
      the truest things he's said for a twelvemonth, and that if he'd got a
      little more of the lamb himself, and less of the mint-sauce&mdash;not
      being quite so sharp and sour over it&mdash;I should like him all the
      better. That's what you've got to say to him, Jacob.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Talking on in this way, half in jest and half in earnest, and cheering up
      his mother, the children, and himself, by the one simple process of
      determining to be in a good humour, Kit led them briskly forward; and on
      the road home, he related what had passed at the Notary's house, and the
      purpose with which he had intruded on the solemnities of Little Bethel.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mother was not a little startled on learning what service was required
      of her, and presently fell into a confusion of ideas, of which the most
      prominent were that it was a great honour and dignity to ride in a
      post-chaise, and that it was a moral impossibility to leave the children
      behind. But this objection, and a great many others, founded on certain
      articles of dress being at the wash, and certain other articles having no
      existence in the wardrobe of Mrs Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who
      opposed to each and every of them, the pleasure of recovering Nell, and
      the delight it would be to bring her back in triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's only ten minutes now, mother,' said Kit when they reached home.
      'There's a bandbox. Throw in what you want, and we'll be off directly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of things which could,
      by no remote contingency, be wanted, and how he left out everything likely
      to be of the smallest use; how a neighbour was persuaded to come and stop
      with the children, and how the children at first cried dismally, and then
      laughed heartily on being promised all kinds of impossible and unheard-of
      toys; how Kit's mother wouldn't leave off kissing them, and how Kit
      couldn't make up his mind to be vexed with her for doing it; would take
      more time and room than you and I can spare. So, passing over all such
      matters, it is sufficient to say that within a few minutes after the two
      hours had expired, Kit and his mother arrived at the Notary's door, where
      a post-chaise was already waiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With four horses I declare!' said Kit, quite aghast at the preparations.
      'Well you <i>are </i>going to do it, mother! Here she is, Sir. Here's my mother.
      She's quite ready, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's well,' returned the gentleman. 'Now, don't be in a flutter, ma'am;
      you'll be taken great care of. Where's the box with the new clothing and
      necessaries for them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here it is,' said the Notary. 'In with it, Christopher.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, Sir,' replied Kit. 'Quite ready now, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then come along,' said the single gentleman. And thereupon he gave his
      arm to Kit's mother, handed her into the carriage as politely as you
      please, and took his seat beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled the wheels, and off
      they rattled, with Kit's mother hanging out at one window waving a damp
      pocket-handkerchief and screaming out a great many messages to little
      Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a word.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0298m.jpg" alt="0298m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0298.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after them with tears in
      his eyes&mdash;not brought there by the departure he witnessed, but by the
      return to which he looked forward. 'They went away,' he thought, 'on foot
      with nobody to speak to them or say a kind word at parting, and they'll
      come back, drawn by four horses, with this rich gentleman for their
      friend, and all their troubles over! She'll forget that she taught me to
      write&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time to think of, for he
      stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the chaise had
      disappeared, and did not return into the house until the Notary and Mr
      Abel, who had themselves lingered outside till the sound of the wheels was
      no longer distinguishable, had several times wondered what could possibly
      detain him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap42"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 42
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant, and to
      follow the fortunes of little Nell; resuming the thread of the narrative
      at the point where it was left, some chapters back.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the two
      sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sympathy with them and her
      recognition in their trials of something akin to her own loneliness of
      spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such moments a time of deep
      delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded was of that kind which
      lives and dies in tears&mdash;in one of those wanderings at the quiet hour
      of twilight, when sky, and earth, and air, and rippling water, and sound
      of distant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of the solitary child,
      and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of a child's world or its
      easy joys&mdash;in one of those rambles which had now become her only
      pleasure or relief from care, light had faded into darkness and evening
      deepened into night, and still the young creature lingered in the gloom;
      feeling a companionship in Nature so serene and still, when noise of
      tongues and glare of garish lights would have been solitude indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sisters had gone home, and she was alone. She raised her eyes to the
      bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of air, and,
      gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her view, and more beyond, and
      more beyond again, until the whole great expanse sparkled with shining
      spheres, rising higher and higher in immeasurable space, eternal in their
      numbers as in their changeless and incorruptible existence. She bent over
      the calm river, and saw them shining in the same majestic order as when
      the dove beheld them gleaming through the swollen waters, upon the
      mountain tops down far below, and dead mankind, a million fathoms deep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by the
      stillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders. The time and place
      awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope&mdash;less hope,
      perhaps, than resignation&mdash;on the past, and present, and what was yet
      before her. Between the old man and herself there had come a gradual
      separation, harder to bear than any former sorrow. Every evening, and
      often in the day-time too, he was absent, alone; and although she well
      knew where he went, and why&mdash;too well from the constant drain upon
      her scanty purse and from his haggard looks&mdash;he evaded all inquiry,
      maintained a strict reserve, and even shunned her presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it, as it
      were, with everything about her, when the distant church-clock bell struck
      nine. Rising at the sound, she retraced her steps, and turned thoughtfully
      towards the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the stream,
      led into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy light,
      and looking forward more attentively, discerned that it proceeded from
      what appeared to be an encampment of gipsies, who had made a fire in one
      corner at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round
      it. As she was too poor to have any fear of them, she did not alter her
      course (which, indeed, she could not have done without going a long way
      round), but quickened her pace a little, and kept straight on.
    </p>
    <p>
      A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the spot,
      to glance towards the fire. There was a form between it and her, the
      outline strongly developed against the light, which caused her to stop
      abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and were assured that
      it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not that of the
      person she had supposed, she went on again.
    </p>
    <p>
      But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been
      carrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the voice that
      spoke&mdash;she could not distinguish words&mdash;sounded as familiar to
      her as her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned, and looked back. The person had been seated before, but was
      now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which he
      rested both hands. The attitude was no less familiar to her than the tone
      of voice had been. It was her grandfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her first impulse was to call to him; her next to wonder who his
      associates could be, and for what purpose they were together. Some vague
      apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination it
      awakened, she drew nearer to the place; not advancing across the open
      field, however, but creeping towards it by the hedge.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing among
      a few young trees, could both see and hear, without much danger of being
      observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gipsy camps they
      had passed in their wayfaring, and but one gipsy&mdash;a tall athletic
      man, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little
      distance off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black eyelashes,
      at three other men who were there, with a watchful but half-concealed
      interest in their conversation. Of these, her grandfather was one; the
      others she recognised as the first card-players at the public-house on the
      eventful night of the storm&mdash;the man whom they had called Isaac List,
      and his gruff companion. One of the low, arched gipsy-tents, common to
      that people, was pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be,
      empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, are you going?' said the stout man, looking up from the ground
      where he was lying at his ease, into her grandfather's face. 'You were in
      a mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own master, I
      hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't vex him,' returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on the
      other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he seemed to be
      squinting all over; 'he didn't mean any offence.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0301m.jpg" alt="0301m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0301.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me
      besides,' said the old man, turning from one to the other. 'Ye'll drive me
      mad among ye.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The utter irresolution and feebleness of the grey-haired child, contrasted
      with the keen and cunning looks of those in whose hands he was, smote upon
      the little listener's heart. But she constrained herself to attend to all
      that passed, and to note each look and word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Confound you, what do you mean?' said the stout man rising a little, and
      supporting himself on his elbow. 'Keep you poor! You'd keep us poor if you
      could, wouldn't you? That's the way with you whining, puny, pitiful
      players. When you lose, you're martyrs; but I don't find that when you
      win, you look upon the other losers in that light. As to plunder!' cried
      the fellow, raising his voice&mdash;'Damme, what do you mean by such
      ungentlemanly language as plunder, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The speaker laid himself down again at full length, and gave one or two
      short, angry kicks, as if in further expression of his unbounded
      indignation. It was quite plain that he acted the bully, and his friend
      the peacemaker, for some particular purpose; or rather, it would have been
      to any one but the weak old man; for they exchanged glances quite openly,
      both with each other and with the gipsy, who grinned his approval of the
      jest until his white teeth shone again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man stood helplessly among them for a little time, and then said,
      turning to his assailant:
    </p>
    <p>
      'You yourself were speaking of plunder just now, you know. Don't be so
      violent with me. You were, were you not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not of plundering among present company! Honour among&mdash;among
      gentlemen, Sir,' returned the other, who seemed to have been very near
      giving an awkward termination to the sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be hard upon him, Jowl,' said Isaac List. 'He's very sorry for
      giving offence. There&mdash;go on with what you were saying&mdash;go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am,' cried Mr Jowl, 'to be sitting
      here at my time of life giving advice when I know it won't be taken, and
      that I shall get nothing but abuse for my pains. But that's the way I've
      gone through life. Experience has never put a chill upon my
      warm-heartedness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you he's very sorry, don't I?' remonstrated Isaac List, 'and that
      he wishes you'd go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does he wish it?' said the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' groaned the old man sitting down, and rocking himself to and fro.
      'Go on, go on. It's in vain to fight with it; I can't do it; go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I go on then,' said Jowl, 'where I left off, when you got up so quick. If
      you're persuaded that it's time for luck to turn, as it certainly is, and
      find that you haven't means enough to try it (and that's where it is, for
      you know, yourself, that you never have the funds to keep on long enough
      at a sitting), help yourself to what seems put in your way on purpose.
      Borrow it, I say, and, when you're able, pay it back again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' Isaac List struck in, 'if this good lady as keeps the
      wax-works has money, and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to bed,
      and doesn't lock her door for fear of fire, it seems a easy thing; quite a
      Providence, I should call it&mdash;but then I've been religiously brought
      up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, Isaac,' said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing himself
      closer to the old man, while he signed to the gipsy not to come between
      them; 'you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of the
      day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these strangers to get
      under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the cupboard; suspicion
      would be very wide, and would fall a long way from the mark, no doubt. I'd
      give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, whatever the amount
      was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But could you?' urged Isaac List. 'Is your bank strong enough?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Strong enough!' answered the other, with assumed disdain. 'Here, you Sir,
      give me that box out of the straw!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was addressed to the gipsy, who crawled into the low tent on all
      fours, and after some rummaging and rustling returned with a cash-box,
      which the man who had spoken opened with a key he wore about his person.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you see this?' he said, gathering up the money in his hand and letting
      it drop back into the box, between his fingers, like water. 'Do you hear
      it? Do you know the sound of gold? There, put it back&mdash;and don't talk
      about banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of your own.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Isaac List, with great apparent humility, protested that he had never
      doubted the credit of a gentleman so notorious for his honourable dealing
      as Mr Jowl, and that he had hinted at the production of the box, not for
      the satisfaction of his doubts, for he could have none, but with a view to
      being regaled with a sight of so much wealth, which, though it might be
      deemed by some but an unsubstantial and visionary pleasure, was to one in
      his circumstances a source of extreme delight, only to be surpassed by its
      safe depository in his own personal pockets. Although Mr List and Mr Jowl
      addressed themselves to each other, it was remarkable that they both
      looked narrowly at the old man, who, with his eyes fixed upon the fire,
      sat brooding over it, yet listening eagerly&mdash;as it seemed from a
      certain involuntary motion of the head, or twitching of the face from time
      to time&mdash;to all they said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My advice,' said Jowl, lying down again with a careless air, 'is plain&mdash;I
      have given it, in fact. I act as a friend. Why should I help a man to the
      means perhaps of winning all I have, unless I considered him my friend?
      It's foolish, I dare say, to be so thoughtful of the welfare of other
      people, but that's my constitution, and I can't help it; so don't blame
      me, Isaac List.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I blame you!' returned the person addressed; 'not for the world, Mr Jowl.
      I wish I could afford to be as liberal as you; and, as you say, he might
      pay it back if he won&mdash;and if he lost&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're not to take that into consideration at all,' said Jowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But suppose he did (and nothing's less likely, from all I know of
      chances), why, it's better to lose other people's money than one's own, I
      hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' cried Isaac List rapturously, 'the pleasures of winning! The delight
      of picking up the money&mdash;the bright, shining yellow-boys&mdash;and
      sweeping 'em into one's pocket! The deliciousness of having a triumph at
      last, and thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but went
      half-way to meet it! The&mdash;but you're not going, old gentleman?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll do it,' said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three
      hurried steps away, and now returned as hurriedly. 'I'll have it, every
      penny.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that's brave,' cried Isaac, jumping up and slapping him on the
      shoulder; 'and I respect you for having so much young blood left. Ha, ha,
      ha! Joe Jowl's half sorry he advised you now. We've got the laugh against
      him. Ha, ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He gives me my revenge, mind,' said the old man, pointing to him eagerly
      with his shrivelled hand: 'mind&mdash;he stakes coin against coin, down to
      the last one in the box, be there many or few. Remember that!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm witness,' returned Isaac. 'I'll see fair between you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have passed my word,' said Jowl with feigned reluctance, 'and I'll keep
      it. When does this match come off? I wish it was over.&mdash;To-night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must have the money first,' said the old man; 'and that I'll have
      to-morrow&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not to-night?' urged Jowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried,' said the old man.
      'It must be softly done. No, to-morrow night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then to-morrow be it,' said Jowl. 'A drop of comfort here. Luck to the
      best man! Fill!'
</p>
    <p>
The gipsy produced three tin cups, and filled them to the
      brim with brandy. The old man turned aside and muttered to himself before
      he drank. Her own name struck upon the listener's ear, coupled with some
      wish so fervent, that he seemed to breathe it in an agony of supplication.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God be merciful to us!' cried the child within herself, 'and help us in
      this trying hour! What shall I do to save him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The remainder of their conversation was carried on in a lower tone of
      voice, and was sufficiently concise; relating merely to the execution of
      the project, and the best precautions for diverting suspicion. The old man
      then shook hands with his tempters, and withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      They watched his bowed and stooping figure as it retreated slowly, and
      when he turned his head to look back, which he often did, waved their
      hands, or shouted some brief encouragement. It was not until they had seen
      him gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant road, that they
      turned to each other, and ventured to laugh aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So,' said Jowl, warming his hands at the fire, 'it's done at last. He
      wanted more persuading than I expected. It's three weeks ago, since we
      first put this in his head. What'll he bring, do you think?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever he brings, it's halved between us,' returned Isaac List.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other man nodded. 'We must make quick work of it,' he said, 'and then
      cut his acquaintance, or we may be suspected. Sharp's the word.'
    </p>
    <p>
      List and the gipsy acquiesced. When they had all three amused themselves a
      little with their victim's infatuation, they dismissed the subject as one
      which had been sufficiently discussed, and began to talk in a jargon which
      the child did not understand. As their discourse appeared to relate to
      matters in which they were warmly interested, however, she deemed it the
      best time for escaping unobserved; and crept away with slow and cautious
      steps, keeping in the shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path through them
      or the dry ditches, until she could emerge upon the road at a point beyond
      their range of vision. Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could,
      torn and bleeding from the wounds of thorns and briars, but more lacerated
      in mind, and threw herself upon her bed, distracted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight, instant flight;
      dragging him from that place, and rather dying of want upon the roadside,
      than ever exposing him again to such terrible temptations. Then, she
      remembered that the crime was not to be committed until next night, and
      there was the intermediate time for thinking, and resolving what to do.
      Then, she was distracted with a horrible fear that he might be committing
      it at that moment; with a dread of hearing shrieks and cries piercing the
      silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might be tempted
      and led on to do, if he were detected in the act, and had but a woman to
      struggle with. It was impossible to bear such torture. She stole to the
      room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. God be praised!
      He was not there, and she was sleeping soundly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But
      who could sleep&mdash;sleep! who could lie passively down, distracted by
      such terrors? They came upon her more and more strongly yet. Half
      undressed, and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the old man's
      bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's this!' he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her
      spectral face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have had a dreadful dream,' said the child, with an energy that nothing
      but such terrors could have inspired. 'A dreadful, horrible dream. I have
      had it once before. It is a dream of grey-haired men like you, in darkened
      rooms by night, robbing sleepers of their gold. Up, up!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not to me,' said the child, 'not to me&mdash;to Heaven, to save us from
      such deeds! This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I
      cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must
      fly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her as if she were a spirit&mdash;she might have been for all
      the look of earth she had&mdash;and trembled more and more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute,' said the child.
      'Up! and away with me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To-night?' murmured the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, to-night,' replied the child. 'To-morrow night will be too late. The
      dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man rose from his bed: his forehead bedewed with the cold sweat of
      fear: and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel messenger
      sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her. She took him
      by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of the room he had
      proposed to rob, she shuddered and looked up into his face. What a white
      face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!
    </p>
    <p>
      She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding him by the hand as if
      she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered together the little stock
      she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from
      her hands and strapped it on his shoulders&mdash;his staff, too, she had
      brought away&mdash;and then she led him forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the strait streets, and narrow crooked outskirts, their trembling
      feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill too, crowned by the old grey
      castle, they toiled with rapid steps, and had not once looked behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose in all her gentle
      glory, and, from their venerable age, garlanded with ivy, moss, and waving
      grass, the child looked back upon the sleeping town, deep in the valley's
      shade: and on the far-off river with its winding track of light: and on
      the distant hills; and as she did so, she clasped the hand she held, less
      firmly, and bursting into tears, fell upon the old man's neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap43"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 43
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>er momentary weakness past, the child again summoned the resolution which
      had until now sustained her, and, endeavouring to keep steadily in her
      view the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and that
      her grandfather's preservation must depend solely on her firmness, unaided
      by one word of advice or any helping hand, urged him onward and looked
      back no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch before her, and to shrink
      and cower down, as if in the presence of some superior creature, the child
      herself was sensible of a new feeling within her, which elevated her
      nature, and inspired her with an energy and confidence she had never
      known. There was no divided responsibility now; the whole burden of their
      two lives had fallen upon her, and henceforth she must think and act for
      both. 'I have saved him,' she thought. 'In all dangers and distresses, I
      will remember that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At any other time, the recollection of having deserted the friend who had
      shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of justification&mdash;the
      thought that they were guilty, in appearance, of treachery and ingratitude&mdash;even
      the having parted from the two sisters&mdash;would have filled her with
      sorrow and regret. But now, all other considerations were lost in the new
      uncertainties and anxieties of their wild and wandering life; and the very
      desperation of their condition roused and stimulated her.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own to the delicate
      face where thoughtful care already mingled with the winning grace and
      loveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips that
      pressed each other with such high resolve and courage of the heart, the
      slight figure firm in its bearing and yet so very weak, told their silent
      tale; but told it only to the wind that rustled by, which, taking up its
      burden, carried, perhaps to some mother's pillow, faint dreams of
      childhood fading in its bloom, and resting in the sleep that knows no
      waking.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night crept on apace, the moon went down, the stars grew pale and dim,
      and morning, cold as they, slowly approached. Then, from behind a distant
      hill, the noble sun rose up, driving the mists in phantom shapes before
      it, and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till darkness came
      again. When it had climbed higher into the sky, and there was warmth in
      its cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep, upon a bank, hard by
      some water.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, and long after he was
      slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole over her
      at last; her grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they slept side
      by side.
    </p>
    <p>
      A confused sound of voices, mingling with her dreams, awoke her. A man of
      very uncouth and rough appearance was standing over them, and two of his
      companions were looking on, from a long heavy boat which had come close to
      the bank while they were sleeping. The boat had neither oar nor sail, but
      was towed by a couple of horses, who, with the rope to which they were
      harnessed slack and dripping in the water, were resting on the path.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Holloa!' said the man roughly. 'What's the matter here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We were only asleep, Sir,' said Nell. 'We have been walking all night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night,' observed the man who
      had first accosted them. 'One of you is a trifle too old for that sort of
      work, and the other a trifle too young. Where are you going?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the West, upon which the man
      inquired if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more
      questioning, said 'Yes, that was the place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where have you come from?' was the next question; and this being an
      easier one to answer, Nell mentioned the name of the village in which
      their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to
      the men or to provoke further inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought somebody had been robbing and ill-using you, might be,' said
      the man. 'That's all. Good day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Returning his salute and feeling greatly relieved by his departure, Nell
      looked after him as he mounted one of the horses, and the boat went on. It
      had not gone very far, when it stopped again, and she saw the men
      beckoning to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you call to me?' said Nell, running up to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may go with us if you like,' replied one of those in the boat. 'We're
      going to the same place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child hesitated for a moment. Thinking, as she had thought with great
      trepidation more than once before, that the men whom she had seen with her
      grandfather might, perhaps, in their eagerness for the booty, follow them,
      and regaining their influence over him, set hers at nought; and that if
      they went with these men, all traces of them must surely be lost at that
      spot; determined to accept the offer. The boat came close to the bank
      again, and before she had had any more time for consideration, she and her
      grandfather were on board, and gliding smoothly down the canal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun shone pleasantly on the bright water, which was sometimes shaded
      by trees, and sometimes open to a wide extent of country, intersected by
      running streams, and rich with wooded hills, cultivated land, and
      sheltered farms. Now and then, a village with its modest spire, thatched
      roofs, and gable-ends, would peep out from among the trees; and, more than
      once, a distant town, with great church towers looming through its smoke,
      and high factories or workshops rising above the mass of houses, would
      come in view, and, by the length of time it lingered in the distance, show
      them how slowly they travelled. Their way lay, for the most part, through
      the low grounds, and open plains; and except these distant places, and
      occasionally some men working in the fields, or lounging on the bridges
      under which they passed, to see them creep along, nothing encroached on
      their monotonous and secluded track.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell was rather disheartened, when they stopped at a kind of wharf late in
      the afternoon, to learn from one of the men that they would not reach
      their place of destination until next day, and that, if she had no
      provision with her, she had better buy it there. She had but a few pence,
      having already bargained with them for some bread, but even of these it
      was necessary to be very careful, as they were on their way to an utterly
      strange place, with no resource whatever. A small loaf and a morsel of
      cheese, therefore, were all she could afford, and with these she took her
      place in the boat again, and, after half an hour's delay during which the
      men were drinking at the public-house, proceeded on the journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      They brought some beer and spirits into the boat with them, and what with
      drinking freely before, and again now, were soon in a fair way of being
      quarrelsome and intoxicated. Avoiding the small cabin, therefore, which
      was very dark and filthy, and to which they often invited both her and her
      grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the old man by her side:
      listening to their boisterous hosts with a palpitating heart, and almost
      wishing herself safe on shore again though she should have to walk all
      night.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0310m.jpg" alt="0310m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0310.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      They were, in truth, very rugged, noisy fellows, and quite brutal among
      themselves, though civil enough to their two passengers. Thus, when a
      quarrel arose between the man who was steering and his friend in the
      cabin, upon the question who had first suggested the propriety of offering
      Nell some beer, and when the quarrel led to a scuffle in which they beat
      each other fearfully, to her inexpressible terror, neither visited his
      displeasure upon her, but each contented himself with venting it on his
      adversary, on whom, in addition to blows, he bestowed a variety of
      compliments, which, happily for the child, were conveyed in terms, to her
      quite unintelligible. The difference was finally adjusted, by the man who
      had come out of the cabin knocking the other into it head first, and
      taking the helm into his own hands, without evincing the least
      discomposure himself, or causing any in his friend, who, being of a
      tolerably strong constitution and perfectly inured to such trifles, went
      to sleep as he was, with his heels upwards, and in a couple of minutes or
      so was snoring comfortably.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time it was night again, and though the child felt cold, being but
      poorly clad, her anxious thoughts were far removed from her own suffering
      or uneasiness, and busily engaged in endeavouring to devise some scheme
      for their joint subsistence. The same spirit which had supported her on
      the previous night, upheld and sustained her now. Her grandfather lay
      sleeping safely at her side, and the crime to which his madness urged him,
      was not committed. That was her comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      How every circumstance of her short, eventful life, came thronging into
      her mind, as they travelled on! Slight incidents, never thought of or
      remembered until now; faces, seen once and ever since forgotten; words
      scarcely heeded at the time; scenes, of a year ago and those of yesterday,
      mixing up and linking themselves together; familiar places shaping
      themselves out in the darkness from things which, when approached, were,
      of all others, the most remote and most unlike them; sometimes, a strange
      confusion in her mind relative to the occasion of her being there, and the
      place to which she was going, and the people she was with; and imagination
      suggesting remarks and questions which sounded so plainly in her ears,
      that she would start, and turn, and be almost tempted to reply;&mdash;all
      the fancies and contradictions common in watching and excitement and
      restless change of place, beset the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      She happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter the face of the man
      on deck, in whom the sentimental stage of drunkenness had now succeeded to
      the boisterous, and who, taking from his mouth a short pipe, quilted over
      with string for its longer preservation, requested that she would oblige
      him with a song.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a very strong
      memory,' said this gentleman; 'the voice and eye I've got evidence for,
      and the memory's an opinion of my own. And I'm never wrong. Let me hear a
      song this minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think I know one, sir,' returned Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know forty-seven songs,' said the man, with a gravity which admitted
      of no altercation on the subject. 'Forty-seven's your number. Let me hear
      one of 'em&mdash;the best. Give me a song this minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Not knowing what might be the consequences of irritating her friend, and
      trembling with the fear of doing so, poor Nell sang him some little ditty
      which she had learned in happier times, and which was so agreeable to his
      ear, that on its conclusion he in the same peremptory manner requested to
      be favoured with another, to which he was so obliging as to roar a chorus
      to no particular tune, and with no words at all, but which amply made up
      in its amazing energy for its deficiency in other respects. The noise of
      this vocal performance awakened the other man, who, staggering upon deck
      and shaking his late opponent by the hand, swore that singing was his
      pride and joy and chief delight, and that he desired no better
      entertainment. With a third call, more imperative than either of the two
      former, Nell felt obliged to comply, and this time a chorus was maintained
      not only by the two men together, but also by the third man on horseback,
      who being by his position debarred from a nearer participation in the
      revels of the night, roared when his companions roared, and rent the very
      air. In this way, with little cessation, and singing the same songs again
      and again, the tired and exhausted child kept them in good humour all that
      night; and many a cottager, who was roused from his soundest sleep by the
      discordant chorus as it floated away upon the wind, hid his head beneath
      the bed-clothes and trembled at the sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the morning dawned. It was no sooner light than it began to rain
      heavily. As the child could not endure the intolerable vapours of the
      cabin, they covered her, in return for her exertions, with some pieces of
      sail-cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her tolerably dry
      and to shelter her grandfather besides. As the day advanced the rain
      increased. At noon it poured down more hopelessly and heavily than ever
      without the faintest promise of abatement.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had, for some time, been gradually approaching the place for which
      they were bound. The water had become thicker and dirtier; other barges,
      coming from it, passed them frequently; the paths of coal-ash and huts of
      staring brick, marked the vicinity of some great manufacturing town; while
      scattered streets and houses, and smoke from distant furnaces, indicated
      that they were already in the outskirts. Now, the clustered roofs, and
      piles of buildings, trembling with the working of engines, and dimly
      resounding with their shrieks and throbbings; the tall chimneys vomiting
      forth a black vapour, which hung in a dense ill-favoured cloud above the
      housetops and filled the air with gloom; the clank of hammers beating upon
      iron, the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds, gradually augmenting
      until all the various sounds blended into one and none was distinguishable
      for itself, announced the termination of their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged. The men were
      occupied directly. The child and her grandfather, after waiting in vain to
      thank them or ask them whither they should go, passed through a dirty lane
      into a crowded street, and stood, amid its din and tumult, and in the
      pouring rain, as strange, bewildered, and confused, as if they had lived a
      thousand years before, and were raised from the dead and placed there by a
      miracle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap44"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 44
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he throng of people hurried by, in two opposite streams, with no symptom
      of cessation or exhaustion; intent upon their own affairs; and undisturbed
      in their business speculations, by the roar of carts and waggons laden
      with clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet upon the wet and greasy
      pavement, the rattling of the rain on windows and umbrella-tops, the
      jostling of the more impatient passengers, and all the noise and tumult of
      a crowded street in the high tide of its occupation: while the two poor
      strangers, stunned and bewildered by the hurry they beheld but had no part
      in, looked mournfully on; feeling, amidst the crowd, a solitude which has
      no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner, who, tost to and
      fro upon the billows of a mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on
      the water which hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his
      burning tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched
      the faces of those who passed, to find in one among them a ray of
      encouragement or hope. Some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to
      themselves, some made slight gestures, as if anticipating the conversation
      in which they would shortly be engaged, some wore the cunning look of
      bargaining and plotting, some were anxious and eager, some slow and dull;
      in some countenances, were written gain; in others, loss. It was like
      being in the confidence of all these people to stand quietly there,
      looking into their faces as they flitted past. In busy places, where each
      man has an object of his own, and feels assured that every other man has
      his, his character and purpose are written broadly in his face. In the
      public walks and lounges of a town, people go to see and to be seen, and
      there the same expression, with little variety, is repeated a hundred
      times. The working-day faces come nearer to the truth, and let it out more
      plainly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens, the
      child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering interest,
      amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition. But
      cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in which to lay her
      aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the point whence they had
      strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice them, or to whom she durst
      appeal. After some time, they left their place of refuge from the weather,
      and mingled with the concourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer people
      about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own breasts, and
      the same indifference from all around. The lights in the streets and shops
      made them feel yet more desolate, for with their help, night and darkness
      seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body,
      and sick to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness and
      resolution even to creep along.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful
      country places, in which, at least, they might have hungered and thirsted,
      with less suffering than in its squalid strife! They were but an atom,
      here, in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of which increased
      their hopelessness and suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their
      destitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who
      began to murmur at having been led away from their late abode, and demand
      that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no relief or
      prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps through the
      deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to find the boat in
      which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on board that night. But
      here again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed, and some
      fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged them to retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear,' said the child in a weak
      voice, as they turned away from this last repulse; 'and to-morrow we will
      beg our way to some quiet part of the country, and try to earn our bread
      in very humble work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why did you bring me here?' returned the old man fiercely. 'I cannot bear
      these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did you force
      me to leave it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more,' said the child,
      with a momentary firmness that lost itself in tears; 'and we must live
      among poor people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are old
      and weak, I know; but look at me. I never will complain if you will not,
      but I have some suffering indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!' cried the old man,
      clasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious
      face, her travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet; 'has all my
      agony of care brought her to this at last! Was I a happy man once, and
      have I lost happiness and all I had, for this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If we were in the country now,' said the child, with assumed
      cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, we
      should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he
      loved us, and nodding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep,
      thinking of him while he watched. Please God, we shall be there soon&mdash;to-morrow
      or next day at the farthest&mdash;and in the meantime let us think, dear,
      that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and
      hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could
      surely never trace us further. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep
      old doorway&mdash;very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind
      don't blow in here&mdash;What's that!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Uttering a half shriek, she recoiled from a black figure which came
      suddenly out of the dark recess in which they were about to take refuge,
      and stood still, looking at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speak again,' it said; 'do I know the voice?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the child timidly; 'we are strangers, and having no money
      for a night's lodging, were going to rest here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a feeble lamp at no great distance; the only one in the place,
      which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean
      it was. To this, the figure beckoned them; at the same time drawing within
      its rays, as if to show that it had no desire to conceal itself or take
      them at an advantage. The form was that of a man, miserably clad and
      begrimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast with the natural
      colour of his skin, made him look paler than he really was. That he was
      naturally of a very wan and pallid aspect, however, his hollow cheeks,
      sharp features, and sunken eyes, no less than a certain look of patient
      endurance, sufficiently testified. His voice was harsh by nature, but not
      brutal; and though his face, besides possessing the characteristics
      already mentioned, was overshadowed by a quantity of long dark hair, its
      expression was neither ferocious nor bad.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How came you to think of resting there?' he said. 'Or how,' he added,
      looking more attentively at the child, 'do you come to want a place of
      rest at this time of night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our misfortunes,' the grandfather answered, 'are the cause.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know,' said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell, 'how
      wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know it well, God help me,' he replied. 'What can I do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her garments, from which
      the rain was running off in little streams. 'I can give you warmth,' he
      said, after a pause; 'nothing else. Such lodging as I have, is in that
      house,' pointing to the doorway from which he had emerged, 'but she is
      safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you
      can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You
      see that red light yonder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging in the dark sky; the
      dull reflection of some distant fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's not far,' said the man. 'Shall I take you there? You were going to
      sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes&mdash;nothing
      better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he took
      Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had been an infant,
      and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way through
      what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of the town; and
      turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running waterspouts, but
      holding his course, regardless of such obstructions, and making his way
      straight through them. They had proceeded thus, in silence, for some
      quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had
      pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they had come, when it
      suddenly burst upon them again, streaming up from the high chimney of a
      building close before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the place,' he said, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take
      her hand. 'Don't be afraid. There's nobody here will harm you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to enter,
      and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension and alarm. In
      a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great black
      apertures in the upper walls, open to the external air; echoing to the
      roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the
      hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water, and a hundred strange unearthly
      noises never heard elsewhere; in this gloomy place, moving like demons
      among the flame and smoke, dimly and fitfully seen, flushed and tormented
      by the burning fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty blow from any
      one of which must have crushed some workman's skull, a number of men
      laboured like giants. Others, reposing upon heaps of coals or ashes, with
      their faces turned to the black vault above, slept or rested from their
      toil. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace-doors, cast fuel on the
      flames, which came rushing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up
      like oil. Others drew forth, with clashing noise, upon the ground, great
      sheets of glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep
      light like that which reddens in the eyes of savage beasts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through these bewildering sights and deafening sounds, their conductor led
      them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt by
      night and day&mdash;so, at least, they gathered from the motion of his
      lips, for as yet they could only see him speak: not hear him. The man who
      had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present,
      gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend, who, spreading Nell's
      little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang
      her outer-clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and
      sleep. For himself, he took his station on a rugged mat before the
      furnace-door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it
      shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their
      bright hot grave below.
    </p>
    <p>
      The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the great
      fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to fall
      with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in
      lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her
      hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how
      short a time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from
      any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from the
      scorching heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their
      friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with a fixed
      earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very still that
      he did not even seem to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and
      waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that at length she almost
      feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to
      him, ventured to whisper in his ear.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0317m.jpg" alt="0317m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0317.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied, as
      if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, looked
      inquiringly into her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feared you were ill,' she said. 'The other men are all in motion, and
      you are so very quiet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They leave me to myself,' he replied. 'They know my humour. They laugh at
      me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder there&mdash;that's my friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fire?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has been alive as long as I have,' the man made answer. 'We talk and
      think together all night long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his
      eyes in their former direction, and was musing as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's like a book to me,' he said&mdash;'the only book I ever learned to
      read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music, for I should know its
      voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its
      pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I
      trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, that fire, and shows me all my
      life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help remarking
      with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' he said, with a faint smile, 'it was the same when I was quite a
      baby, and crawled about it, till I fell asleep. My father watched it
      then.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Had you no mother?' asked the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, she was dead. Women work hard in these parts. She worked herself to
      death they told me, and, as they said so then, the fire has gone on saying
      the same thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always believed
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Were you brought up here, then?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Summer and winter,' he replied. 'Secretly at first, but when they found
      it out, they let him keep me here. So the fire nursed me&mdash;the same
      fire. It has never gone out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are fond of it?' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall down&mdash;just there,
      where those ashes are burning now&mdash;and wondered, I remember, why it
      didn't help him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you been here ever since?' asked the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever since I came to watch it; but there was a while between, and a very
      cold dreary while it was. It burned all the time though, and roared and
      leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess,
      from looking at me, what kind of child I was, but for all the difference
      between us I was a child, and when I saw you in the street to-night, you
      put me in mind of myself, as I was after he died, and made me wish to
      bring you to the fire. I thought of those old times again, when I saw you
      sleeping by it. You should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child,
      lie down again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes
      with which she had found herself enveloped when she woke, returned to his
      seat, whence he moved no more unless to feed the furnace, but remained
      motionless as a statue. The child continued to watch him for a little
      time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness that came upon her, and, in the
      dark strange place and on the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully as if the
      room had been a palace chamber, and the bed, a bed of down.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she awoke again, broad day was shining through the lofty openings in
      the walls, and, stealing in slanting rays but midway down, seemed to make
      the building darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult were
      still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning fiercely as before;
      for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her friend parted his breakfast&mdash;a scanty mess of coffee and some
      coarse bread&mdash;with the child and her grandfather, and inquired
      whither they were going. She told him that they sought some distant
      country place remote from towns or even other villages, and with a
      faltering tongue inquired what road they would do best to take.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know little of the country,' he said, shaking his head, 'for such as I,
      pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to
      breathe. But there are such places yonder.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And far from here?' said Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road
      lies, too, through miles and miles, all lighted up by fires like ours&mdash;a
      strange black road, and one that would frighten you by night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are here and must go on,' said the child boldly; for she saw that the
      old man listened with anxious ears to this account.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rough people&mdash;paths never made for little feet like yours&mdash;a
      dismal blighted way&mdash;is there no turning back, my child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is none,' cried Nell, pressing forward. 'If you can direct us, do.
      If not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed you do not
      know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from
      it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'God forbid, if it is so!' said their uncouth protector, glancing from the
      eager child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon
      the ground. 'I'll direct you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could
      do more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what
      course they should hold when they had gained it. He lingered so long on
      these instructions, that the child, with a fervent blessing, tore herself
      away, and stayed to hear no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, before they had reached the corner of the lane, the man came running
      after them, and, pressing her hand, left something in it&mdash;two old,
      battered, smoke-encrusted penny pieces. Who knows but they shone as
      brightly in the eyes of angels, as golden gifts that have been chronicled
      on tombs?
    </p>
    <p>
      And thus they separated; the child to lead her sacred charge farther from
      guilt and shame; the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the spot where
      his guests had slept, and read new histories in his furnace fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap45"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 45
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n all their journeying, they had never longed so ardently, they had never
      so pined and wearied, for the freedom of pure air and open country, as
      now. No, not even on that memorable morning, when, deserting their old
      home, they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a strange world, and
      left all the dumb and senseless things they had known and loved, behind&mdash;not
      even then, had they so yearned for the fresh solitudes of wood, hillside,
      and field, as now, when the noise and dirt and vapour, of the great
      manufacturing town reeking with lean misery and hungry wretchedness,
      hemmed them in on every side, and seemed to shut out hope, and render
      escape impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two days and nights!' thought the child. 'He said two days and nights we
      should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh! if we live to reach
      the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, though
      it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank
      God for so much mercy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With thoughts like this, and with some vague design of travelling to a
      great distance among streams and mountains, where only very poor and
      simple people lived, and where they might maintain themselves by very
      humble helping work in farms, free from such terrors as that from which
      they fled&mdash;the child, with no resource but the poor man's gift, and
      no encouragement but that which flowed from her own heart, and its sense
      of the truth and right of what she did, nerved herself to this last
      journey and boldly pursued her task.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall be very slow to-day, dear,' she said, as they toiled painfully
      through the streets; 'my feet are sore, and I have pains in all my limbs
      from the wet of yesterday. I saw that he looked at us and thought of that,
      when he said how long we should be upon the road.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a dreary way he told us of,' returned her grandfather, piteously.
      'Is there no other road? Will you not let me go some other way than this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Places lie beyond these,' said the child, firmly, 'where we may live in
      peace, and be tempted to do no harm. We will take the road that promises
      to have that end, and we would not turn out of it, if it were a hundred
      times worse than our fears lead us to expect. We would not, dear, would
      we?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no less than in his
      manner. 'No. Let us go on. I am ready. I am quite ready, Nell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child walked with more difficulty than she had led her companion to
      expect, for the pains that racked her joints were of no common severity,
      and every exertion increased them. But they wrung from her no complaint,
      or look of suffering; and, though the two travellers proceeded very
      slowly, they did proceed. Clearing the town in course of time, they began
      to feel that they were fairly on their way.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long suburb of red brick houses&mdash;some with patches of
      garden-ground, where coal-dust and factory smoke darkened the shrinking
      leaves, and coarse rank flowers, and where the struggling vegetation
      sickened and sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace, making them by
      its presence seem yet more blighting and unwholesome than in the town
      itself&mdash;a long, flat, straggling suburb passed, they came, by slow
      degrees, upon a cheerless region, where not a blade of grass was seen to
      grow, where not a bud put forth its promise in the spring, where nothing
      green could live but on the surface of the stagnant pools, which here and
      there lay idly sweltering by the black road-side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Advancing more and more into the shadow of this mournful place, its dark
      depressing influence stole upon their spirits, and filled them with a
      dismal gloom. On every side, and far as the eye could see into the heavy
      distance, tall chimneys, crowding on each other, and presenting that
      endless repetition of the same dull, ugly form, which is the horror of
      oppressive dreams, poured out their plague of smoke, obscured the light,
      and made foul the melancholy air. On mounds of ashes by the wayside,
      sheltered only by a few rough boards, or rotten pent-house roofs, strange
      engines spun and writhed like tortured creatures; clanking their iron
      chains, shrieking in their rapid whirl from time to time as though in
      torment unendurable, and making the ground tremble with their agonies.
      Dismantled houses here and there appeared, tottering to the earth, propped
      up by fragments of others that had fallen down, unroofed, windowless,
      blackened, desolate, but yet inhabited. Men, women, children, wan in their
      looks and ragged in attire, tended the engines, fed their tributary fire,
      begged upon the road, or scowled half-naked from the doorless houses. Then
      came more of the wrathful monsters, whose like they almost seemed to be in
      their wildness and their untamed air, screeching and turning round and
      round again; and still, before, behind, and to the right and left, was the
      same interminable perspective of brick towers, never ceasing in their
      black vomit, blasting all things living or inanimate, shutting out the
      face of day, and closing in on all these horrors with a dense dark cloud.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0323m.jpg" alt="0323m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0323.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      But night-time in this dreadful spot!&mdash;night, when the smoke was
      changed to fire; when every chimney spirited up its flame; and places,
      that had been dark vaults all day, now shone red-hot, with figures moving
      to and fro within their blazing jaws, and calling to one another with
      hoarse cries&mdash;night, when the noise of every strange machine was
      aggravated by the darkness; when the people near them looked wilder and
      more savage; when bands of unemployed labourers paraded the roads, or
      clustered by torch-light round their leaders, who told them, in stern
      language, of their wrongs, and urged them on to frightful cries and
      threats; when maddened men, armed with sword and firebrand, spurning the
      tears and prayers of women who would restrain them, rushed forth on
      errands of terror and destruction, to work no ruin half so surely as their
      own&mdash;night, when carts came rumbling by, filled with rude coffins
      (for contagious disease and death had been busy with the living crops);
      when orphans cried, and distracted women shrieked and followed in their
      wake&mdash;night, when some called for bread, and some for drink to drown
      their cares, and some with tears, and some with staggering feet, and some
      with bloodshot eyes, went brooding home&mdash;night, which, unlike the
      night that Heaven sends on earth, brought with it no peace, nor quiet, nor
      signs of blessed sleep&mdash;who shall tell the terrors of the night to
      the young wandering child!
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet she lay down, with nothing between her and the sky; and, with no
      fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor
      old man. So very weak and spent, she felt, so very calm and unresisting,
      that she had no thought of any wants of her own, but prayed that God would
      raise up some friend for him. She tried to recall the way they had come,
      and to look in the direction where the fire by which they had slept last
      night was burning. She had forgotten to ask the name of the poor man,
      their friend, and when she had remembered him in her prayers, it seemed
      ungrateful not to turn one look towards the spot where he was watching.
    </p>
    <p>
      A penny loaf was all they had had that day. It was very little, but even
      hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquillity that crept over her
      senses. She lay down, very gently, and, with a quiet smile upon her face,
      fell into a slumber. It was not like sleep&mdash;and yet it must have
      been, or why those pleasant dreams of the little scholar all night long!
      Morning came. Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and hearing,
      and yet the child made no complaint&mdash;perhaps would have made none,
      even if she had not had that inducement to be silent, travelling by her
      side. She felt a hopelessness of their ever being extricated together from
      that forlorn place; a dull conviction that she was very ill, perhaps
      dying; but no fear or anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      A loathing of food that she was not conscious of until they expended their
      last penny in the purchase of another loaf, prevented her partaking even
      of this poor repast. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to
      see.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety or
      improvement. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the same
      blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery and distress.
      Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the path more rugged and
      uneven, for sometimes she stumbled, and became roused, as it were, in the
      effort to prevent herself from falling. Poor child! the cause was in her
      tottering feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards the afternoon, her grandfather complained bitterly of hunger. She
      approached one of the wretched hovels by the way-side, and knocked with
      her hand upon the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What would you have here?' said a gaunt man, opening it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Charity. A morsel of bread.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you see that?' returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a kind of bundle
      on the ground. 'That's a dead child. I and five hundred other men were
      thrown out of work, three months ago. That is my third dead child, and
      last. Do you think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of bread to
      spare?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child recoiled from the door, and it closed upon her. Impelled by
      strong necessity, she knocked at another: a neighbouring one, which,
      yielding to the slight pressure of her hand, flew open.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed that a couple of poor families lived in this hovel, for two
      women, each among children of her own, occupied different portions of the
      room. In the centre, stood a grave gentleman in black who appeared to have
      just entered, and who held by the arm a boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, woman,' he said, 'here's your deaf and dumb son. You may thank me
      for restoring him to you. He was brought before me, this morning, charged
      with theft; and with any other boy it would have gone hard, I assure you.
      But, as I had compassion on his infirmities, and thought he might have
      learnt no better, I have managed to bring him back to you. Take more care
      of him for the future.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And won't you give me back <i>my</i> son!' said the other woman, hastily rising
      and confronting him. 'Won't you give me back <i>my</i> son, Sir, who was
      transported for the same offence!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was he deaf and dumb, woman?' asked the gentleman sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was he not, Sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know he was not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was,' cried the woman. 'He was deaf, dumb, and blind, to all that was
      good and right, from his cradle. Her boy may have learnt no better! where
      did mine learn better? where could he? who was there to teach him better,
      or where was it to be learnt?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Peace, woman,' said the gentleman, 'your boy was in possession of all his
      senses.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was,' cried the mother; 'and he was the more easy to be led astray
      because he had them. If you save this boy because he may not know right
      from wrong, why did you not save mine who was never taught the difference?
      You gentlemen have as good a right to punish her boy, that God has kept in
      ignorance of sound and speech, as you have to punish mine, that you kept
      in ignorance yourselves. How many of the girls and boys&mdash;ah, men and
      women too&mdash;that are brought before you and you don't pity, are deaf
      and dumb in their minds, and go wrong in that state, and are punished in
      that state, body and soul, while you gentlemen are quarrelling among
      yourselves whether they ought to learn this or that?&mdash;Be a just man,
      Sir, and give me back my son.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are desperate,' said the gentleman, taking out his snuff-box, 'and I
      am sorry for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I <i>am</i> desperate,' returned the woman, 'and you have made me so. Give me
      back my son, to work for these helpless children. Be a just man, Sir, and,
      as you have had mercy upon this boy, give me back my son!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child had seen and heard enough to know that this was not a place at
      which to ask for alms. She led the old man softly from the door, and they
      pursued their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      With less and less of hope or strength, as they went on, but with an
      undiminished resolution not to betray by any word or sigh her sinking
      state, so long as she had energy to move, the child, throughout the
      remainder of that hard day, compelled herself to proceed: not even
      stopping to rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure for
      the tardy pace at which she was obliged to walk. Evening was drawing on,
      but had not closed in, when&mdash;still travelling among the same dismal
      objects&mdash;they came to a busy town.
    </p>
    <p>
      Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were insupportable. After
      humbly asking for relief at some few doors, and being repulsed, they
      agreed to make their way out of it as speedily as they could, and try if
      the inmates of any lone house beyond, would have more pity on their
      exhausted state.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child
      felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers would bear
      no more. There appeared before them, at this juncture, going in the same
      direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a portmanteau
      strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked, and read
      from a book which he held in his other hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and beseech his aid, for he
      walked fast, and was a little distance in advance. At length, he stopped,
      to look more attentively at some passage in his book. Animated with a ray
      of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the
      stranger without rousing him by the sound of her footsteps, began, in a
      few faint words, to implore his help.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, uttered a wild
      shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap46"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 46
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the poor schoolmaster.
      Scarcely less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than she had
      been on recognising him, he stood, for a moment, silent and confounded by
      this unexpected apparition, without even the presence of mind to raise her
      from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick and
      book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured, by such simple
      means as occurred to him, to restore her to herself; while her
      grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with many
      endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is quite exhausted,' said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his
      face. 'You have taxed her powers too far, friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is perishing of want,' rejoined the old man. 'I never thought how
      weak and ill she was, till now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate, the
      schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man gather
      up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at his utmost
      speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had been
      directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this place he
      hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and
      calling upon the company there assembled to make way for God's sake,
      deposited it on a chair before the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      The company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster's entrance, did as
      people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody called for his or
      her favourite remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more air, at
      the same time carefully excluding what air there was, by closing round the
      object of sympathy; and all wondered why somebody else didn't do what it
      never appeared to occur to them might be done by themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness and activity than any
      of them, and who had withal a quicker perception of the merits of the
      case, soon came running in, with a little hot brandy and water, followed
      by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling-salts, and such
      other restoratives; which, being duly administered, recovered the child so
      far as to enable her to thank them in a faint voice, and to extend her
      hand to the poor schoolmaster, who stood, with an anxious face, hard by.
      Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much as to stir a
      finger any more, the women straightway carried her off to bed; and, having
      covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel,
      they despatched a messenger for the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of seals
      dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with all speed,
      and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and
      felt her pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse
      again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied wine-glass as if in
      profound abstraction.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0328m.jpg" alt="0328m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0328.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I should give her,' said the doctor at length, 'a tea-spoonful, every now
      and then, of hot brandy and water.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!' said the delighted landlady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should also,' observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath on the
      stairs, 'I should also,' said the doctor, in the voice of an oracle, 'put
      her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise,'
      said the doctor with increased solemnity, 'give her something light for
      supper&mdash;the wing of a roasted fowl now&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this
      instant!' cried the landlady. And so indeed it was, for the schoolmaster
      had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the
      doctor might have smelt it if he had tried; perhaps he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may then,' said the doctor, rising gravely, 'give her a glass of hot
      mulled port wine, if she likes wine&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a toast, Sir?' suggested the landlady.
</p>
    <p>
'Ay,' said the doctor, in the
      tone of a man who makes a dignified concession. 'And a toast&mdash;of
      bread. But be very particular to make it of bread, if you please, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously delivered, the
      doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that wisdom
      which tallied so closely with their own. Everybody said he was a very
      shrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions were;
      which there appears some reason to suppose he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep,
      from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she
      evinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was
      below stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their
      being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her still very restless
      on this head, they made him up a bed in an inner room, to which he
      presently retired. The key of this chamber happened by good fortune to be
      on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; she turned it on him
      when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to bed again with a thankful
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire,
      which was now deserted, thinking, with a very happy face, on the fortunate
      chance which had brought him so opportunely to the child's assistance, and
      parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the inquisitive
      cross-examination of the landlady, who had a great curiosity to be made
      acquainted with every particular of Nell's life and history. The poor
      schoolmaster was so open-hearted, and so little versed in the most
      ordinary cunning or deceit, that she could not have failed to succeed in
      the first five minutes, but that he happened to be unacquainted with what
      she wished to know; and so he told her. The landlady, by no means
      satisfied with this assurance, which she considered an ingenious evasion
      of the question, rejoined that he had his reasons of course. Heaven forbid
      that she should wish to pry into the affairs of her customers, which
      indeed were no business of hers, who had so many of her own. She had
      merely asked a civil question, and to be sure she knew it would meet with
      a civil answer. She was quite satisfied&mdash;quite. She had rather
      perhaps that he would have said at once that he didn't choose to be
      communicative, because that would have been plain and intelligible.
      However, she had no right to be offended of course. He was the best judge,
      and had a perfect right to say what he pleased; nobody could dispute that
      for a moment. Oh dear, no!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I assure you, my good lady,' said the mild schoolmaster, 'that I have
      told you the plain truth. As I hope to be saved, I have told you the
      truth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then, I do believe you are in earnest,' rejoined the landlady, with
      ready good-humour, 'and I'm very sorry I have teazed you. But curiosity
      you know is the curse of our sex, and that's the fact.'
</p>
    <p>
The landlord
      scratched his head, as if he thought the curse sometimes involved the
      other sex likewise; but he was prevented from making any remark to that
      effect, if he had it in contemplation to do so, by the schoolmaster's
      rejoinder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a sitting, and welcome,
      and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart you have shown
      to-night, if I could,' he said. 'As it is, please to take care of her in
      the morning, and let me know early how she is; and to understand that I am
      paymaster for the three.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So, parting with them on most friendly terms (not the less cordial perhaps
      for this last direction), the schoolmaster went to his bed, and the host
      and hostess to theirs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The report in the morning was, that the child was better, but was
      extremely weak, and would at least require a day's rest, and careful
      nursing, before she could proceed upon her journey. The schoolmaster
      received this communication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that he
      had a day to spare&mdash;two days for that matter&mdash;and could very
      well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he
      appointed to visit her in her room at a certain hour, and rambling out
      with his book, did not return until the hour arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at
      sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a
      few tears himself, at the same time showing in very energetic language how
      foolish it was to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided, if one
      tried.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness' said the
      child, 'to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank
      you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he would
      have been left alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll not talk about dying,' said the schoolmaster; 'and as to burdens, I
      have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' cried the child joyfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes,' returned her friend. 'I have been appointed clerk and
      schoolmaster to a village a long way from here&mdash;and a long way from
      the old one as you may suppose&mdash;at five-and-thirty pounds a year.
      Five-and-thirty pounds!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very glad,' said the child, 'so very, very glad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am on my way there now,' resumed the schoolmaster. 'They allowed me the
      stage-coach-hire&mdash;outside stage-coach-hire all the way. Bless you,
      they grudge me nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there, left
      me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How glad I am, to think I
      did so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How glad should we be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair,
      'certainly, that's very true. But you&mdash;where are you going, where are
      you coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had you
      been doing before? Now, tell me&mdash;do tell me. I know very little of
      the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its affairs
      than I am qualified to give advice to you; but I am very sincere, and I
      have a reason (you have not forgotten it) for loving you. I have felt
      since that time as if my love for him who died, had been transferred to
      you who stood beside his bed. If this,' he added, looking upwards, 'is the
      beautiful creation that springs from ashes, let its peace prosper with me,
      as I deal tenderly and compassionately by this young child!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate
      earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon his
      every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the utmost
      arts of treachery and dissimulation could never have awakened in her
      breast. She told him all&mdash;that they had no friend or relative&mdash;that
      she had fled with the old man, to save him from a madhouse and all the
      miseries he dreaded&mdash;that she was flying now, to save him from
      himself&mdash;and that she sought an asylum in some remote and primitive
      place, where the temptation before which he fell would never enter, and
      her late sorrows and distresses could have no place.
    </p>
    <p>
      The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. 'This child!'&mdash;he
      thought&mdash;'Has this child heroically persevered under all doubts and
      dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by
      strong affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone! And yet the
      world is full of such heroism. Have I yet to learn that the hardest and
      best-borne trials are those which are never chronicled in any earthly
      record, and are suffered every day! And should I be surprised to hear the
      story of this child!'
    </p>
    <p>
      What more he thought or said, matters not. It was concluded that Nell and
      her grandfather should accompany him to the village whither he was bound,
      and that he should endeavour to find them some humble occupation by which
      they could subsist. 'We shall be sure to succeed,' said the schoolmaster,
      heartily. 'The cause is too good a one to fail.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a
      stage-waggon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as they
      must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver for a
      small gratuity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon struck
      when the waggon came; and in due time it rolled away; with the child
      comfortably bestowed among the softer packages, her grandfather and the
      schoolmaster walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the
      good folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes and farewells.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside that
      slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells,
      the occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the
      great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good-nights of
      passing travellers jogging past on little short-stepped horses&mdash;all
      made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning, which seemed made for lazy
      listening under, till one fell asleep! The very going to sleep, still with
      an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of
      moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing all these sounds
      like dreamy music, lulling to the senses&mdash;and the slow waking up, and
      finding one's self staring out through the breezy curtain half-opened in
      the front, far up into the cold bright sky with its countless stars, and
      downward at the driver's lantern dancing on like its namesake Jack of the
      swamps and marshes, and sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at
      the long bare road rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp
      high ridge as if there were no more road, and all beyond was sky&mdash;and
      the stopping at the inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a
      room with fire and candles, and winking very much, and being agreeably
      reminded that the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to
      think it colder than it was!&mdash;What a delicious journey was that
      journey in the waggon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the going on again&mdash;so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards so
      sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like a
      highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions of a
      guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman in a
      fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied&mdash;the stopping
      at the turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at the door
      until he answered with a smothered shout from under the bed-clothes in the
      little room above, where the faint light was burning, and presently came
      down, night-capped and shivering, to throw the gate wide open, and wish
      all waggons off the road except by day. The cold sharp interval between
      night and morning&mdash;the distant streak of light widening and
      spreading, and turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and
      from yellow to burning red&mdash;the presence of day, with all its
      cheerfulness and life&mdash;men and horses at the plough&mdash;birds in
      the trees and hedges, and boys in solitary fields, frightening them away
      with rattles. The coming to a town&mdash;people busy in the markets; light
      carts and chaises round the tavern yard; tradesmen standing at their
      doors; men running horses up and down the street for sale; pigs plunging
      and grunting in the dirty distance, getting off with long strings at their
      legs, running into clean chemists' shops and being dislodged with brooms
      by 'prentices; the night coach changing horses&mdash;the passengers
      cheerless, cold, ugly, and discontented, with three months' growth of hair
      in one night&mdash;the coachman fresh as from a band-box, and exquisitely
      beautiful by contrast:&mdash;so much bustle, so many things in motion,
      such a variety of incidents&mdash;when was there a journey with so many
      delights as that journey in the waggon!
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, and
      sometimes even prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take her place and lie
      down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily until they came to a large
      town, where the waggon stopped, and where they spent a night. They passed
      a large church; and in the streets were a number of old houses, built of a
      kind of earth or plaster, crossed and re-crossed in a great many
      directions with black beams, which gave them a remarkable and very ancient
      look. The doors, too, were arched and low, some with oaken portals and
      quaint benches, where the former inhabitants had sat on summer evenings.
      The windows were latticed in little diamond panes, that seemed to wink and
      blink upon the passengers as if they were dim of sight. They had long
      since got clear of the smoke and furnaces, except in one or two solitary
      instances, where a factory planted among fields withered the space about
      it, like a burning mountain. When they had passed through this town, they
      entered again upon the country, and began to draw near their place of
      destination.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon the
      road; not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but that the
      schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles of his village, had
      a fidgety sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was unwilling to make
      his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered dress. It was a fine,
      clear, autumn morning, when they came upon the scene of his promotion, and
      stopped to contemplate its beauties.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See&mdash;here's the church!' cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low
      voice; 'and that old building close beside it, is the schoolhouse, I'll be
      sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a-year in this beautiful place!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They admired everything&mdash;the old grey porch, the mullioned windows,
      the venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower,
      the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and
      homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the
      distant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away. It was for such a
      spot the child had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of labour.
      Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through which they
      had forced their way, visions of such scenes&mdash;beautiful indeed, but
      not more beautiful than this sweet reality&mdash;had been always present
      to her mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy distance, as the
      prospect of ever beholding them again grew fainter; but, as they receded,
      she had loved and panted for them more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes,' said the schoolmaster, at
      length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their gladness.
      'I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you know. Where shall
      I take you? To the little inn yonder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us wait here,' rejoined Nell. 'The gate is open. We will sit in the
      church porch till you come back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A good place too,' said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it,
      disencumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on the stone
      seat. 'Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So, the happy schoolmaster put on a bran-new pair of gloves which he had
      carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off,
      full of ardour and excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage hid him
      from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old churchyard&mdash;so
      solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon the fallen leaves,
      which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless, seemed an
      invasion of its silence. It was a very aged, ghostly place; the church had
      been built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had a convent or
      monastery attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and
      fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing; while other portions of
      the old building, which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled
      with the churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they too claimed
      a burying-place and sought to mix their ashes with the dust of men. Hard
      by these gravestones of dead years, and forming a part of the ruin which
      some pains had been taken to render habitable in modern times, were two
      small dwellings with sunken windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to
      decay, empty and desolate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively
      riveted. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated graves,
      had equal claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from the moment
      when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could turn to
      nothing else. Even when she had made the circuit of the enclosure, and,
      returning to the porch, sat pensively waiting for their friend, she took
      her station where she could still look upon them, and felt as if
      fascinated towards that spot.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0335m.jpg" alt="0335m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0335.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap47"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 47
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it's mother and the single gentleman&mdash;upon whose track it is
      expedient to follow with hurried steps, lest this history should be
      chargeable with inconstancy, and the offence of leaving its characters in
      situations of uncertainty and doubt&mdash;Kit's mother and the single
      gentleman, speeding onward in the post-chaise-and-four whose departure
      from the Notary's door we have already witnessed, soon left the town
      behind them, and struck fire from the flints of the broad highway.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the novelty of her
      situation, and certain material apprehensions that perhaps by this time
      little Jacob, or the baby, or both, had fallen into the fire, or tumbled
      down stairs, or had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded their
      windpipes in endeavouring to allay their thirst at the spouts of
      tea-kettles, preserved an uneasy silence; and meeting from the window the
      eyes of turnpike-men, omnibus-drivers, and others, felt in the new dignity
      of her position like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being greatly
      afflicted by the loss of the departed, recognizes his every-day
      acquaintance from the window of the mourning coach, but is constrained to
      preserve a decent solemnity, and the appearance of being indifferent to
      all external objects.
    </p>
    <p>
      To have been indifferent to the companionship of the single gentleman
      would have been tantamount to being gifted with nerves of steel. Never did
      chaise inclose, or horses draw, such a restless gentleman as he. He never
      sat in the same position for two minutes together, but was perpetually
      tossing his arms and legs about, pulling up the sashes and letting them
      violently down, or thrusting his head out of one window to draw it in
      again and thrust it out of another. He carried in his pocket, too, a
      fire-box of mysterious and unknown construction; and as sure as ever Kit's
      mother closed her eyes, so surely&mdash;whisk, rattle, fizz&mdash;there
      was the single gentleman consulting his watch by a flame of fire, and
      letting the sparks fall down among the straw as if there were no such
      thing as a possibility of himself and Kit's mother being roasted alive
      before the boys could stop their horses. Whenever they halted to change,
      there he was&mdash;out of the carriage without letting down the steps,
      bursting about the inn-yard like a lighted cracker, pulling out his watch
      by lamp-light and forgetting to look at it before he put it up again, and
      in short committing so many extravagances that Kit's mother was quite
      afraid of him. Then, when the horses were to, in he came like a Harlequin,
      and before they had gone a mile, out came the watch and the fire-box
      together, and Kit's mother as wide awake again, with no hope of a wink of
      sleep for that stage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you comfortable?' the single gentleman would say after one of these
      exploits, turning sharply round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite, Sir, thank you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you sure? An't you cold?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a little chilly, Sir,' Kit's mother would reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew it!' cried the single gentleman, letting down one of the front
      glasses. 'She wants some brandy and water! Of course she does. How could I
      forget it? Hallo! Stop at the next inn, and call out for a glass of hot
      brandy and water.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in vain for Kit's mother to protest that she stood in need of
      nothing of the kind. The single gentleman was inexorable; and whenever he
      had exhausted all other modes and fashions of restlessness, it invariably
      occurred to him that Kit's mother wanted brandy and water.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this way they travelled on until near midnight, when they stopped to
      supper, for which meal the single gentleman ordered everything eatable
      that the house contained; and because Kit's mother didn't eat everything
      at once, and eat it all, he took it into his head that she must be ill.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're faint,' said the single gentleman, who did nothing himself but
      walk about the room. 'I see what's the matter with you, ma'am. You're
      faint.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, sir, I'm not indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this poor woman from the bosom of
      her family at a minute's notice, and she goes on getting fainter and
      fainter before my eyes. I'm a pretty fellow! How many children have you
      got, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two, sir, besides Kit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Boys, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are they christened?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only half baptised as yet, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm godfather to both of 'em. Remember that, if you please, ma'am. You
      had better have some mulled wine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't touch a drop indeed, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must,' said the single gentleman. 'I see you want it. I ought to have
      thought of it before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled wine as impetuously
      as if it had been wanted for instant use in the recovery of some person
      apparently drowned, the single gentleman made Kit's mother swallow a
      bumper of it at such a high temperature that the tears ran down her face,
      and then hustled her off to the chaise again, where&mdash;not impossibly
      from the effects of this agreeable sedative&mdash;she soon became
      insensible to his restlessness, and fell fast asleep. Nor were the happy
      effects of this prescription of a transitory nature, as, notwithstanding
      that the distance was greater, and the journey longer, than the single
      gentleman had anticipated, she did not awake until it was broad day, and
      they were clattering over the pavement of a town.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the place!' cried her companion, letting down all the glasses.
      'Drive to the wax-work!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting spurs to his horse, to
      the end that they might go in brilliantly, all four broke into a smart
      canter, and dashed through the streets with a noise that brought the good
      folks wondering to their doors and windows, and drowned the sober voices
      of the town-clocks as they chimed out half-past eight. They drove up to a
      door round which a crowd of persons were collected, and there stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's this?' said the single gentleman thrusting out his head. 'Is
      anything the matter here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A wedding Sir, a wedding!' cried several voices. 'Hurrah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding himself the centre of
      this noisy throng, alighted with the assistance of one of the postilions,
      and handed out Kit's mother, at sight of whom the populace cried out,
      'Here's another wedding!' and roared and leaped for joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The world has gone mad, I think,' said the single gentleman, pressing
      through the concourse with his supposed bride. 'Stand back here, will you,
      and let me knock.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd. A score of dirty
      hands were raised directly to knock for him, and seldom has a knocker of
      equal powers been made to produce more deafening sounds than this
      particular engine on the occasion in question. Having rendered these
      voluntary services, the throng modestly retired a little, preferring that
      the single gentleman should bear their consequences alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, sir, what do you want!' said a man with a large white bow at his
      button-hole, opening the door, and confronting him with a very stoical
      aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who has been married here, my friend?' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You! and to whom in the devil's name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What right have you to ask?' returned the bridegroom, eyeing him from top
      to toe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What right!' cried the single gentleman, drawing the arm of Kit's mother
      more tightly through his own, for that good woman evidently had it in
      contemplation to run away. 'A right you little dream of. Mind, good
      people, if this fellow has been marrying a minor&mdash;tut, tut, that
      can't be. Where is the child you have here, my good fellow. You call her
      Nell. Where is she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he propounded this question, which Kit's mother echoed, somebody in a
      room near at hand, uttered a great shriek, and a stout lady in a white
      dress came running to the door, and supported herself upon the
      bridegroom's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where is she!' cried this lady. 'What news have you brought me? What has
      become of her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the face of the late Mrs
      Jarley (that morning wedded to the philosophic George, to the eternal
      wrath and despair of Mr Slum the poet), with looks of conflicting
      apprehension, disappointment, and incredulity. At length he stammered out,
    </p>
    <p>
      'I ask <i>you </i>where she is? What do you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh sir!' cried the bride, 'If you have come here to do her any good, why
      weren't you here a week ago?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is not&mdash;not dead?' said the person to whom she addressed
      herself, turning very pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, not so bad as that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thank God!' cried the single gentleman feebly. 'Let me come in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They drew back to admit him, and when he had entered, closed the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see in me, good people,' he said, turning to the newly-married
      couple, 'one to whom life itself is not dearer than the two persons whom I
      seek. They would not know me. My features are strange to them, but if they
      or either of them are here, take this good woman with you, and let them
      see her first, for her they both know. If you deny them from any mistaken
      regard or fear for them, judge of my intentions by their recognition of
      this person as their old humble friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I always said it!' cried the bride, 'I knew she was not a common child!
      Alas, sir! we have no power to help you, for all that we could do, has
      been tried in vain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that, they related to him, without disguise or concealment, all that
      they knew of Nell and her grandfather, from their first meeting with them,
      down to the time of their sudden disappearance; adding (which was quite
      true) that they had made every possible effort to trace them, but without
      success; having been at first in great alarm for their safety, as well as
      on account of the suspicions to which they themselves might one day be
      exposed in consequence of their abrupt departure. They dwelt upon the old
      man's imbecility of mind, upon the uneasiness the child had always
      testified when he was absent, upon the company he had been supposed to
      keep, and upon the increased depression which had gradually crept over her
      and changed her both in health and spirits. Whether she had missed the old
      man in the night, and knowing or conjecturing whither he had bent his
      steps, had gone in pursuit, or whether they had left the house together,
      they had no means of determining. Certain they considered it, that there
      was but slender prospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether
      their flight originated with the old man, or with the child, there was now
      no hope of their return. To all this, the single gentleman listened with
      the air of a man quite borne down by grief and disappointment. He shed
      tears when they spoke of the grandfather, and appeared in deep affliction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not to protract this portion of our narrative, and to make short work of a
      long story, let it be briefly written that before the interview came to a
      close, the single gentleman deemed he had sufficient evidence of having
      been told the truth, and that he endeavoured to force upon the bride and
      bridegroom an acknowledgment of their kindness to the unfriended child,
      which, however, they steadily declined accepting. In the end, the happy
      couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their honeymoon in a country
      excursion; and the single gentleman and Kit's mother stood ruefully before
      their carriage-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where shall we drive you, sir?' said the post-boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may drive me,' said the single gentleman, 'to the&mdash;' He was not
      going to add 'inn,' but he added it for the sake of Kit's mother; and to
      the inn they went.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rumours had already got abroad that the little girl who used to show the
      wax-work, was the child of great people who had been stolen from her
      parents in infancy, and had only just been traced. Opinion was divided
      whether she was the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl, a viscount, or
      a baron, but all agreed upon the main fact, and that the single gentleman
      was her father; and all bent forward to catch a glimpse, though it were
      only of the tip of his noble nose, as he rode away, desponding, in his
      four-horse chaise.
    </p>
    <p>
      What would he have given to know, and what sorrow would have been saved if
      he had only known, that at that moment both child and grandfather were
      seated in the old church porch, patiently awaiting the schoolmaster's
      return!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap48"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 48
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>opular rumour concerning the single gentleman and his errand, travelling
      from mouth to mouth, and waxing stronger in the marvellous as it was
      bandied about&mdash;for your popular rumour, unlike the rolling stone of
      the proverb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its wanderings up and
      down&mdash;occasioned his dismounting at the inn-door to be looked upon as
      an exciting and attractive spectacle, which could scarcely be enough
      admired; and drew together a large concourse of idlers, who having
      recently been, as it were, thrown out of employment by the closing of the
      wax-work and the completion of the nuptial ceremonies, considered his
      arrival as little else than a special providence, and hailed it with
      demonstrations of the liveliest joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not at all participating in the general sensation, but wearing the
      depressed and wearied look of one who sought to meditate on his
      disappointment in silence and privacy, the single gentleman alighted, and
      handed out Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness which impressed the
      lookers-on extremely. That done, he gave her his arm and escorted her into
      the house, while several active waiters ran on before as a skirmishing
      party, to clear the way and to show the room which was ready for their
      reception.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any room will do,' said the single gentleman. 'Let it be near at hand,
      that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Close here, sir, if you please to walk this way.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0342m.jpg" alt="0342m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0342.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Would the gentleman like this room?' said a voice, as a little
      out-of-the-way door at the foot of the well staircase flew briskly open
      and a head popped out. 'He's quite welcome to it. He's as welcome as
      flowers in May, or coals at Christmas. Would you like this room, sir?
      Honour me by walking in. Do me the favour, pray.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Goodness gracious me!' cried Kit's mother, falling back in extreme
      surprise, 'only think of this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She had some reason to be astonished, for the person who proffered the
      gracious invitation was no other than Daniel Quilp. The little door out of
      which he had thrust his head was close to the inn larder; and there he
      stood, bowing with grotesque politeness; as much at his ease as if the
      door were that of his own house; blighting all the legs of mutton and cold
      roast fowls by his close companionship, and looking like the evil genius
      of the cellars come from underground upon some work of mischief.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would you do me the honour?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I prefer being alone,' replied the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Quilp. And with that, he darted in again with one jerk and
      clapped the little door to, like a figure in a Dutch clock when the hour
      strikes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why it was only last night, sir,' whispered Kit's mother, 'that I left
      him in Little Bethel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said her fellow-passenger. 'When did that person come here,
      waiter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come down by the night-coach, this morning, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph! And when is he going?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can't say, sir, really. When the chambermaid asked him just now if he
      should want a bed, sir, he first made faces at her, and then wanted to
      kiss her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beg him to walk this way,' said the single gentleman. 'I should be glad
      to exchange a word with him, tell him. Beg him to come at once, do you
      hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The man stared on receiving these instructions, for the single gentleman
      had not only displayed as much astonishment as Kit's mother at sight of
      the dwarf, but, standing in no fear of him, had been at less pains to
      conceal his dislike and repugnance. He departed on his errand, however,
      and immediately returned, ushering in its object.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your servant, sir,' said the dwarf, 'I encountered your messenger
      half-way. I thought you'd allow me to pay my compliments to you. I hope
      you're well. I hope you're very well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a short pause, while the dwarf, with half-shut eyes and puckered
      face, stood waiting for an answer. Receiving none, he turned towards his
      more familiar acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christopher's mother!' he cried. 'Such a dear lady, such a worthy woman,
      so blest in her honest son! How is Christopher's mother? Have change of
      air and scene improved her? Her little family too, and Christopher? Do
      they thrive? Do they flourish? Are they growing into worthy citizens, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Making his voice ascend in the scale with every succeeding question, Mr
      Quilp finished in a shrill squeak, and subsided into the panting look
      which was customary with him, and which, whether it were assumed or
      natural, had equally the effect of banishing all expression from his face,
      and rendering it, as far as it afforded any index to his mood or meaning,
      a perfect blank.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Quilp,' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf put his hand to his great flapped ear, and counterfeited the
      closest attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We two have met before&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely,' cried Quilp, nodding his head. 'Oh surely, sir. Such an honour
      and pleasure&mdash;it's both, Christopher's mother, it's both&mdash;is not
      to be forgotten so soon. By no means!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may remember that the day I arrived in London, and found the house to
      which I drove, empty and deserted, I was directed by some of the
      neighbours to you, and waited upon you without stopping for rest or
      refreshment?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How precipitate that was, and yet what an earnest and vigorous measure!'
      said Quilp, conferring with himself, in imitation of his friend Mr Sampson
      Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I found,' said the single gentleman, 'you most unaccountably, in
      possession of everything that had so recently belonged to another man, and
      that other man, who up to the time of your entering upon his property had
      been looked upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beggary, and driven from
      house and home.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had warrant for what we did, my good sir,' rejoined Quilp, 'we had our
      warrant. Don't say driven either. He went of his own accord&mdash;vanished
      in the night, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter,' said the single gentleman angrily. 'He was gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, he was gone,' said Quilp, with the same exasperating composure. 'No
      doubt he was gone. The only question was, where. And it's a question
      still.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, what am I to think,' said the single gentleman, sternly regarding
      him, 'of you, who, plainly indisposed to give me any information then&mdash;nay,
      obviously holding back, and sheltering yourself with all kinds of cunning,
      trickery, and evasion&mdash;are dogging my footsteps now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dogging!' cried Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, are you not?' returned his questioner, fretted into a state of the
      utmost irritation. 'Were you not a few hours since, sixty miles off, and
      in the chapel to which this good woman goes to say her prayers?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She was there too, I think?' said Quilp, still perfectly unmoved. 'I
      might say, if I was inclined to be rude, how do I know but you are dogging
      <i>my</i> footsteps. Yes, I was at chapel. What then? I've read in books that
      pilgrims were used to go to chapel before they went on journeys, to put up
      petitions for their safe return. Wise men! journeys are very perilous&mdash;especially
      outside the coach. Wheels come off, horses take fright, coachmen drive too
      fast, coaches overturn. I always go to chapel before I start on journeys.
      It's the last thing I do on such occasions, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      That Quilp lied most heartily in this speech, it needed no very great
      penetration to discover, although for anything that he suffered to appear
      in his face, voice, or manner, he might have been clinging to the truth
      with the quiet constancy of a martyr.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the name of all that's calculated to drive one crazy, man,' said the
      unfortunate single gentleman, 'have you not, for some reason of your own,
      taken upon yourself my errand? don't you know with what object I have come
      here, and if you do know, can you throw no light upon it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You think I'm a conjuror, sir,' replied Quilp, shrugging up his
      shoulders. 'If I was, I should tell my own fortune&mdash;and make it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! we have said all we need say, I see,' returned the other, throwing
      himself impatiently upon a sofa. 'Pray leave us, if you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Willingly,' returned Quilp. 'Most willingly. Christopher's mother, my
      good soul, farewell. A pleasant journey&mdash;back, sir. Ahem!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these parting words, and with a grin upon his features altogether
      indescribable, but which seemed to be compounded of every monstrous
      grimace of which men or monkeys are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated
      and closed the door behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oho!' he said when he had regained his own room, and sat himself down in
      a chair with his arms akimbo. 'Oho! Are you there, my friend? In-deed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Chuckling as though in very great glee, and recompensing himself for the
      restraint he had lately put upon his countenance by twisting it into all
      imaginable varieties of ugliness, Mr Quilp, rocking himself to and fro in
      his chair and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell into certain
      meditations, of which it may be necessary to relate the substance.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, he reviewed the circumstances which had led to his repairing to
      that spot, which were briefly these. Dropping in at Mr Sampson Brass's
      office on the previous evening, in the absence of that gentleman and his
      learned sister, he had lighted upon Mr Swiveller, who chanced at the
      moment to be sprinkling a glass of warm gin and water on the dust of the
      law, and to be moistening his clay, as the phrase goes, rather copiously.
      But as clay in the abstract, when too much moistened, becomes of a weak
      and uncertain consistency, breaking down in unexpected places, retaining
      impressions but faintly, and preserving no strength or steadiness of
      character, so Mr Swiveller's clay, having imbibed a considerable quantity
      of moisture, was in a very loose and slippery state, insomuch that the
      various ideas impressed upon it were fast losing their distinctive
      character, and running into each other. It is not uncommon for human clay
      in this condition to value itself above all things upon its great prudence
      and sagacity; and Mr Swiveller, especially prizing himself upon these
      qualities, took occasion to remark that he had made strange discoveries in
      connection with the single gentleman who lodged above, which he had
      determined to keep within his own bosom, and which neither tortures nor
      cajolery should ever induce him to reveal. Of this determination Mr Quilp
      expressed his high approval, and setting himself in the same breath to
      goad Mr Swiveller on to further hints, soon made out that the single
      gentleman had been seen in communication with Kit, and that this was the
      secret which was never to be disclosed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Possessed of this piece of information, Mr Quilp directly supposed that
      the single gentleman above stairs must be the same individual who had
      waited on him, and having assured himself by further inquiries that this
      surmise was correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that
      the intent and object of his correspondence with Kit was the recovery of
      his old client and the child. Burning with curiosity to know what
      proceedings were afoot, he resolved to pounce upon Kit's mother as the
      person least able to resist his arts, and consequently the most likely to
      be entrapped into such revelations as he sought; so taking an abrupt leave
      of Mr Swiveller, he hurried to her house. The good woman being from home,
      he made inquiries of a neighbour, as Kit himself did soon afterwards, and
      being directed to the chapel be took himself there, in order to waylay
      her, at the conclusion of the service.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not sat in the chapel more than a quarter of an hour, and with his
      eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling was chuckling inwardly over the joke
      of his being there at all, when Kit himself appeared. Watchful as a lynx,
      one glance showed the dwarf that he had come on business. Absorbed in
      appearance, as we have seen, and feigning a profound abstraction, he noted
      every circumstance of his behaviour, and when he withdrew with his family,
      shot out after him. In fine, he traced them to the notary's house; learnt
      the destination of the carriage from one of the postilions; and knowing
      that a fast night-coach started for the same place, at the very hour which
      was on the point of striking, from a street hard by, darted round to the
      coach-office without more ado, and took his seat upon the roof. After
      passing and repassing the carriage on the road, and being passed and
      repassed by it sundry times in the course of the night, according as their
      stoppages were longer or shorter; or their rate of travelling varied, they
      reached the town almost together. Quilp kept the chaise in sight, mingled
      with the crowd, learnt the single gentleman's errand, and its failure, and
      having possessed himself of all that it was material to know, hurried off,
      reached the inn before him, had the interview just now detailed, and shut
      himself up in the little room in which he hastily reviewed all these
      occurrences.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are there, are you, my friend?' he repeated, greedily biting his
      nails. 'I am suspected and thrown aside, and Kit's the confidential agent,
      is he? I shall have to dispose of him, I fear. If we had come up with them
      this morning,' he continued, after a thoughtful pause, 'I was ready to
      prove a pretty good claim. I could have made my profit. But for these
      canting hypocrites, the lad and his mother, I could get this fiery
      gentleman as comfortably into my net as our old friend&mdash;our mutual
      friend, ha! ha!&mdash;and chubby, rosy Nell. At the worst, it's a golden
      opportunity, not to be lost. Let us find them first, and I'll find means
      of draining you of some of your superfluous cash, sir, while there are
      prison bars, and bolts, and locks, to keep your friend or kinsman safely.
      I hate your virtuous people!' said the dwarf, throwing off a bumper of
      brandy, and smacking his lips, 'ah! I hate 'em every one!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was not a mere empty vaunt, but a deliberate avowal of his real
      sentiments; for Mr Quilp, who loved nobody, had by little and little come
      to hate everybody nearly or remotely connected with his ruined client:&mdash;the
      old man himself, because he had been able to deceive him and elude his
      vigilance&mdash;the child, because she was the object of Mrs Quilp's
      commiseration and constant self-reproach&mdash;the single gentleman,
      because of his unconcealed aversion to himself&mdash;Kit and his mother,
      most mortally, for the reasons shown. Above and beyond that general
      feeling of opposition to them, which would have been inseparable from his
      ravenous desire to enrich himself by these altered circumstances, Daniel
      Quilp hated them every one.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this amiable mood, Mr Quilp enlivened himself and his hatreds with more
      brandy, and then, changing his quarters, withdrew to an obscure alehouse,
      under cover of which seclusion he instituted all possible inquiries that
      might lead to the discovery of the old man and his grandchild. But all was
      in vain. Not the slightest trace or clue could be obtained. They had left
      the town by night; no one had seen them go; no one had met them on the
      road; the driver of no coach, cart, or waggon, had seen any travellers
      answering their description; nobody had fallen in with them, or heard of
      them. Convinced at last that for the present all such attempts were
      hopeless, he appointed two or three scouts, with promises of large rewards
      in case of their forwarding him any intelligence, and returned to London
      by next day's coach.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was some gratification to Mr Quilp to find, as he took his place upon
      the roof, that Kit's mother was alone inside; from which circumstance he
      derived in the course of the journey much cheerfulness of spirit, inasmuch
      as her solitary condition enabled him to terrify her with many
      extraordinary annoyances; such as hanging over the side of the coach at
      the risk of his life, and staring in with his great goggle eyes, which
      seemed in hers the more horrible from his face being upside down; dodging
      her in this way from one window to another; getting nimbly down whenever
      they changed horses and thrusting his head in at the window with a dismal
      squint: which ingenious tortures had such an effect upon Mrs Nubbles, that
      she was quite unable for the time to resist the belief that Mr Quilp did
      in his own person represent and embody that Evil Power, who was so
      vigorously attacked at Little Bethel, and who, by reason of her
      backslidings in respect of Astley's and oysters, was now frolicsome and
      rampant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, having been apprised by letter of his mother's intended return, was
      waiting for her at the coach-office; and great was his surprise when he
      saw, leering over the coachman's shoulder like some familiar demon,
      invisible to all eyes but his, the well-known face of Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How are you, Christopher?' croaked the dwarf from the coach-top. 'All
      right, Christopher. Mother's inside.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how did he come here, mother?' whispered Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know how he came or why, my dear,' rejoined Mrs Nubbles,
      dismounting with her son's assistance, 'but he has been a terrifying of me
      out of my seven senses all this blessed day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has?' cried Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't,' replied his mother, 'but
      don't say a word to him, for I really don't believe he's human. Hush!
      Don't turn round as if I was talking of him, but he's a squinting at me
      now in the full blaze of the coach-lamp, quite awful!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned sharply round to look. Mr
      Quilp was serenely gazing at the stars, quite absorbed in celestial
      contemplation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, he's the artfullest creetur!' cried Mrs Nubbles. 'But come away.
      Don't speak to him for the world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes I will, mother. What nonsense. I say, sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp affected to start, and looked smilingly round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You let my mother alone, will you?' said Kit. 'How dare you tease a poor
      lone woman like her, making her miserable and melancholy as if she hadn't
      got enough to make her so, without you. An't you ashamed of yourself, you
      little monster?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Monster!' said Quilp inwardly, with a smile. 'Ugliest dwarf that could be
      seen anywhere for a penny&mdash;monster&mdash;ah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You show her any of your impudence again,' resumed Kit, shouldering the
      bandbox, 'and I tell you what, Mr Quilp, I won't bear with you any more.
      You have no right to do it; I'm sure we never interfered with you. This
      isn't the first time; and if ever you worry or frighten her again, you'll
      oblige me (though I should be very sorry to do it, on account of your
      size) to beat you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp said not a word in reply, but walking so close to Kit as to bring
      his eyes within two or three inches of his face, looked fixedly at him,
      retreated a little distance without averting his gaze, approached again,
      again withdrew, and so on for half-a-dozen times, like a head in a
      phantasmagoria. Kit stood his ground as if in expectation of an immediate
      assault, but finding that nothing came of these gestures, snapped his
      fingers and walked away; his mother dragging him off as fast as she could,
      and, even in the midst of his news of little Jacob and the baby, looking
      anxiously over her shoulder to see if Quilp were following.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap49"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 49
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it's mother might have spared herself the trouble of looking back so
      often, for nothing was further from Mr Quilp's thoughts than any intention
      of pursuing her and her son, or renewing the quarrel with which they had
      parted. He went his way, whistling from time to time some fragments of a
      tune; and with a face quite tranquil and composed, jogged pleasantly
      towards home; entertaining himself as he went with visions of the fears
      and terrors of Mrs Quilp, who, having received no intelligence of him for
      three whole days and two nights, and having had no previous notice of his
      absence, was doubtless by that time in a state of distraction, and
      constantly fainting away with anxiety and grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      This facetious probability was so congenial to the dwarf's humour, and so
      exquisitely amusing to him, that he laughed as he went along until the
      tears ran down his cheeks; and more than once, when he found himself in a
      bye-street, vented his delight in a shrill scream, which greatly
      terrifying any lonely passenger, who happened to be walking on before him
      expecting nothing so little, increased his mirth, and made him remarkably
      cheerful and light-hearted.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this happy flow of spirits, Mr Quilp reached Tower Hill, when, gazing
      up at the window of his own sitting-room, he thought he descried more
      light than is usual in a house of mourning. Drawing nearer, and listening
      attentively, he could hear several voices in earnest conversation, among
      which he could distinguish, not only those of his wife and mother-in-law,
      but the tongues of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' cried the jealous dwarf, 'What's this! Do they entertain visitors
      while I'm away!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A smothered cough from above, was the reply. He felt in his pockets for
      his latch-key, but had forgotten it. There was no resource but to knock at
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A light in the passage,' said Quilp, peeping through the keyhole. 'A very
      soft knock; and, by your leave, my lady, I may yet steal upon you
      unawares. Soho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A very low and gentle rap received no answer from within. But after a
      second application to the knocker, no louder than the first, the door was
      softly opened by the boy from the wharf, whom Quilp instantly gagged with
      one hand, and dragged into the street with the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll throttle me, master,' whispered the boy. 'Let go, will you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who's up stairs, you dog?' retorted Quilp in the same tone. 'Tell me. And
      don't speak above your breath, or I'll choke you in good earnest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy could only point to the window, and reply with a stifled giggle,
      expressive of such intense enjoyment, that Quilp clutched him by the
      throat and might have carried his threat into execution, or at least have
      made very good progress towards that end, but for the boy's nimbly
      extricating himself from his grasp, and fortifying himself behind the
      nearest post, at which, after some fruitless attempts to catch him by the
      hair of the head, his master was obliged to come to a parley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you answer me?' said Quilp. 'What's going on, above?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't let one speak,' replied the boy. 'They&mdash;ha, ha, ha!&mdash;they
      think you're&mdash;you're dead. Ha ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dead!' cried Quilp, relaxing into a grim laugh himself. 'No. Do they? Do
      they really, you dog?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They think you're&mdash;you're drowned,' replied the boy, who in his
      malicious nature had a strong infusion of his master. 'You was last seen
      on the brink of the wharf, and they think you tumbled over. Ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The prospect of playing the spy under such delicious circumstances, and of
      disappointing them all by walking in alive, gave more delight to Quilp
      than the greatest stroke of good fortune could possibly have inspired him
      with. He was no less tickled than his hopeful assistant, and they both
      stood for some seconds, grinning and gasping and wagging their heads at
      each other, on either side of the post, like an unmatchable pair of
      Chinese idols.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a word,' said Quilp, making towards the door on tiptoe. 'Not a sound,
      not so much as a creaking board, or a stumble against a cobweb. Drowned,
      eh, Mrs Quilp! Drowned!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off his shoes, and groped his
      way up stairs; leaving his delighted young friend in an ecstasy of
      summersets on the pavement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bedroom-door on the staircase being unlocked, Mr Quilp slipped in, and
      planted himself behind the door of communication between that chamber and
      the sitting-room, which standing ajar to render both more airy, and having
      a very convenient chink (of which he had often availed himself for
      purposes of espial, and had indeed enlarged with his pocket-knife),
      enabled him not only to hear, but to see distinctly, what was passing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Applying his eye to this convenient place, he descried Mr Brass seated at
      the table with pen, ink, and paper, and the case-bottle of rum&mdash;his
      own case-bottle, and his own particular Jamaica&mdash;convenient to his
      hand; with hot water, fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and all things
      fitting; from which choice materials, Sampson, by no means insensible to
      their claims upon his attention, had compounded a mighty glass of punch
      reeking hot; which he was at that very moment stirring up with a teaspoon,
      and contemplating with looks in which a faint assumption of sentimental
      regret, struggled but weakly with a bland and comfortable joy. At the same
      table, with both her elbows upon it, was Mrs Jiniwin; no longer sipping
      other people's punch feloniously with teaspoons, but taking deep draughts
      from a jorum of her own; while her daughter&mdash;not exactly with ashes
      on her head, or sackcloth on her back, but preserving a very decent and
      becoming appearance of sorrow nevertheless&mdash;was reclining in an easy
      chair, and soothing her grief with a smaller allowance of the same glib
      liquid. There were also present, a couple of water-side men, bearing
      between them certain machines called drags; even these fellows were
      accommodated with a stiff glass a-piece; and as they drank with a great
      relish, and were naturally of a red-nosed, pimple-faced, convivial look,
      their presence rather increased than detracted from that decided
      appearance of comfort, which was the great characteristic of the party.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I could poison that dear old lady's rum and water,' murmured Quilp,
      'I'd die happy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Mr Brass, breaking the silence, and raising his eyes to the
      ceiling with a sigh, 'Who knows but he may be looking down upon us now!
      Who knows but he may be surveying of us from&mdash;from somewheres or
      another, and contemplating us with a watchful eye! Oh Lor!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Mr Brass stopped to drink half his punch, and then resumed; looking
      at the other half, as he spoke, with a dejected smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can almost fancy,' said the lawyer shaking his head, 'that I see his
      eye glistening down at the very bottom of my liquor. When shall we look
      upon his like again? Never, never!' One minute we are here'&mdash;holding
      his tumbler before his eyes&mdash;'the next we are there'&mdash;gulping
      down its contents, and striking himself emphatically a little below the
      chest&mdash;'in the silent tomb. To think that I should be drinking his
      very rum! It seems like a dream.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With the view, no doubt, of testing the reality of his position, Mr Brass
      pushed his tumbler as he spoke towards Mrs Jiniwin for the purpose of
      being replenished; and turned towards the attendant mariners.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The search has been quite unsuccessful then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite, master. But I should say that if he turns up anywhere, he'll come
      ashore somewhere about Grinidge to-morrow, at ebb tide, eh, mate?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The other gentleman assented, observing that he was expected at the
      Hospital, and that several pensioners would be ready to receive him
      whenever he arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we have nothing for it but resignation,' said Mr Brass; 'nothing but
      resignation and expectation. It would be a comfort to have his body; it
      would be a dreary comfort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, beyond a doubt,' assented Mrs Jiniwin hastily; 'if we once had that,
      we should be quite sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With regard to the descriptive advertisement,' said Sampson Brass, taking
      up his pen. 'It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits. Respecting
      his legs now&mdash;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Crooked, certainly,' said Mrs Jiniwin. 'Do you think they <i>were </i>crooked?'
      said Brass, in an insinuating tone. 'I think I see them now coming up the
      street very wide apart, in nankeen' pantaloons a little shrunk and without
      straps. Ah! what a vale of tears we live in. Do we say crooked?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think they were a little so,' observed Mrs Quilp with a sob.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Legs crooked,' said Brass, writing as he spoke. 'Large head, short body,
      legs crooked&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very crooked,' suggested Mrs Jiniwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll not say very crooked, ma'am,' said Brass piously. 'Let us not bear
      hard upon the weaknesses of the deceased. He is gone, ma'am, to where his
      legs will never come in question.&mdash;We will content ourselves with
      crooked, Mrs Jiniwin.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought you wanted the truth,' said the old lady. 'That's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless your eyes, how I love you,' muttered Quilp. 'There she goes again.
      Nothing but punch!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is an occupation,' said the lawyer, laying down his pen and emptying
      his glass, 'which seems to bring him before my eyes like the Ghost of
      Hamlet's father, in the very clothes that he wore on work-a-days. His
      coat, his waistcoat, his shoes and stockings, his trousers, his hat, his
      wit and humour, his pathos and his umbrella, all come before me like
      visions of my youth. His linen!' said Mr Brass smiling fondly at the wall,
      'his linen which was always of a particular colour, for such was his whim
      and fancy&mdash;how plain I see his linen now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had better go on, sir,' said Mrs Jiniwin impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'True, ma'am, true,' cried Mr Brass. 'Our faculties must not freeze with
      grief. I'll trouble you for a little more of that, ma'am. A question now
      arises, with relation to his nose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Flat,' said Mrs Jiniwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aquiline!' cried Quilp, thrusting in his head, and striking the feature
      with his fist. 'Aquiline, you hag. Do you see it? Do you call this flat?
      Do you? Eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh capital, capital!' shouted Brass, from the mere force of habit.
      'Excellent! How very good he is! He's a most remarkable man&mdash;so
      extremely whimsical! Such an amazing power of taking people by surprise!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp paid no regard whatever to these compliments, nor to the dubious and
      frightened look into which the lawyer gradually subsided, nor to the
      shrieks of his wife and mother-in-law, nor to the latter's running from
      the room, nor to the former's fainting away. Keeping his eye fixed on
      Sampson Brass, he walked up to the table, and beginning with his glass,
      drank off the contents, and went regularly round until he had emptied the
      other two, when he seized the case-bottle, and hugging it under his arm,
      surveyed him with a most extraordinary leer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not yet, Sampson,' said Quilp. 'Not just yet!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh very good indeed!' cried Brass, recovering his spirits a little. 'Ha
      ha ha! Oh exceedingly good! There's not another man alive who could carry
      it off like that. A most difficult position to carry off. But he has such
      a flow of good-humour, such an amazing flow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good night,' said the dwarf, nodding expressively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good night, sir, good night,' cried the lawyer, retreating backwards
      towards the door. 'This is a joyful occasion indeed, extremely joyful. Ha
      ha ha! oh very rich, very rich indeed, remarkably so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Waiting until Mr Brass's ejaculations died away in the distance (for he
      continued to pour them out, all the way down stairs), Quilp advanced
      towards the two men, who yet lingered in a kind of stupid amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you been dragging the river all day, gentlemen?' said the dwarf,
      holding the door open with great politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yesterday too, master.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me, you've had a deal of trouble. Pray consider everything yours
      that you find upon the&mdash;upon the body. Good night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The men looked at each other, but had evidently no inclination to argue
      the point just then, and shuffled out of the room. The speedy clearance
      effected, Quilp locked the doors; and still embracing the case-bottle with
      shrugged-up shoulders and folded arms, stood looking at his insensible
      wife like a dismounted nightmare.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap50"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 50
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>atrimonial differences are usually discussed by the parties concerned in
      the form of dialogue, in which the lady bears at least her full half
      share. Those of Mr and Mrs Quilp, however, were an exception to the
      general rule; the remarks which they occasioned being limited to a long
      soliloquy on the part of the gentleman, with perhaps a few deprecatory
      observations from the lady, not extending beyond a trembling monosyllable
      uttered at long intervals, and in a very submissive and humble tone. On
      the present occasion, Mrs Quilp did not for a long time venture even on
      this gentle defence, but when she had recovered from her fainting-fit, sat
      in a tearful silence, meekly listening to the reproaches of her lord and
      master.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of these Mr Quilp delivered himself with the utmost animation and
      rapidity, and with so many distortions of limb and feature, that even his
      wife, although tolerably well accustomed to his proficiency in these
      respects, was well-nigh beside herself with alarm. But the Jamaica rum,
      and the joy of having occasioned a heavy disappointment, by degrees cooled
      Mr Quilp's wrath; which from being at savage heat, dropped slowly to the
      bantering or chuckling point, at which it steadily remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you thought I was dead and gone, did you?' said Quilp. 'You thought
      you were a widow, eh? Ha, ha, ha, you jade.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, Quilp,' returned his wife. 'I'm very sorry&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who doubts it!' cried the dwarf. 'You very sorry! to be sure you are. Who
      doubts that you're <i>very </i>sorry!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't mean sorry that you have come home again alive and well,' said
      his wife, 'but sorry that I should have been led into such a belief. I am
      glad to see you, Quilp; indeed I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth Mrs Quilp did seem a great deal more glad to behold her lord than
      might have been expected, and did evince a degree of interest in his
      safety which, all things considered, was rather unaccountable. Upon Quilp,
      however, this circumstance made no impression, farther than as it moved
      him to snap his fingers close to his wife's eyes, with divers grins of
      triumph and derision.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could you go away so long, without saying a word to me or letting me
      hear of you or know anything about you?' asked the poor little woman,
      sobbing. 'How could you be so cruel, Quilp?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could I be so cruel! cruel!' cried the dwarf. 'Because I was in the
      humour. I'm in the humour now. I shall be cruel when I like. I'm going
      away again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, again. I'm going away now. I'm off directly. I mean to go and live
      wherever the fancy seizes me&mdash;at the wharf&mdash;at the
      counting-house&mdash;and be a jolly bachelor. You were a widow in
      anticipation. Damme,' screamed the dwarf, 'I'll be a bachelor in earnest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can't be serious, Quilp,' sobbed his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you,' said the dwarf, exulting in his project, 'that I'll be a
      bachelor, a devil-may-care bachelor; and I'll have my bachelor's hall at
      the counting-house, and at such times come near it if you dare. And mind
      too that I don't pounce in upon you at unseasonable hours again, for I'll
      be a spy upon you, and come and go like a mole or a weazel. Tom Scott&mdash;where's
      Tom Scott?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here I am, master,' cried the voice of the boy, as Quilp threw up the
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait there, you dog,' returned the dwarf, 'to carry a bachelor's
      portmanteau. Pack it up, Mrs Quilp. Knock up the dear old lady to help;
      knock her up. Halloa there! Halloa!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these exclamations, Mr Quilp caught up the poker, and hurrying to the
      door of the good lady's sleeping-closet, beat upon it therewith until she
      awoke in inexpressible terror, thinking that her amiable son-in-law surely
      intended to murder her in justification of the legs she had slandered.
      Impressed with this idea, she was no sooner fairly awake than she screamed
      violently, and would have quickly precipitated herself out of the window
      and through a neighbouring skylight, if her daughter had not hastened in
      to undeceive her, and implore her assistance. Somewhat reassured by her
      account of the service she was required to render, Mrs Jiniwin made her
      appearance in a flannel dressing-gown; and both mother and daughter,
      trembling with terror and cold&mdash;for the night was now far advanced&mdash;obeyed
      Mr Quilp's directions in submissive silence. Prolonging his preparations
      as much as possible, for their greater comfort, that eccentric gentleman
      superintended the packing of his wardrobe, and having added to it with his
      own hands, a plate, knife and fork, spoon, teacup and saucer, and other
      small household matters of that nature, strapped up the portmanteau, took
      it on his shoulders, and actually marched off without another word, and
      with the case-bottle (which he had never once put down) still tightly
      clasped under his arm. Consigning his heavier burden to the care of Tom
      Scott when he reached the street, taking a dram from the bottle for his
      own encouragement, and giving the boy a rap on the head with it as a small
      taste for himself, Quilp very deliberately led the way to the wharf, and
      reached it at between three and four o'clock in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Snug!' said Quilp, when he had groped his way to the wooden
      counting-house, and opened the door with a key he carried about with him.
      'Beautifully snug! Call me at eight, you dog.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With no more formal leave-taking or explanation, he clutched the
      portmanteau, shut the door on his attendant, and climbing on the desk, and
      rolling himself up as round as a hedgehog, in an old boat-cloak, fell fast
      asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Being roused in the morning at the appointed time, and roused with
      difficulty, after his late fatigues, Quilp instructed Tom Scott to make a
      fire in the yard of sundry pieces of old timber, and to prepare some
      coffee for breakfast; for the better furnishing of which repast he
      entrusted him with certain small moneys, to be expended in the purchase of
      hot rolls, butter, sugar, Yarmouth bloaters, and other articles of
      housekeeping; so that in a few minutes a savoury meal was smoking on the
      board. With this substantial comfort, the dwarf regaled himself to his
      heart's content; and being highly satisfied with this free and gipsy mode
      of life (which he had often meditated, as offering, whenever he chose to
      avail himself of it, an agreeable freedom from the restraints of
      matrimony, and a choice means of keeping Mrs Quilp and her mother in a
      state of incessant agitation and suspense), bestirred himself to improve
      his retreat, and render it more commodious and comfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this view, he issued forth to a place hard by, where sea-stores were
      sold, purchased a second-hand hammock, and had it slung in seamanlike
      fashion from the ceiling of the counting-house. He also caused to be
      erected, in the same mouldy cabin, an old ship's stove with a rusty funnel
      to carry the smoke through the roof; and these arrangements completed,
      surveyed them with ineffable delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've got a country-house like Robinson Crusoe,' said the dwarf, ogling
      the accommodations; 'a solitary, sequestered, desolate-island sort of
      spot, where I can be quite alone when I have business on hand, and be
      secure from all spies and listeners. Nobody near me here, but rats, and
      they are fine stealthy secret fellows. I shall be as merry as a grig among
      these gentry. I'll look out for one like Christopher, and poison him&mdash;ha,
      ha, ha! Business though&mdash;business&mdash;we must be mindful of
      business in the midst of pleasure, and the time has flown this morning, I
      declare.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Enjoining Tom Scott to await his return, and not to stand upon his head,
      or throw a summerset, or so much as walk upon his hands meanwhile, on pain
      of lingering torments, the dwarf threw himself into a boat, and crossing
      to the other side of the river, and then speeding away on foot, reached Mr
      Swiveller's usual house of entertainment in Bevis Marks, just as that
      gentleman sat down alone to dinner in its dusky parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick,' said the dwarf, thrusting his head in at the door, 'my pet, my
      pupil, the apple of my eye, hey, hey!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh you're there, are you?' returned Mr Swiveller; 'how are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's Dick?' retorted Quilp. 'How's the cream of clerkship, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, rather sour, sir,' replied Mr Swiveller. 'Beginning to border upon
      cheesiness, in fact.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter?' said the dwarf, advancing. 'Has Sally proved unkind.
      "Of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like&mdash;" eh, Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly not,' replied Mr Swiveller, eating his dinner with great
      gravity, 'none like her. She's the sphynx of private life, is Sally B.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're out of spirits,' said Quilp, drawing up a chair. 'What's the
      matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The law don't agree with me,' returned Dick. 'It isn't moist enough, and
      there's too much confinement. I have been thinking of running away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bah!' said the dwarf. 'Where would you run to, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know' returned Mr Swiveller. 'Towards Highgate, I suppose.
      Perhaps the bells might strike up "Turn again Swiveller, Lord Mayor of
      London." Whittington's name was Dick. I wish cats were scarcer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp looked at his companion with his eyes screwed up into a comical
      expression of curiosity, and patiently awaited his further explanation;
      upon which, however, Mr Swiveller appeared in no hurry to enter, as he ate
      a very long dinner in profound silence, finally pushed away his plate,
      threw himself back into his chair, folded his arms, and stared ruefully at
      the fire, in which some ends of cigars were smoking on their own account,
      and sending up a fragrant odour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps you'd like a bit of cake'&mdash;said Dick, at last turning to the
      dwarf. 'You're quite welcome to it. You ought to be, for it's of your
      making.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller replied by taking from his pocket a small and very greasy
      parcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum-cake
      extremely indigestible in appearance, and bordered with a paste of white
      sugar an inch and a half deep.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What should you say this was?' demanded Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It looks like bride-cake,' replied the dwarf, grinning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And whose should you say it was?' inquired Mr Swiveller, rubbing the
      pastry against his nose with a dreadful calmness. 'Whose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Dick, 'the same. You needn't mention her name. There's no such
      name now. Her name is Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs. Yet loved I as man never
      loved that hadn't wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is breaking for the
      love of Sophy Cheggs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this extemporary adaptation of a popular ballad to the distressing
      circumstances of his own case, Mr Swiveller folded up the parcel again,
      beat it very flat between the palms of his hands, thrust it into his
      breast, buttoned his coat over it, and folded his arms upon the whole.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, I hope you're satisfied, sir,' said Dick; 'and I hope Fred's
      satisfied. You went partners in the mischief, and I hope you like it. This
      is the triumph I was to have, is it? It's like the old country-dance of
      that name, where there are two gentlemen to one lady, and one has her, and
      the other hasn't, but comes limping up behind to make out the figure. But
      it's Destiny, and mine's a crusher.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Disguising his secret joy in Mr Swiveller's defeat, Daniel Quilp adopted
      the surest means of soothing him, by ringing the bell, and ordering in a
      supply of rosy wine (that is to say, of its usual representative), which
      he put about with great alacrity, calling upon Mr Swiveller to pledge him
      in various toasts derisive of Cheggs, and eulogistic of the happiness of
      single men. Such was their impression on Mr Swiveller, coupled with the
      reflection that no man could oppose his destiny, that in a very short
      space of time his spirits rose surprisingly, and he was enabled to give
      the dwarf an account of the receipt of the cake, which, it appeared, had
      been brought to Bevis Marks by the two surviving Miss Wackleses in person,
      and delivered at the office door with much giggling and joyfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' said Quilp. 'It will be our turn to giggle soon. And that reminds me&mdash;you
      spoke of young Trent&mdash;where is he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller explained that his respectable friend had recently accepted a
      responsible situation in a locomotive gaming-house, and was at that time
      absent on a professional tour among the adventurous spirits of Great
      Britain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's unfortunate,' said the dwarf, 'for I came, in fact, to ask you
      about him. A thought has occurred to me, Dick; your friend over the way&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which friend?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the first floor.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your friend in the first floor, Dick, may know him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, he don't,' said Mr Swiveller, shaking his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't! No, because he has never seen him,' rejoined Quilp; 'but if we
      were to bring them together, who knows, Dick, but Fred, properly
      introduced, would serve his turn almost as well as little Nell or her
      grandfather&mdash;who knows but it might make the young fellow's fortune,
      and, through him, yours, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, the fact is, you see,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that they <i>have </i>been
      brought together.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have been!' cried the dwarf, looking suspiciously at his companion.
      'Through whose means?'
</p>
    <p>
'Through mine,' said Dick, slightly confused.
      'Didn't I mention it to you the last time you called over yonder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know you didn't,' returned the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe you're right,' said Dick. 'No. I didn't, I recollect. Oh yes, I
      brought 'em together that very day. It was Fred's suggestion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what came of it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, instead of my friend's bursting into tears when he knew who Fred
      was, embracing him kindly, and telling him that he was his grandfather, or
      his grandmother in disguise (which we fully expected), he flew into a
      tremendous passion; called him all manner of names; said it was in a great
      measure his fault that little Nell and the old gentleman had ever been
      brought to poverty; didn't hint at our taking anything to drink; and&mdash;and
      in short rather turned us out of the room than otherwise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's strange,' said the dwarf, musing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So we remarked to each other at the time,' returned Dick coolly, 'but
      quite true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp was plainly staggered by this intelligence, over which he brooded
      for some time in moody silence, often raising his eyes to Mr Swiveller's
      face, and sharply scanning its expression. As he could read in it,
      however, no additional information or anything to lead him to believe he
      had spoken falsely; and as Mr Swiveller, left to his own meditations,
      sighed deeply, and was evidently growing maudlin on the subject of Mrs
      Cheggs; the dwarf soon broke up the conference and took his departure,
      leaving the bereaved one to his melancholy ruminations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have been brought together, eh?' said the dwarf as he walked the streets
      alone. 'My friend has stolen a march upon me. It led him to nothing, and
      therefore is no great matter, save in the intention. I'm glad he has lost
      his mistress. Ha ha! The blockhead mustn't leave the law at present. I'm
      sure of him where he is, whenever I want him for my own purposes, and,
      besides, he's a good unconscious spy on Brass, and tells, in his cups, all
      that he sees and hears. You're useful to me, Dick, and cost nothing but a
      little treating now and then. I am not sure that it may not be worth
      while, before long, to take credit with the stranger, Dick, by discovering
      your designs upon the child; but for the present we'll remain the best
      friends in the world, with your good leave.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pursuing these thoughts, and gasping as he went along, after his own
      peculiar fashion, Mr Quilp once more crossed the Thames, and shut himself
      up in his Bachelor's Hall, which, by reason of its newly-erected chimney
      depositing the smoke inside the room and carrying none of it off, was not
      quite so agreeable as more fastidious people might have desired. Such
      inconveniences, however, instead of disgusting the dwarf with his new
      abode, rather suited his humour; so, after dining luxuriously from the
      public-house, he lighted his pipe, and smoked against the chimney until
      nothing of him was visible through the mist but a pair of red and highly
      inflamed eyes, with sometimes a dim vision of his head and face, as, in a
      violent fit of coughing, he slightly stirred the smoke and scattered the
      heavy wreaths by which they were obscured. In the midst of this
      atmosphere, which must infallibly have smothered any other man, Mr Quilp
      passed the evening with great cheerfulness; solacing himself all the time
      with the pipe and the case-bottle; and occasionally entertaining himself
      with a melodious howl, intended for a song, but bearing not the faintest
      resemblance to any scrap of any piece of music, vocal or instrumental,
      ever invented by man. Thus he amused himself until nearly midnight, when
      he turned into his hammock with the utmost satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first sound that met his ears in the morning&mdash;as he half opened
      his eyes, and, finding himself so unusually near the ceiling, entertained
      a drowsy idea that he must have been transformed into a fly or blue-bottle
      in the course of the night,&mdash;was that of a stifled sobbing and
      weeping in the room. Peeping cautiously over the side of his hammock, he
      descried Mrs Quilp, to whom, after contemplating her for some time in
      silence, he communicated a violent start by suddenly yelling out&mdash;'Halloa!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Quilp!' cried his poor little wife, looking up. 'How you frightened
      me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I meant to, you jade,' returned the dwarf. 'What do you want here? I'm
      dead, an't I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, please come home, do come home,' said Mrs Quilp, sobbing; 'we'll
      never do so any more, Quilp, and after all it was only a mistake that grew
      out of our anxiety.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Out of your anxiety,' grinned the dwarf. 'Yes, I know that&mdash;out of
      your anxiety for my death. I shall come home when I please, I tell you. I
      shall come home when I please, and go when I please. I'll be a Will o' the
      Wisp, now here, now there, dancing about you always, starting up when you
      least expect me, and keeping you in a constant state of restlessness and
      irritation. Will you begone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Quilp durst only make a gesture of entreaty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you no,' cried the dwarf. 'No. If you dare to come here again
      unless you're sent for, I'll keep watch-dogs in the yard that'll growl and
      bite&mdash;I'll have man-traps, cunningly altered and improved for
      catching women&mdash;I'll have spring guns, that shall explode when you
      tread upon the wires, and blow you into little pieces. Will you begone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do forgive me. Do come back,' said his wife, earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No-o-o-o-o!' roared Quilp. 'Not till my own good time, and then I'll
      return again as often as I choose, and be accountable to nobody for my
      goings or comings. You see the door there. Will you go?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0363m.jpg" alt="0363m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0363.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp delivered this last command in such a very energetic voice, and
      moreover accompanied it with such a sudden gesture, indicative of an
      intention to spring out of his hammock, and, night-capped as he was, bear
      his wife home again through the public streets, that she sped away like an
      arrow. Her worthy lord stretched his neck and eyes until she had crossed
      the yard, and then, not at all sorry to have had this opportunity of
      carrying his point, and asserting the sanctity of his castle, fell into an
      immoderate fit of laughter, and laid himself down to sleep again.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap51"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 51
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he bland and open-hearted proprietor of Bachelor's Hall slept on amidst
      the congenial accompaniments of rain, mud, dirt, damp, fog, and rats,
      until late in the day; when, summoning his valet Tom Scott to assist him
      to rise, and to prepare breakfast, he quitted his couch, and made his
      toilet. This duty performed, and his repast ended, he again betook himself
      to Bevis Marks.
    </p>
    <p>
      This visit was not intended for Mr Swiveller, but for his friend and
      employer Mr Sampson Brass. Both gentlemen however were from home, nor was
      the life and light of law, Miss Sally, at her post either. The fact of
      their joint desertion of the office was made known to all comers by a
      scrap of paper in the hand-writing of Mr Swiveller, which was attached to
      the bell-handle, and which, giving the reader no clue to the time of day
      when it was first posted, furnished him with the rather vague and
      unsatisfactory information that that gentleman would 'return in an hour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a servant, I suppose,' said the dwarf, knocking at the
      house-door. 'She'll do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After a sufficiently long interval, the door was opened, and a small voice
      immediately accosted him with, 'Oh please will you leave a card or
      message?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' said the dwarf, looking down, (it was something quite new to him)
      upon the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, the child, conducting her conversation as upon the occasion of
      her first interview with Mr Swiveller, again replied, 'Oh please will you
      leave a card or message?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll write a note,' said the dwarf, pushing past her into the office;
      'and mind your master has it directly he comes home.' So Mr Quilp climbed
      up to the top of a tall stool to write the note, and the small servant,
      carefully tutored for such emergencies, looked on with her eyes wide open,
      ready, if he so much as abstracted a wafer, to rush into the street and
      give the alarm to the police.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr Quilp folded his note (which was soon written: being a very short
      one) he encountered the gaze of the small servant. He looked at her, long
      and earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How are you?' said the dwarf, moistening a wafer with horrible grimaces.
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant, perhaps frightened by his looks, returned no audible
      reply; but it appeared from the motion of her lips that she was inwardly
      repeating the same form of expression concerning the note or message.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do they use you ill here? is your mistress a Tartar?' said Quilp with a
      chuckle.
    </p>
    <p>
      In reply to the last interrogation, the small servant, with a look of
      infinite cunning mingled with fear, screwed up her mouth very tight and
      round, and nodded violently. Whether there was anything in the peculiar
      slyness of her action which fascinated Mr Quilp, or anything in the
      expression of her features at the moment which attracted his attention for
      some other reason; or whether it merely occurred to him as a pleasant whim
      to stare the small servant out of countenance; certain it is, that he
      planted his elbows square and firmly on the desk, and squeezing up his
      cheeks with his hands, looked at her fixedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where do you come from?' he said after a long pause, stroking his chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's your name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense!' retorted Quilp. 'What does your mistress call you when she
      wants you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A little devil,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      She added in the same breath, as if fearful of any further questioning,
      'But please will you leave a card or message?'
    </p>
    <p>
      These unusual answers might naturally have provoked some more inquiries.
      Quilp, however, without uttering another word, withdrew his eyes from the
      small servant, stroked his chin more thoughtfully than before, and then,
      bending over the note as if to direct it with scrupulous and hair-breadth
      nicety, looked at her, covertly but very narrowly, from under his bushy
      eyebrows. The result of this secret survey was, that he shaded his face
      with his hands, and laughed slyly and noiselessly, until every vein in it
      was swollen almost to bursting. Pulling his hat over his brow to conceal
      his mirth and its effects, he tossed the letter to the child, and hastily
      withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once in the street, moved by some secret impulse, he laughed, and held his
      sides, and laughed again, and tried to peer through the dusty area
      railings as if to catch another glimpse of the child, until he was quite
      tired out. At last, he travelled back to the Wilderness, which was within
      rifle-shot of his bachelor retreat, and ordered tea in the wooden
      summer-house that afternoon for three persons; an invitation to Miss Sally
      Brass and her brother to partake of that entertainment at that place,
      having been the object both of his journey and his note.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not precisely the kind of weather in which people usually take tea
      in summer-houses, far less in summer-houses in an advanced state of decay,
      and overlooking the slimy banks of a great river at low water.
      Nevertheless, it was in this choice retreat that Mr Quilp ordered a cold
      collation to be prepared, and it was beneath its cracked and leaky roof
      that he, in due course of time, received Mr Sampson and his sister Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're fond of the beauties of nature,' said Quilp with a grin. 'Is this
      charming, Brass? Is it unusual, unsophisticated, primitive?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's delightful indeed, sir,' replied the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cool?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'N-not particularly so, I think, sir,' rejoined Brass, with his teeth
      chattering in his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps a little damp and ague-ish?' said Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just damp enough to be cheerful, sir,' rejoined Brass. 'Nothing more,
      sir, nothing more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And Sally?' said the delighted dwarf. 'Does she like it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She'll like it better,' returned that strong-minded lady, 'when she has
      tea; so let us have it, and don't bother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sweet Sally!' cried Quilp, extending his arms as if about to embrace her.
      'Gentle, charming, overwhelming Sally.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's a very remarkable man indeed!' soliloquised Mr Brass. 'He's quite a
      Troubadour, you know; quite a Troubadour!'
    </p>
    <p>
      These complimentary expressions were uttered in a somewhat absent and
      distracted manner; for the unfortunate lawyer, besides having a bad cold
      in his head, had got wet in coming, and would have willingly borne some
      pecuniary sacrifice if he could have shifted his present raw quarters to a
      warm room, and dried himself at a fire. Quilp, however&mdash;who, beyond
      the gratification of his demon whims, owed Sampson some acknowledgment of
      the part he had played in the mourning scene of which he had been a hidden
      witness, marked these symptoms of uneasiness with a delight past all
      expression, and derived from them a secret joy which the costliest banquet
      could never have afforded him.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0367m.jpg" alt="0367m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0367.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      It is worthy of remark, too, as illustrating a little feature in the
      character of Miss Sally Brass, that, although on her own account she would
      have borne the discomforts of the Wilderness with a very ill grace, and
      would probably, indeed, have walked off before the tea appeared, she no
      sooner beheld the latent uneasiness and misery of her brother than she
      developed a grim satisfaction, and began to enjoy herself after her own
      manner. Though the wet came stealing through the roof and trickling down
      upon their heads, Miss Brass uttered no complaint, but presided over the
      tea equipage with imperturbable composure. While Mr Quilp, in his
      uproarious hospitality, seated himself upon an empty beer-barrel, vaunted
      the place as the most beautiful and comfortable in the three kingdoms, and
      elevating his glass, drank to their next merry-meeting in that jovial
      spot; and Mr Brass, with the rain plashing down into his tea-cup, made a
      dismal attempt to pluck up his spirits and appear at his ease; and Tom
      Scott, who was in waiting at the door under an old umbrella, exulted in
      his agonies, and bade fair to split his sides with laughing; while all
      this was passing, Miss Sally Brass, unmindful of the wet which dripped
      down upon her own feminine person and fair apparel, sat placidly behind
      the tea-board, erect and grizzly, contemplating the unhappiness of her
      brother with a mind at ease, and content, in her amiable disregard of
      self, to sit there all night, witnessing the torments which his avaricious
      and grovelling nature compelled him to endure and forbade him to resent.
      And this, it must be observed, or the illustration would be incomplete,
      although in a business point of view she had the strongest sympathy with
      Mr Sampson, and would have been beyond measure indignant if he had
      thwarted their client in any one respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the height of his boisterous merriment, Mr Quilp, having on some
      pretence dismissed his attendant sprite for the moment, resumed his usual
      manner all at once, dismounted from his cask, and laid his hand upon the
      lawyer's sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A word,' said the dwarf, 'before we go farther. Sally, hark'ee for a
      minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sally drew closer, as if accustomed to business conferences with
      their host which were the better for not having air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Business,' said the dwarf, glancing from brother to sister. 'Very private
      business. Lay your heads together when you're by yourselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, sir,' returned Brass, taking out his pocket-book and pencil.
      'I'll take down the heads if you please, sir. Remarkable documents,' added
      the lawyer, raising his eyes to the ceiling, 'most remarkable documents.
      He states his points so clearly that it's a treat to have 'em! I don't
      know any act of parliament that's equal to him in clearness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall deprive you of a treat,' said Quilp. 'Put up your book. We don't
      want any documents. So. There's a lad named Kit&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sally nodded, implying that she knew of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kit!' said Mr Sampson.&mdash;'Kit! Ha! I've heard the name before, but I
      don't exactly call to mind&mdash;I don't exactly&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're as slow as a tortoise, and more thick-headed than a rhinoceros,'
      returned his obliging client with an impatient gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's extremely pleasant!' cried the obsequious Sampson. 'His acquaintance
      with Natural History too is surprising. Quite a Buffoon, quite!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no doubt that Mr Brass intended some compliment or other; and it
      has been argued with show of reason that he would have said Buffon, but
      made use of a superfluous vowel. Be this as it may, Quilp gave him no time
      for correction, as he performed that office himself by more than tapping
      him on the head with the handle of his umbrella.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't let's have any wrangling,' said Miss Sally, staying his hand. 'I've
      showed you that I know him, and that's enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's always foremost!' said the dwarf, patting her on the back and
      looking contemptuously at Sampson. 'I don't like Kit, Sally.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor I,' rejoined Miss Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor I,' said Sampson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that's right!' cried Quilp. 'Half our work is done already. This Kit
      is one of your honest people; one of your fair characters; a prowling
      prying hound; a hypocrite; a double-faced, white-livered, sneaking spy; a
      crouching cur to those that feed and coax him, and a barking yelping dog
      to all besides.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fearfully eloquent!' cried Brass with a sneeze. 'Quite appalling!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come to the point,' said Miss Sally, 'and don't talk so much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Right again!' exclaimed Quilp, with another contemptuous look at Sampson,
      'always foremost! I say, Sally, he is a yelping, insolent dog to all
      besides, and most of all, to me. In short, I owe him a grudge.' 'That's
      enough, sir,' said Sampson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, it's not enough, sir,' sneered Quilp; 'will you hear me out? Besides
      that I owe him a grudge on that account, he thwarts me at this minute, and
      stands between me and an end which might otherwise prove a golden one to
      us all. Apart from that, I repeat that he crosses my humour, and I hate
      him. Now, you know the lad, and can guess the rest. Devise your own means
      of putting him out of my way, and execute them. Shall it be done?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It shall, sir,' said Sampson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then give me your hand,' retorted Quilp. 'Sally, girl, yours. I rely as
      much, or more, on you than him. Tom Scott comes back. Lantern, pipes, more
      grog, and a jolly night of it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      No other word was spoken, no other look exchanged, which had the slightest
      reference to this, the real occasion of their meeting. The trio were well
      accustomed to act together, and were linked to each other by ties of
      mutual interest and advantage, and nothing more was needed. Resuming his
      boisterous manner with the same ease with which he had thrown it off,
      Quilp was in an instant the same uproarious, reckless little savage he had
      been a few seconds before. It was ten o'clock at night before the amiable
      Sally supported her beloved and loving brother from the Wilderness, by
      which time he needed the utmost support her tender frame could render; his
      walk being from some unknown reason anything but steady, and his legs
      constantly doubling up in unexpected places.
    </p>
    <p>
      Overpowered, notwithstanding his late prolonged slumbers, by the fatigues
      of the last few days, the dwarf lost no time in creeping to his dainty
      house, and was soon dreaming in his hammock. Leaving him to visions, in
      which perhaps the quiet figures we quitted in the old church porch were
      not without their share, be it our task to rejoin them as they sat and
      watched.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap52"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 52
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the
      churchyard, and hurried towards them, Tingling in his hand, as he came
      along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure and
      haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only point towards the
      old building which the child had been contemplating so earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see those two old houses,' he said at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, surely,' replied Nell. 'I have been looking at them nearly all the
      time you have been away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you could have
      guessed what I have to tell you,' said her friend. 'One of those houses is
      mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the
      schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with
      exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stopped before its low arched door. After trying several of the keys
      in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which turned
      back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once nobly
      ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful
      groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient
      splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery of
      Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times the leaves outside had
      come and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The broken figures supporting
      the burden of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were still
      distinguishable for what they had been&mdash;far different from the dust
      without&mdash;and showed sadly by the empty hearth, like creatures who had
      outlived their kind, and mourned their own too slow decay.
    </p>
    <p>
      In some old time&mdash;for even change was old in that old place&mdash;a
      wooden partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to form a
      sleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the same period by a
      rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen, together
      with two seats in the broad chimney, had at some forgotten date been part
      of the church or convent; for the oak, hastily appropriated to its present
      purpose, had been little altered from its former shape, and presented to
      the eye a pile of fragments of rich carving from old monkish stalls.
    </p>
    <p>
      An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that came
      through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of the ruin.
      It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms
      and legs looked as though they had dwindled away with age; a table, the
      very spectre of its race: a great old chest that had once held records in
      the church, with other quaintly-fashioned domestic necessaries, and store
      of fire-wood for the winter, were scattered around, and gave evident
      tokens of its occupation as a dwelling-place at no very distant time.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we
      contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the
      great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they were all
      three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they feared
      to break the silence even by so slight a sound.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0373m.jpg" alt="0373m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0373.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'It is a very beautiful place!' said the child, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I almost feared you thought otherwise,' returned the schoolmaster. 'You
      shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was not that,' said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder.
      'Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside, from
      the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so old
      and grey perhaps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so?' said her friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes,' rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. 'A quiet,
      happy place&mdash;a place to live and learn to die in!' She would have
      said more, but that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter,
      and come in trembling whispers from her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body
      in,' said the schoolmaster; 'for this old house is yours.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ours!' cried the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' returned the schoolmaster gaily, 'for many a merry year to come, I
      hope. I shall be a close neighbour&mdash;only next door&mdash;but this
      house is yours.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster sat
      down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt that
      ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old person,
      nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the church, opened and
      closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how she had died
      not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how,
      learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who was confined to his
      bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention of his
      fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably received by that high
      authority, that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to propound
      the matter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his exertions was,
      that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried before the last-named
      gentleman next day; and, his approval of their conduct and appearance
      reserved as a matter of form, that they were already appointed to the
      vacant post.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a small allowance of money,' said the schoolmaster. 'It is not
      much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By clubbing our
      funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heaven bless and prosper you!' sobbed the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Amen, my dear,' returned her friend cheerfully; 'and all of us, as it
      will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this tranquil
      life. But we must look at <i>my</i> house now. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at
      length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led into a
      chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come, but not so
      spacious, and having only one other little room attached. It was not
      difficult to divine that the other house was of right the schoolmaster's,
      and that he had chosen for himself the least commodious, in his care and
      regard for them. Like the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles
      of furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its stack of fire-wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could,
      was now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its cheerful fire
      glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old wall with
      a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle, repaired the
      tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that time had worn in
      the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent. The
      schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed the
      long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which hung their drooping
      heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of
      home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child,
      lent his aid to both, went here and there on little patient services, and
      was happy. Neighbours, too, as they came from work, proffered their help;
      or sent their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers
      needed most. It was a busy day; and night came on, and found them
      wondering that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so
      soon.
    </p>
    <p>
      They took their supper together, in the house which may be henceforth
      called the child's; and, when they had finished their meal, drew round the
      fire, and almost in whispers&mdash;their hearts were too quiet and glad
      for loud expression&mdash;discussed their future plans. Before they
      separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and then, full of
      gratitude and happiness, they parted for the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully in his
      bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the dying
      embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a dream And
      she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking flame, reflected in the oaken
      panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in the dusky roof&mdash;the aged
      walls, where strange shadows came and went with every flickering of the
      fire&mdash;the solemn presence, within, of that decay which falls on
      senseless things the most enduring in their nature: and, without, and
      round about on every side, of Death&mdash;filled her with deep and
      thoughtful feelings, but with none of terror or alarm. A change had been
      gradually stealing over her, in the time of her loneliness and sorrow.
      With failing strength and heightening resolution, there had sprung up a
      purified and altered mind; there had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts
      and hopes, which are the portion of few but the weak and drooping. There
      were none to see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from the fire
      and leaned pensively at the open casement; none but the stars, to look
      into the upturned face and read its history. The old church bell rang out
      the hour with a mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much
      communing with the dead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen
      leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and
      sleeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the church&mdash;touching
      the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and protection. Others had
      chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of trees; others by the path,
      that footsteps might come near them; others, among the graves of little
      children. Some had desired to rest beneath the very ground they had
      trodden in their daily walks; some, where the setting sun might shine upon
      their beds; some, where its light would fall upon them when it rose.
      Perhaps not one of the imprisoned souls had been able quite to separate
      itself in living thought from its old companion. If any had, it had still
      felt for it a love like that which captives have been known to bear
      towards the cell in which they have been long confined, and, even at
      parting, hung upon its narrow bounds affectionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her bed.
      Again something of the same sensation as before&mdash;an involuntary chill&mdash;a
      momentary feeling akin to fear&mdash;but vanishing directly, and leaving
      no alarm behind. Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of the roof
      opening, and a column of bright faces, rising far away into the sky, as
      she had seen in some old scriptural picture once, and looking down on her,
      asleep. It was a sweet and happy dream. The quiet spot, outside, seemed to
      remain the same, saving that there was music in the air, and a sound of
      angels' wings. After a time the sisters came there, hand in hand, and
      stood among the graves. And then the dream grew dim, and faded.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of yesterday's
      labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its
      energies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked gaily in ordering and
      arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued spirit,
      accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the world, which
      he had left many years before to come and settle in that place. His wife
      had died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long since lost
      sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell;
      asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had led
      her there, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. They
      had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his
      fortunes. He loved the child as though she were his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well,' said the clergyman. 'Let it be as you desire. She is very
      young.'
</p>
    <p>
'Old in adversity and trial, sir,' replied the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God help her. Let her rest, and forget them,' said the old gentleman.
      'But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you, my
      child.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, sir,' returned Nell. 'I have no such thoughts, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights,' said the old
      gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly, 'than have
      her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. You must look to this,
      and see that her heart does not grow heavy among these solemn ruins. Your
      request is granted, friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to the child's house;
      where they were yet in conversation on their happy fortune, when another
      friend appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the parsonage-house, and had
      resided there (so they learnt soon afterwards) ever since the death of the
      clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He had been his
      college friend and always his close companion; in the first shock of his
      grief he had come to console and comfort him; and from that time they had
      never parted company. The little old gentleman was the active spirit of
      the place, the adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all
      merry-makings, the dispenser of his friend's bounty, and of no small
      charity of his own besides; the universal mediator, comforter, and friend.
      None of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew
      it, to store it in their memory. Perhaps from some vague rumour of his
      college honours which had been whispered abroad on his first arrival,
      perhaps because he was an unmarried, unencumbered gentleman, he had been
      called the bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any
      other, and the Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the bachelor it
      was, it may be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel
      which the wanderers had found in their new habitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bachelor, then&mdash;to call him by his usual appellation&mdash;lifted
      the latch, showed his little round mild face for a moment at the door, and
      stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are Mr Marton, the new schoolmaster?' he said, greeting Nell's kind
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you. I should have been
      in the way yesterday, expecting you, but I rode across the country to
      carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles
      off, and have but just now returned. This is our young church-keeper? You
      are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake, or for this old man's; nor
      the worse teacher for having learnt humanity.' 'She has been ill, sir,
      very lately,' said the schoolmaster, in answer to the look with which
      their visitor regarded Nell when he had kissed her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes. I know she has,' he rejoined. 'There have been suffering and
      heartache here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed there have, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at the
      child, whose hand he took tenderly in his, and held.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will be happier here,' he said; 'we will try, at least, to make you
      so. You have made great improvements here already. Are they the work of
      your hands?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We may make some others&mdash;not better in themselves, but with better
      means perhaps,' said the bachelor. 'Let us see now, let us see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both the
      houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he engaged
      to supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he had at home, and
      which must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive one, as it
      comprehended the most opposite articles imaginable. They all came,
      however, and came without loss of time; for the little old gentleman,
      disappearing for some five or ten minutes, presently returned, laden with
      old shelves, rugs, blankets, and other household gear, and followed by a
      boy bearing a similar load. These being cast on the floor in a promiscuous
      heap, yielded a quantity of occupation in arranging, erecting, and putting
      away; the superintendence of which task evidently afforded the old
      gentleman extreme delight, and engaged him for some time with great
      briskness and activity. When nothing more was left to be done, he charged
      the boy to run off and bring his schoolmates to be marshalled before their
      new master, and solemnly reviewed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see,' he said, turning
      to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; 'but I don't let 'em know I
      think so. That wouldn't do, at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins, great
      and small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house door, fell
      into various convulsions of politeness; clutching their hats and caps,
      squeezing them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making all
      manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentleman contemplated
      with excessive satisfaction, and expressed his approval of by a great many
      nods and smiles. Indeed, his approbation of the boys was by no means so
      scrupulously disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch
      as it broke out in sundry loud whispers and confidential remarks which
      were perfectly audible to them every one.
</p>
    <p>
'This first boy, schoolmaster,'
      said the bachelor, 'is John Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank,
      honest temper; but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far.
      That boy, my good sir, would break his neck with pleasure, and deprive his
      parents of their chief comfort&mdash;and between ourselves, when you come
      to see him at hare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the
      finger-post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll never
      forget it. It's beautiful!'
    </p>
    <p>
      John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect possession of the
      speech aside, the bachelor singled out another boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, look at that lad, sir,' said the bachelor. 'You see that fellow?
      Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with a
      good memory, and a ready understanding, and moreover with a good voice and
      ear for psalm-singing, in which he is the best among us. Yet, sir, that
      boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed; he's always
      falling asleep in sermon-time&mdash;and to tell you the truth, Mr Marton,
      I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain that it was
      natural to my constitution and I couldn't help it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor
      turned to another.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But if we talk of examples to be shunned,' said he, 'if we come to boys
      that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here's the
      one, and I hope you won't spare him. This is the lad, sir; this one with
      the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir, this fellow&mdash;a
      diver, Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for plunging into
      eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's
      dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain and collar, while
      his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank, bewailing the loss of
      his guide and friend. I sent the boy two guineas anonymously, sir,' added
      the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper, 'directly I heard of it; but never
      mention it on any account, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and from
      him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for their
      wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting emphasis on such
      of their propensities as were dearest to his heart and were unquestionably
      referrable to his own precept and example. Thoroughly persuaded, in the
      end, that he had made them miserable by his severity, he dismissed them
      with a small present, and an admonition to walk quietly home, without any
      leapings, scufflings, or turnings out of the way; which injunction, he
      informed the schoolmaster in the same audible confidence, he did not think
      he could have obeyed when he was a boy, had his life depended on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor's disposition as so many
      assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster
      parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and deemed himself
      one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old houses were
      ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the cheerful fires that
      burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend, pausing to look upon them
      as they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the
      beautiful child, and looked round upon the churchyard with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap53"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 53
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ell was stirring early in the morning, and having discharged her
      household tasks, and put everything in order for the good schoolmaster
      (though sorely against his will, for he would have spared her the pains),
      took down, from its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of keys with
      which the bachelor had formally invested her on the previous day, and went
      out alone to visit the old church.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sky was serene and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh
      scent of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense. The
      neighbouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward with a tuneful sound; the
      dew glistened on the green mounds, like tears shed by Good Spirits over
      the dead. Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid from each
      other, with laughing faces. They had an infant with them, and had laid it
      down asleep upon a child's grave, in a little bed of leaves. It was a new
      grave&mdash;the resting-place, perhaps, of some little creature, who, meek
      and patient in its illness, had often sat and watched them, and now
      seemed, to their minds, scarcely changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      She drew near and asked one of them whose grave it was. The child answered
      that that was not its name; it was a garden&mdash;his brother's. It was
      greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds loved it
      better because he had been used to feed them. When he had done speaking,
      he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and nestling for a moment
      with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily away.
    </p>
    <p>
      She passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the
      wicket gate, and so into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a crutch,
      was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are better?' said the child, stopping to speak with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay surely,' returned the old man. 'I'm thankful to say, much better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>will be quite well soon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With Heaven's leave, and a little patience. But come in, come in!' The
      old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step, which he
      achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into his little
      cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is but one room you see. There is another up above, but the stair has
      got harder to climb o' late years, and I never use it. I'm thinking of
      taking to it again, next summer, though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child wondered how a grey-headed man like him&mdash;one of his trade
      too&mdash;could talk of time so easily. He saw her eyes wandering to the
      tools that hung upon the wall, and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I warrant now,' he said, 'that you think all those are used in making
      graves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And well you might. I am a gardener. I dig the ground, and plant things
      that are to live and grow. My works don't all moulder away, and rot in the
      earth. You see that spade in the centre?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The very old one&mdash;so notched and worn? Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the sexton's spade, and it's a well-used one, as you see. We're
      healthy people here, but it has done a power of work. If it could speak
      now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected job that it and I
      have done together; but I forget 'em, for my memory's a poor one.&mdash;That's
      nothing new,' he added hastily. 'It always was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are flowers and shrubs to speak to your other work,' said the
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes. And tall trees. But they are not so separate from the sexton's
      labours as you think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not in my mind, and recollection&mdash;such as it is,' said the old man.
      'Indeed they often help it. For say that I planted such a tree for such a
      man. There it stands, to remind me that he died. When I look at its broad
      shadow, and remember what it was in his time, it helps me to the age of my
      other work, and I can tell you pretty nearly when I made his grave.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it may remind you of one who is still alive,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of twenty that are dead, in connexion with that one who lives, then,'
      rejoined the old man; 'wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters,
      children, friends&mdash;a score at least. So it happens that the sexton's
      spade gets worn and battered. I shall need a new one&mdash;next summer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child looked quickly towards him, thinking that he jested with his age
      and infirmity: but the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' he said, after a brief silence. 'People never learn. They never
      learn. It's only we who turn up the ground, where nothing grows and
      everything decays, who think of such things as these&mdash;who think of
      them properly, I mean. You have been into the church?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am going there now,' the child replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's an old well there,' said the sexton, 'right underneath the
      belfry; a deep, dark, echoing well. Forty year ago, you had only to let
      down the bucket till the first knot in the rope was free of the windlass,
      and you heard it splashing in the cold dull water. By little and little
      the water fell away, so that in ten year after that, a second knot was
      made, and you must unwind so much rope, or the bucket swung tight and
      empty at the end. In ten years' time, the water fell again, and a third
      knot was made. In ten years more, the well dried up; and now, if you lower
      the bucket till your arms are tired, and let out nearly all the cord,
      you'll hear it, of a sudden, clanking and rattling on the ground below;
      with a sound of being so deep and so far down, that your heart leaps into
      your mouth, and you start away as if you were falling in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A dreadful place to come on in the dark!' exclaimed the child, who had
      followed the old man's looks and words until she seemed to stand upon its
      brink.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it but a grave!' said the sexton. 'What else! And which of our
      old folks, knowing all this, thought, as the spring subsided, of their own
      failing strength, and lessening life? Not one!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you very old yourself?' asked the child, involuntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be seventy-nine&mdash;next summer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You still work when you are well?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Work! To be sure. You shall see my gardens hereabout. Look at the window
      there. I made, and have kept, that plot of ground entirely with my own
      hands. By this time next year I shall hardly see the sky, the boughs will
      have grown so thick. I have my winter work at night besides.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He opened, as he spoke, a cupboard close to where he sat, and produced
      some miniature boxes, carved in a homely manner and made of old wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some gentlefolks who are fond of ancient days, and what belongs to them,'
      he said, 'like to buy these keepsakes from our church and ruins.
      Sometimes, I make them of scraps of oak, that turn up here and there;
      sometimes of bits of coffins which the vaults have long preserved. See
      here&mdash;this is a little chest of the last kind, clasped at the edges
      with fragments of brass plates that had writing on 'em once, though it
      would be hard to read it now. I haven't many by me at this time of year,
      but these shelves will be full&mdash;next summer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child admired and praised his work, and shortly afterwards departed;
      thinking, as she went, how strange it was, that this old man, drawing from
      his pursuits, and everything around him, one stern moral, never
      contemplated its application to himself; and, while he dwelt upon the
      uncertainty of human life, seemed both in word and deed to deem himself
      immortal. But her musings did not stop here, for she was wise enough to
      think that by a good and merciful adjustment this must be human nature,
      and that the old sexton, with his plans for next summer, was but a type of
      all mankind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Full of these meditations, she reached the church. It was easy to find the
      key belonging to the outer door, for each was labelled on a scrap of
      yellow parchment. Its very turning in the lock awoke a hollow sound, and
      when she entered with a faltering step, the echoes that it raised in
      closing, made her start.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the peace of the simple village had moved the child more strongly,
      because of the dark and troubled ways that lay beyond, and through which
      she had journeyed with such failing feet, what was the deep impression of
      finding herself alone in that solemn building, where the very light,
      coming through sunken windows, seemed old and grey, and the air, redolent
      of earth and mould, seemed laden with decay, purified by time of all its
      grosser particles, and sighing through arch and aisle, and clustered
      pillars, like the breath of ages gone! Here was the broken pavement, worn,
      so long ago, by pious feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrims' steps,
      had trodden out their track, and left but crumbling stones. Here were the
      rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped and mouldering wall, the lowly
      trench of earth, the stately tomb on which no epitaph remained&mdash;all&mdash;marble,
      stone, iron, wood, and dust&mdash;one common monument of ruin. The best
      work and the worst, the plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the
      least imposing&mdash;both of Heaven's work and Man's&mdash;all found one
      common level here, and told one common tale.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0384m.jpg" alt="0384m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0384.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and here were
      effigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of stone with folded hands&mdash;cross-legged,
      those who had fought in the Holy Wars&mdash;girded with their swords, and
      cased in armour as they had lived. Some of these knights had their own
      weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by, and
      dangling from rusty hooks. Broken and dilapidated as they were, they yet
      retained their ancient form, and something of their ancient aspect. Thus
      violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and
      bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes long after those who worked the
      desolation are but atoms of earth themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child sat down, in this old, silent place, among the stark figures on
      the tombs&mdash;they made it more quiet there, than elsewhere, to her
      fancy&mdash;and gazing round with a feeling of awe, tempered with a calm
      delight, felt that now she was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible from
      the shelf, and read; then, laying it down, thought of the summer days and
      the bright springtime that would come&mdash;of the rays of sun that would
      fall in aslant, upon the sleeping forms&mdash;of the leaves that would
      flutter at the window, and play in glistening shadows on the pavement&mdash;of
      the songs of birds, and growth of buds and blossoms out of doors&mdash;of
      the sweet air, that would steal in, and gently wave the tattered banners
      overhead. What if the spot awakened thoughts of death! Die who would, it
      would still remain the same; these sights and sounds would still go on, as
      happily as ever. It would be no pain to sleep amidst them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She left the chapel&mdash;very slowly and often turning back to gaze again&mdash;and
      coming to a low door, which plainly led into the tower, opened it, and
      climbed the winding stair in darkness; save where she looked down, through
      narrow loopholes, on the place she had left, or caught a glimmering vision
      of the dusty bells. At length she gained the end of the ascent and stood
      upon the turret top.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh! the glory of the sudden burst of light; the freshness of the fields
      and woods, stretching away on every side, and meeting the bright blue sky;
      the cattle grazing in the pasturage; the smoke, that, coming from among
      the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth; the children yet at
      their gambols down below&mdash;all, everything, so beautiful and happy! It
      was like passing from death to life; it was drawing nearer Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children were gone, when she emerged into the porch, and locked the
      door. As she passed the school-house she could hear the busy hum of
      voices. Her friend had begun his labours only on that day. The noise grew
      louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys come trooping out and disperse
      themselves with merry shouts and play. 'It's a good thing,' thought the
      child, 'I am very glad they pass the church.' And then she stopped, to
      fancy how the noise would sound inside, and how gently it would seem to
      die away upon the ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the old chapel, and in
      her former seat read from the same book, or indulged the same quiet train
      of thought. Even when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of coming night
      made it more solemn still, the child remained, like one rooted to the
      spot, and had no fear or thought of stirring.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found her there, at last, and took her home. She looked pale but very
      happy, until they separated for the night; and then, as the poor
      schoolmaster stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear
      upon his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap54"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 54
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he bachelor, among his various occupations, found in the old church a
      constant source of interest and amusement. Taking that pride in it which
      men conceive for the wonders of their own little world, he had made its
      history his study; and many a summer day within its walls, and many a
      winter's night beside the parsonage fire, had found the bachelor still
      poring over, and adding to, his goodly store of tale and legend.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip fair Truth of
      every little shadowy vestment in which time and teeming fancies love to
      array her&mdash;and some of which become her pleasantly enough, serving,
      like the waters of her well, to add new graces to the charms they half
      conceal and half suggest, and to awaken interest and pursuit rather than
      languor and indifference&mdash;as, unlike this stern and obdurate class,
      he loved to see the goddess crowned with those garlands of wild flowers
      which tradition wreathes for her gentle wearing, and which are often
      freshest in their homeliest shapes&mdash;he trod with a light step and
      bore with a light hand upon the dust of centuries, unwilling to demolish
      any of the airy shrines that had been raised above it, if any good feeling
      or affection of the human heart were hiding thereabouts. Thus, in the case
      of an ancient coffin of rough stone, supposed, for many generations, to
      contain the bones of a certain baron, who, after ravaging, with cut, and
      thrust, and plunder, in foreign lands, came back with a penitent and
      sorrowing heart to die at home, but which had been lately shown by learned
      antiquaries to be no such thing, as the baron in question (so they
      contended) had died hard in battle, gnashing his teeth and cursing with
      his latest breath&mdash;the bachelor stoutly maintained that the old tale
      was the true one; that the baron, repenting him of the evil, had done
      great charities and meekly given up the ghost; and that, if ever baron
      went to heaven, that baron was then at peace. In like manner, when the
      aforesaid antiquaries did argue and contend that a certain secret vault
      was not the tomb of a grey-haired lady who had been hanged and drawn and
      quartered by glorious Queen Bess for succouring a wretched priest who
      fainted of thirst and hunger at her door, the bachelor did solemnly
      maintain, against all comers, that the church was hallowed by the said
      poor lady's ashes; that her remains had been collected in the night from
      four of the city's gates, and thither in secret brought, and there
      deposited; and the bachelor did further (being highly excited at such
      times) deny the glory of Queen Bess, and assert the immeasurably greater
      glory of the meanest woman in her realm, who had a merciful and tender
      heart. As to the assertion that the flat stone near the door was not the
      grave of the miser who had disowned his only child and left a sum of money
      to the church to buy a peal of bells, the bachelor did readily admit the
      same, and that the place had given birth to no such man. In a word, he
      would have had every stone, and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds
      whose memory should survive. All others he was willing to forget. They
      might be buried in consecrated ground, but he would have had them buried
      deep, and never brought to light again.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was from the lips of such a tutor, that the child learnt her easy task.
      Already impressed, beyond all telling, by the silent building and the
      peaceful beauty of the spot in which it stood&mdash;majestic age
      surrounded by perpetual youth&mdash;it seemed to her, when she heard these
      things, sacred to all goodness and virtue. It was another world, where sin
      and sorrow never came; a tranquil place of rest, where nothing evil
      entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the bachelor had given her in connection with almost every tomb and
      flat grave-stone some history of its own, he took her down into the old
      crypt, now a mere dull vault, and showed her how it had been lighted up in
      the time of the monks, and how, amid lamps depending from the roof, and
      swinging censers exhaling scented odours, and habits glittering with gold
      and silver, and pictures, and precious stuffs, and jewels all flashing and
      glistening through the low arches, the chaunt of aged voices had been many
      a time heard there, at midnight, in old days, while hooded figures knelt
      and prayed around, and told their rosaries of beads. Thence, he took her
      above ground again, and showed her, high up in the old walls, small
      galleries, where the nuns had been wont to glide along&mdash;dimly seen in
      their dark dresses so far off&mdash;or to pause like gloomy shadows,
      listening to the prayers. He showed her too, how the warriors, whose
      figures rested on the tombs, had worn those rotting scraps of armour up
      above&mdash;how this had been a helmet, and that a shield, and that a
      gauntlet&mdash;and how they had wielded the great two-handed swords, and
      beaten men down, with yonder iron mace. All that he told the child she
      treasured in her mind; and sometimes, when she awoke at night from dreams
      of those old times, and rising from her bed looked out at the dark church,
      she almost hoped to see the windows lighted up, and hear the organ's
      swell, and sound of voices, on the rushing wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old sexton soon got better, and was about again. From him the child
      learnt many other things, though of a different kind. He was not able to
      work, but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to overlook
      the man who dug it. He was in a talkative mood; and the child, at first
      standing by his side, and afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet,
      with her thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the man who did the sexton's duty was a little older than he, though
      much more active. But he was deaf; and when the sexton (who peradventure,
      on a pinch, might have walked a mile with great difficulty in half-a-dozen
      hours) exchanged a remark with him about his work, the child could not
      help noticing that he did so with an impatient kind of pity for his
      infirmity, as if he were himself the strongest and heartiest man alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sorry to see there is this to do,' said the child when she
      approached. 'I heard of no one having died.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She lived in another hamlet, my dear,' returned the sexton. 'Three mile
      away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was she young?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye-yes' said the sexton; not more than sixty-four, I think. David, was
      she more than sixty-four?'
    </p>
    <p>
      David, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the question. The sexton, as
      he could not reach to touch him with his crutch, and was too infirm to
      rise without assistance, called his attention by throwing a little mould
      upon his red nightcap.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter now?' said David, looking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How old was Becky Morgan?' asked the sexton.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Becky Morgan?' repeated David.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied the sexton; adding in a half compassionate, half irritable
      tone, which the old man couldn't hear, 'you're getting very deaf, Davy,
      very deaf to be sure!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade with a piece of
      slate he had by him for the purpose&mdash;and scraping off, in the
      process, the essence of Heaven knows how many Becky Morgans&mdash;set
      himself to consider the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me think' quoth he. 'I saw last night what they had put upon the
      coffin&mdash;was it seventy-nine?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' said the sexton.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah yes, it was though,' returned the old man with a sigh. 'For I remember
      thinking she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy-nine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, Davy?' asked the sexton, with
      signs of some emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What?' said the old man. 'Say that again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's very deaf. He's very deaf indeed,' cried the sexton petulantly; 'are
      you sure you're right about the figures?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh quite,' replied the old man. 'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's exceedingly deaf,' muttered the sexton to himself. 'I think he's
      getting foolish.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say the
      truth, the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely more
      robust. As the sexton said nothing more just then, however, she forgot it
      for the time, and spoke again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were telling me,' she said, 'about your gardening. Do you ever plant
      things here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the churchyard?' returned the sexton, 'Not I.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about,' the child rejoined;
      'there are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your rearing,
      though indeed they grow but poorly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They grow as Heaven wills,' said the old man; 'and it kindly ordains that
      they shall never flourish here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not understand you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, this it is,' said the sexton. 'They mark the graves of those who had
      very tender, loving friends.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was sure they did!' the child exclaimed. 'I am very glad to know they
      do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye,' returned the old man, 'but stay. Look at them. See how they hang
      their heads, and droop, and wither. Do you guess the reason?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' the child replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away so soon. At first
      they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come less
      frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week to once a
      month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all. Such
      tokens seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer flowers
      outlive them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I grieve to hear it,' said the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them,'
      returned the old man, shaking his head, 'but I say otherwise. "It's a
      pretty custom you have in this part of the country," they say to me
      sometimes, "to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see these things
      all withering or dead." I crave their pardon and tell them that, as I take
      it, 'tis a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so it is. It's
      nature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the
      stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves,'
      said the child in an earnest voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps so,' replied the old man doubtfully. 'It may be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whether it be as I believe it is, or no,' thought the child within
      herself, 'I'll make this place my garden. It will be no harm at least to
      work here day by day, and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who
      turned towards old David, and called him by his name. It was plain that
      Becky Morgan's age still troubled him; though why, the child could
      scarcely understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second or third repetition of his name attracted the old man's
      attention. Pausing from his work, he leant on his spade, and put his hand
      to his dull ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you call?' he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been thinking, Davy,' replied the sexton, 'that she,' he pointed
      to the grave, 'must have been a deal older than you or me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Seventy-nine,' answered the old man with a shake of the head, 'I tell you
      that I saw it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Saw it?' replied the sexton; 'aye, but, Davy, women don't always tell the
      truth about their age.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's true indeed,' said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in his
      eye. 'She might have been older.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sure she must have been. Why, only think how old she looked. You and
      I seemed but boys to her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She did look old,' rejoined David. 'You're right. She did look old.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year, and say if
      she could be but seventy-nine at last&mdash;only our age,' said the
      sexton.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Five year older at the very least!' cried the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Five!' retorted the sexton. 'Ten. Good eighty-nine. I call to mind the
      time her daughter died. She was eighty-nine if she was a day, and tries to
      pass upon us now, for ten year younger. Oh! human vanity!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The other old man was not behindhand with some moral reflections on this
      fruitful theme, and both adduced a mass of evidence, of such weight as to
      render it doubtful&mdash;not whether the deceased was of the age
      suggested, but whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal term of
      a hundred. When they had settled this question to their mutual
      satisfaction, the sexton, with his friend's assistance, rose to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's chilly, sitting here, and I must be careful&mdash;till the summer,'
      he said, as he prepared to limp away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What?' asked old David.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's very deaf, poor fellow!' cried the sexton. 'Good-bye!'
</p>
    <p>
'Ah!' said
      old David, looking after him. 'He's failing very fast. He ages every day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And so they parted; each persuaded that the other had less life in him
      than himself; and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little
      fiction they had agreed upon, respecting Becky Morgan, whose decease was
      no longer a precedent of uncomfortable application, and would be no
      business of theirs for half a score of years to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child remained, for some minutes, watching the deaf old man as he
      threw out the earth with his shovel, and, often stopping to cough and
      fetch his breath, still muttered to himself, with a kind of sober chuckle,
      that the sexton was wearing fast. At length she turned away, and walking
      thoughtfully through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon the
      schoolmaster, who was sitting on a green grave in the sun, reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nell here?' he said cheerfully, as he closed his book. 'It does me good
      to see you in the air and light. I feared you were again in the church,
      where you so often are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feared!' replied the child, sitting down beside him. 'Is it not a good
      place?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster. 'But you must be gay sometimes&mdash;nay,
      don't shake your head and smile so sadly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me as if you thought me
      sorrowful. There is not a happier creature on earth, than I am now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and folded it
      between her own. 'It's God's will!' she said, when they had been silent
      for some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All this,' she rejoined; 'all this about us. But which of us is sad now?
      You see that I am smiling.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so am I,' said the schoolmaster; 'smiling to think how often we shall
      laugh in this same place. Were you not talking yonder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,'the child rejoined.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of something that has made you sorrowful?'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a long pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What was it?' said the schoolmaster, tenderly. 'Come. Tell me what it
      was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I rather grieve&mdash;I <i>do</i> rather grieve to think,' said the child,
      bursting into tears, 'that those who die about us, are so soon forgotten.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And do you think,' said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had
      thrown around, 'that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded flower
      or two, are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect? Do you think there
      are no deeds, far away from here, in which these dead may be best
      remembered? Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in the world, at this
      instant, in whose good actions and good thoughts these very graves&mdash;neglected
      as they look to us&mdash;are the chief instruments.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me no more,' said the child quickly. 'Tell me no more. I feel, I
      know it. How could I be unmindful of it, when I thought of you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is nothing,' cried her friend, 'no, nothing innocent or good, that
      dies, and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith, or none. An infant, a
      prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better
      thoughts of those who loved it, and will play its part, through them, in
      the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt to ashes or
      drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to the Host of
      Heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those that loved it here.
      Forgotten! oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to
      their source, how beautiful would even death appear; for how much charity,
      mercy, and purified affection, would be seen to have their growth in dusty
      graves!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the child, 'it is the truth; I know it is. Who should feel its
      force so much as I, in whom your little scholar lives again! Dear, dear,
      good friend, if you knew the comfort you have given me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent over her in silence;
      for his heart was full.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were yet seated in the same place, when the grandfather approached.
      Before they had spoken many words together, the church clock struck the
      hour of school, and their friend withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A good man,' said the grandfather, looking after him; 'a kind man. Surely
      he will never harm us, Nell. We are safe here, at last, eh? We will never
      go away from here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child shook her head and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She needs rest,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'too pale&mdash;too
      pale. She is not like what she was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When?' asked the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' said the old man, 'to be sure&mdash;when? How many weeks ago? Could
      I count them on my fingers? Let them rest though; they're better gone.'
</p>
    <p>
      'Much better, dear,' replied the child. 'We will forget them; or, if we
      ever call them to mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream that has
      passed away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' said the old man, motioning hastily to her with his hand and
      looking over his shoulder; 'no more talk of the dream, and all the
      miseries it brought. There are no dreams here. 'Tis a quiet place, and
      they keep away. Let us never think about them, lest they should pursue us
      again. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks&mdash;wet, cold, and famine&mdash;and
      horrors before them all, that were even worse&mdash;we must forget such
      things if we would be tranquil here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank Heaven!' inwardly exclaimed the child, 'for this most happy
      change!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will be patient,' said the old man, 'humble, very thankful, and
      obedient, if you will let me stay. But do not hide from me; do not steal
      away alone; let me keep beside you. Indeed, I will be very true and
      faithful, Nell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I steal away alone! why that,' replied the child, with assumed gaiety,
      'would be a pleasant jest indeed. See here, dear grandfather, we'll make
      this place our garden&mdash;why not! It is a very good one&mdash;and
      to-morrow we'll begin, and work together, side by side.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a brave thought!' cried her grandfather. 'Mind, darling&mdash;we
      begin to-morrow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their labour!
      Who so unconscious of all associations connected with the spot, as he!
      They plucked the long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the poor
      shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of the leaves and
      weeds. They were yet in the ardour of their work, when the child, raising
      her head from the ground over which she bent, observed that the bachelor
      was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in silence.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0394m.jpg" alt="0394m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0394.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'A kind office,' said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell as she
      curtseyed to him. 'Have you done all that, this morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is very little, sir,' returned the child, with downcast eyes, 'to what
      we mean to do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good work, good work,' said the bachelor. 'But do you only labour at the
      graves of children, and young people?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall come to the others in good time, sir,' replied Nell, turning her
      head aside, and speaking softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a slight incident, and might have been design or accident, or the
      child's unconscious sympathy with youth. But it seemed to strike upon her
      grandfather, though he had not noticed it before. He looked in a hurried
      manner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then pressed her to his
      side, and bade her stop to rest. Something he had long forgotten, appeared
      to struggle faintly in his mind. It did not pass away, as weightier things
      had done; but came uppermost again, and yet again, and many times that
      day, and often afterwards. Once, while they were yet at work, the child,
      seeing that he often turned and looked uneasily at her, as though he were
      trying to resolve some painful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts,
      urged him to tell the reason. But he said it was nothing&mdash;nothing&mdash;and,
      laying her head upon his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and
      muttered that she grew stronger every day, and would be a woman, soon.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap55"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 55
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>rom that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude about
      the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the human
      heart&mdash;strange, varying strings&mdash;which are only struck by
      accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most
      passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual touch.
      In the most insensible or childish minds, there is some train of
      reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill assist, but which will
      reveal itself, as great truths have done, by chance, and when the
      discoverer has the plainest end in view. From that time, the old man
      never, for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion of the child; from
      the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling by his side
      through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely thought of her
      otherwise than as the partner of miseries which he felt severely in his
      own person, and deplored for his own sake at least as much as hers, awoke
      to a sense of what he owed her, and what those miseries had made her.
      Never, no, never once, in one unguarded moment from that time to the end,
      did any care for himself, any thought of his own comfort, any selfish
      consideration or regard distract his thoughts from the gentle object of
      his love.
    </p>
    <p>
      He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean
      upon his arm&mdash;he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner,
      content to watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon him
      as of old&mdash;he would discharge by stealth, those household duties
      which tasked her powers too heavily&mdash;he would rise, in the cold dark
      nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch for
      hours by her bedside only to touch her hand. He who knows all, can only
      know what hopes, and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were in that
      one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on the poor old man.
      Sometimes&mdash;weeks had crept on, then&mdash;the child, exhausted,
      though with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside
      the fire. At such times, the schoolmaster would bring in books, and read
      to her aloud; and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor came in, and
      took his turn of reading. The old man sat and listened&mdash;with little
      understanding for the words, but with his eyes fixed upon the child&mdash;and
      if she smiled or brightened with the story, he would say it was a good
      one, and conceive a fondness for the very book. When, in their evening
      talk, the bachelor told some tale that pleased her (as his tales were sure
      to do), the old man would painfully try to store it in his mind; nay, when
      the bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip out after him, and humbly
      beg that he would tell him such a part again, that he might learn to win a
      smile from Nell.
    </p>
    <p>
      But these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be out of
      doors, and walking in her solemn garden. Parties, too, would come to see
      the church; and those who came, speaking to others of the child, sent
      more; so even at that season of the year they had visitors almost daily.
      The old man would follow them at a little distance through the building,
      listening to the voice he loved so well; and when the strangers left, and
      parted from Nell, he would mingle with them to catch up fragments of their
      conversation; or he would stand for the same purpose, with his grey head
      uncovered, at the gate as they passed through.
    </p>
    <p>
      They always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was proud to
      hear them! But what was that, so often added, which wrung his heart, and
      made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner! Alas! even careless
      strangers&mdash;they who had no feeling for her, but the interest of the
      moment&mdash;they who would go away and forget next week that such a being
      lived&mdash;even they saw it&mdash;even they pitied her&mdash;even they
      bade him good day compassionately, and whispered as they passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people of the village, too, of whom there was not one but grew to have
      a fondness for poor Nell; even among them, there was the same feeling; a
      tenderness towards her&mdash;a compassionate regard for her, increasing
      every day. The very schoolboys, light-hearted and thoughtless as they
      were, even they cared for her. The roughest among them was sorry if he
      missed her in the usual place upon his way to school, and would turn out
      of the path to ask for her at the latticed window. If she were sitting in
      the church, they perhaps might peep in softly at the open door; but they
      never spoke to her, unless she rose and went to speak to them. Some
      feeling was abroad which raised the child above them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country people in the church, for
      the castle in which the old family had lived, was an empty ruin, and there
      were none but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as elsewhere,
      they had an interest in Nell. They would gather round her in the porch,
      before and after service; young children would cluster at her skirts; and
      aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her kindly greeting.
      None of them, young or old, thought of passing the child without a
      friendly word. Many who came from three or four miles distant, brought her
      little presents; the humblest and rudest had good wishes to bestow.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in the
      churchyard. One of these&mdash;he who had spoken of his brother&mdash;was
      her little favourite and friend, and often sat by her side in the church,
      or climbed with her to the tower-top. It was his delight to help her, or
      to fancy that he did so, and they soon became close companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by herself one day,
      this child came running in with his eyes full of tears, and after holding
      her from him, and looking at her eagerly for a moment, clasped his little
      arms passionately about her neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What now?' said Nell, soothing him. 'What is the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is not one yet!' cried the boy, embracing her still more closely.
      'No, no. Not yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his face,
      and kissing him, asked what he meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must not be one, dear Nell,' cried the boy. 'We can't see them. They
      never come to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you are. You are better
      so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not understand you,' said the child. 'Tell me what you mean.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, they say,' replied the boy, looking up into her face, that you will
      be an Angel, before the birds sing again. But you won't be, will you?
      Don't leave us Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child dropped her head, and put her hands before her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She cannot bear the thought!' cried the boy, exulting through his tears.
      'You will not go. You know how sorry we should be. Dear Nell, tell me that
      you'll stay amongst us. Oh! Pray, pray, tell me that you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only look at me, Nell,' said the boy, 'and tell me that you'll stop, and
      then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no more. Won't you say
      yes, Nell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child quite silent&mdash;save
      for her sobs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'After a time,' pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, 'the kind
      angels will be glad to think that you are not among them, and that you
      stayed here to be with us. Willy went away, to join them; but if he had
      known how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never would
      have left me, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed as though her heart
      were bursting. 'Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be happy
      when you heard that we were crying for your loss. They say that Willy is
      in Heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm sure he
      grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn to kiss
      me. But if you do go, Nell,' said the boy, caressing her, and pressing his
      face to hers, 'be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I love him still,
      and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two are together, and
      are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you pain by doing wrong&mdash;indeed
      I never will!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck.
      There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon
      him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that
      she would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would let her. He
      clapped his hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being charged
      to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an earnest
      promise that he never would.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0399m.jpg" alt="0399m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0399.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet companion
      in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the theme, which
      he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of its cause.
      Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he would often come,
      even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice outside the door to
      know if she were safe within; and being answered yes, and bade to enter,
      would take his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there patiently
      until they came to seek, and take him home. Sure as the morning came, it
      found him lingering near the house to ask if she were well; and, morning,
      noon, or night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates and his
      sports to bear her company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her once.
      'When his elder brother died&mdash;elder seems a strange word, for he was
      only seven years old&mdash;I remember this one took it sorely to heart.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how its
      truth was shadowed out even in this infant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old man,
      'though for that he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now that you and
      he have been listening by the old well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed we have not,' the child replied. 'I have been afraid to go near
      it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not know
      the ground.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come down with me,' said the old man. 'I have known it from a boy. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused among
      the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the place,' said the old man. 'Give me your hand while you throw
      back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too old&mdash;I
      mean rheumatic&mdash;to stoop, myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A black and dreadful place!' exclaimed the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look in,' said the old man, pointing downward with his finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child complied, and gazed down into the pit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It looks like a grave itself,' said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It does,' replied the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have often had the fancy,' said the sexton, 'that it might have been
      dug at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old monks more
      religious. It's to be closed up, and built over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall see,' said the sexton, 'on what gay heads other earth will have
      closed, when the light is shut out from here. God knows! They'll close it
      up, next spring.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The birds sing again in spring,' thought the child, as she leaned at her
      casement window, and gazed at the declining sun. 'Spring! a beautiful and
      happy time!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap56"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 56
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller
      walked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone in
      that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking from his
      pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to folding and
      pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a hatband. Having completed
      the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his work with great
      complacency, and put his hat on again&mdash;very much over one eye, to
      increase the mournfulness of the effect. These arrangements perfected to
      his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked
      up and down the office with measured steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has always been the same with me,' said Mr Swiveller, 'always. 'Twas
      ever thus&mdash;from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay, I
      never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away; I never
      nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but when it
      came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a
      market-gardener.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Overpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short at the
      clients' chair, and flung himself into its open arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this,' said Mr Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, 'is
      life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not! I'm quite satisfied. I shall
      wear,' added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard at it, as
      if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from spurning it with
      his foot, 'I shall wear this emblem of woman's perfidy, in remembrance of
      her with whom I shall never again thread the windings of the mazy; whom I
      shall never more pledge in the rosy; who, during the short remainder of my
      existence, will murder the balmy. Ha, ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any incongruity
      in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not wind up with a
      cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been undoubtedly at variance
      with his solemn reflections, but that, being in a theatrical mood, he
      merely achieved that performance which is designated in melodramas
      'laughing like a fiend,'&mdash;for it seems that your fiends always laugh
      in syllables, and always in three syllables, never more nor less, which is
      a remarkable property in such gentry, and one worthy of remembrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still
      sitting in a very grim state in the clients' chair, when there came a ring&mdash;or,
      if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell&mdash;at the office
      bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the expressive
      countenance of Mr Chuckster, between whom and himself a fraternal greeting
      ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter-house,' said that
      gentleman, poising himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an easy
      manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather,' returned Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather!' retorted Mr Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling which
      so well became him. 'I should think so. Why, my good feller, do you know
      what o'clock it is&mdash;half-past nine a.m. in the morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you come in?' said Dick. 'All alone. Swiveller solus. "'Tis now the
      witching&mdash;"'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Hour of night!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"When churchyards yawn,"'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"And graves give up their dead."'
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of this quotation in dialogue, each gentleman struck an
      attitude, and immediately subsiding into prose walked into the office.
      Such morsels of enthusiasm are common among the Glorious Apollos, and were
      indeed the links that bound them together, and raised them above the cold
      dull earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, and how are you my buck?' said Mr Chuckster, taking a stool. 'I was
      forced to come into the City upon some little private matters of my own,
      and couldn't pass the corner of the street without looking in, but upon my
      soul I didn't expect to find you. It is so everlastingly early.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments; and it appearing on further
      conversation that he was in good health, and that Mr Chuckster was in the
      like enviable condition, both gentlemen, in compliance with a solemn
      custom of the ancient Brotherhood to which they belonged, joined in a
      fragment of the popular duet of 'All's Well,' with a long shake at the
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what's the news?' said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The town's as flat, my dear feller,' replied Mr Chuckster, 'as the
      surface of a Dutch oven. There's no news. By-the-bye, that lodger of yours
      is a most extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most vigorous
      comprehension, you know. Never was such a feller!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What has he been doing now?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By Jove, Sir,' returned Mr Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuff-box, the
      lid whereof was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in brass,
      'that man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man has made friends with our
      articled clerk. There's no harm in him, but he is so amazingly slow and
      soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he have one that knew a
      thing or two, and could do him some good by his manners and conversation.
      I have my faults, sir,' said Mr Chuckster&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' interposed Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes I have, I have my faults, no man knows his faults better than I
      know mine. But,' said Mr Chuckster, 'I'm not meek. My worst enemies&mdash;every
      man has his enemies, Sir, and I have mine&mdash;never accused me of being
      meek. And I tell you what, Sir, if I hadn't more of these qualities that
      commonly endear man to man, than our articled clerk has, I'd steal a
      Cheshire cheese, tie it round my neck, and drown myself. I'd die degraded,
      as I had lived. I would upon my honour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head exactly on the nose with the
      knuckle of the fore-finger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily at
      Mr Swiveller, as much as to say that if he thought he was going to sneeze,
      he would find himself mistaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not contented, Sir,' said Mr Chuckster, 'with making friends with Abel,
      he has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother. Since he came
      home from that wild-goose chase, he has been there&mdash; actually been
      there. He patronises young Snobby besides; you'll find, Sir, that he'll be
      constantly coming backwards and forwards to this place: yet I don't
      suppose that beyond the common forms of civility, he has ever exchanged
      half-a-dozen words with me. Now, upon my soul, you know,' said Mr
      Chuckster, shaking his head gravely, as men are wont to do when they
      consider things are going a little too far, 'this is altogether such a
      low-minded affair, that if I didn't feel for the governor, and know that
      he could never get on without me, I should be obliged to cut the
      connection. I should have no alternative.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred the
      fire in an excess of sympathy, but said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As to young Snob, sir,' pursued Mr Chuckster with a prophetic look,
      'you'll find he'll turn out bad. In our profession we know something of
      human nature, and take my word for it, that the feller that came back to
      work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in his true
      colours. He's a low thief, sir. He must be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Chuckster being roused, would probably have pursued this subject
      further, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door, which
      seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused him to
      assume a greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps quite consistent
      with his late declaration. Mr Swiveller, hearing the same sound, caused
      his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it brought him to his desk,
      into which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of his spirits to part
      with the poker, he thrust it as he cried 'Come in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Who should present himself but that very Kit who had been the theme of Mr
      Chuckster's wrath! Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly, or look
      so fierce, as Mr Chuckster when he found it was he. Mr Swiveller stared at
      him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool, and drawing out the
      poker from its place of concealment, performed the broad-sword exercise
      with all the cuts and guards complete, in a species of frenzy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the gentleman at home?' said Kit, rather astonished by this uncommon
      reception.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Mr Swiveller could make any reply, Mr Chuckster took occasion to
      enter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry; which he held to
      be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the inquirer,
      seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have spoken of the
      other gentleman; or rather (for it was not impossible that the object of
      his search might be of inferior quality) should have mentioned his name,
      leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree as they thought proper.
      Mr Chuckster likewise remarked, that he had some reason to believe this
      form of address was personal to himself, and that he was not a man to be
      trifled with&mdash;as certain snobs (whom he did not more particularly
      mention or describe) might find to their cost.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean the gentleman up-stairs,' said Kit, turning to Richard Swiveller.
      'Is he at home?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why?' rejoined Dick.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0404m.jpg" alt="0404m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0404.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Because if he is, I have a letter for him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'From whom?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From Mr Garland.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Dick, with extreme politeness. 'Then you may hand it over, Sir.
      And if you're to wait for an answer, Sir, you may wait in the passage,
      Sir, which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you,' returned Kit. 'But I am to give it to himself, if you
      please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered Mr Chuckster, and so
      moved his tender regard for his friend's honour, that he declared, if he
      were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly have
      annihilated Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront which he did
      consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation attending
      it, could but have met with the proper sanction and approval of a jury of
      Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a verdict of
      justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the morals and
      character of the Avenger. Mr Swiveller, without being quite so hot upon
      the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement, and not a little
      puzzled how to act (Kit being quite cool and good-humoured), when the
      single gentleman was heard to call violently down the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't I see somebody for me, come in?' cried the lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Sir,' replied Dick. 'Certainly, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then where is he?' roared the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's here, sir,' rejoined Mr Swiveller. 'Now young man, don't you hear
      you're to go up-stairs? Are you deaf?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any
      altercation, but hurried off and left the Glorious Apollos gazing at each
      other in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't I tell you so?' said Mr Chuckster. 'What do you think of that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller being in the main a good-natured fellow, and not perceiving
      in the conduct of Kit any villany of enormous magnitude, scarcely knew
      what answer to return. He was relieved from his perplexity, however, by
      the entrance of Mr Sampson and his sister, Sally, at sight of whom Mr
      Chuckster precipitately retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a
      consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great
      interest and importance. On the occasion of such conferences, they
      generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual time,
      and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and designs had
      tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their toilsome way. In the
      present instance, they seemed particularly gay; Miss Sally's aspect being
      of a most oily kind, and Mr Brass rubbing his hands in an exceedingly
      jocose and light-hearted manner.
</p>
    <p>
'Well, Mr Richard,' said Brass. 'How are
      we this morning? Are we pretty fresh and cheerful sir&mdash;eh, Mr
      Richard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pretty well, sir,' replied Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's well,' said Brass. 'Ha ha! We should be as gay as larks, Mr
      Richard&mdash;why not? It's a pleasant world we live in sir, a very
      pleasant world. There are bad people in it, Mr Richard, but if there were
      no bad people, there would be no good lawyers. Ha ha! Any letters by the
      post this morning, Mr Richard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller answered in the negative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' said Brass, 'no matter. If there's little business to-day, there'll
      be more to-morrow. A contented spirit, Mr Richard, is the sweetness of
      existence. Anybody been here, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only my friend'&mdash;replied Dick. 'May we ne'er want a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Friend,' Brass chimed in quickly, 'or a bottle to give him. Ha ha!
      That's the way the song runs, isn't it? A very good song, Mr Richard, very
      good. I like the sentiment of it. Ha ha! Your friend's the young man from
      Witherden's office I think&mdash;yes&mdash;May we ne'er want a&mdash;
      Nobody else at all, been, Mr Richard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only somebody to the lodger,' replied Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh indeed!' cried Brass. 'Somebody to the lodger eh? Ha ha! May we ne'er
      want a friend, or a&mdash;&mdash;Somebody to the lodger, eh, Mr Richard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of
      spirits which his employer displayed. 'With him now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With him now!' cried Brass; 'Ha ha! There let 'em be, merry and free,
      toor rul lol le. Eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh certainly,' replied Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And who,' said Brass, shuffling among his papers, 'who is the lodger's
      visitor&mdash;not a lady visitor, I hope, eh, Mr Richard? The morals of
      the Marks you know, sir&mdash;"when lovely women stoops to folly"&mdash;and
      all that&mdash;eh, Mr Richard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Another young man, who belongs to Witherden's too, or half belongs
      there,' returned Richard. 'Kit, they call him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kit, eh!' said Brass. 'Strange name&mdash;name of a dancing-master's
      fiddle, eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha! Kit's there, is he? Oh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick looked at Miss Sally, wondering that she didn't check this uncommon
      exuberance on the part of Mr Sampson; but as she made no attempt to do so,
      and rather appeared to exhibit a tacit acquiescence in it, he concluded
      that they had just been cheating somebody, and receiving the bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you have the goodness, Mr Richard,' said Brass, taking a letter from
      his desk, 'just to step over to Peckham Rye with that? There's no answer,
      but it's rather particular and should go by hand. Charge the office with
      your coach-hire back, you know; don't spare the office; get as much out of
      it as you can&mdash;clerk's motto&mdash;Eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller solemnly doffed the aquatic jacket, put on his coat, took
      down his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As soon as
      he was gone, up rose Miss Sally Brass, and smiling sweetly at her brother
      (who nodded and smote his nose in return) withdrew also.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sampson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set the office-door wide
      open, and establishing himself at his desk directly opposite, so that he
      could not fail to see anybody who came down-stairs and passed out at the
      street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and assiduity;
      humming as he did so, in a voice that was anything but musical, certain
      vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the union between
      Church and State, inasmuch as they were compounded of the Evening Hymn and
      God save the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, the attorney of Bevis Marks sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a long
      time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cunning face, and
      hearing nothing, went on humming louder, and writing slower than ever. At
      length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's door opened and
      shut, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Then, Mr Brass left off
      writing entirely, and, with his pen in his hand, hummed his very loudest;
      shaking his head meanwhile from side to side, like a man whose whole soul
      was in the music, and smiling in a manner quite seraphic.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was towards this moving spectacle that the staircase and the sweet
      sounds guided Kit; on whose arrival before his door, Mr Brass stopped his
      singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably: at the same time
      beckoning to him with his pen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kit,' said Mr Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, 'how do you do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his
      hand upon the lock of the street door when Mr Brass called him softly
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are not to go, if you please, Kit,' said the attorney in a mysterious
      and yet business-like way. 'You are to step in here, if you please. Dear
      me, dear me! When I look at you,' said the lawyer, quitting his stool, and
      standing before the fire with his back towards it, 'I am reminded of the
      sweetest little face that ever my eyes beheld. I remember your coming
      there, twice or thrice, when we were in possession. Ah Kit, my dear
      fellow, gentleman in my profession have such painful duties to perform
      sometimes, that you needn't envy us&mdash;you needn't indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't, sir,' said Kit, 'though it isn't for the like of me to judge.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our only consolation, Kit,' pursued the lawyer, looking at him in a sort
      of pensive abstraction, 'is, that although we cannot turn away the wind,
      we can soften it; we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn lambs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shorn indeed!' thought Kit. 'Pretty close!' But he didn't say <i>so</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On that occasion, Kit,' said Mr Brass, 'on that occasion that I have just
      alluded to, I had a hard battle with Mr Quilp (for Mr Quilp is a very hard
      man) to obtain them the indulgence they had. It might have cost me a
      client. But suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's not so bad after all,' thought honest Kit, as the attorney pursed up
      his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better
      feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I respect you, Kit,' said Brass with emotion. 'I saw enough of your
      conduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble, and
      your fortune lowly. It isn't the waistcoat that I look at. It is the
      heart. The checks in the waistcoat are but the wires of the cage. But the
      heart is the bird. Ah! How many sich birds are perpetually moulting, and
      putting their beaks through the wires to peck at all mankind!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in a special allusion to his own
      checked waistcoat, quite overcame him; Mr Brass's voice and manner added
      not a little to its effect, for he discoursed with all the mild austerity
      of a hermit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of his rusty surtout,
      and a skull on the chimney-piece, to be completely set up in that line of
      business.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well,' said Sampson, smiling as good men smile when they
      compassionate their own weakness or that of their fellow-creatures, 'this
      is wide of the bull's-eye. You're to take that, if you please.' As he
      spoke, he pointed to a couple of half-crowns on the desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson, and hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For yourself,' said Brass. 'From&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter about the person they came from,' replied the lawyer. 'Say me,
      if you like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we mustn't ask
      questions or talk too much&mdash;you understand? You're to take them,
      that's all; and between you and me, I don't think they'll be the last
      you'll have to take from the same place. I hope not. Good bye, Kit. Good
      bye!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With many thanks, and many more self-reproaches for having on such slight
      grounds suspected one who in their very first conversation turned out such
      a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the money and made the
      best of his way home. Mr Brass remained airing himself at the fire, and
      resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic smile, simultaneously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May I come in?' said Miss Sally, peeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, you may come in,' returned her brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ahem!' coughed Miss Brass interrogatively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, yes,' returned Sampson, 'I should say as good as done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap57"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 57
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r Chuckster's indignant apprehensions were not without foundation.
      Certainly the friendship between the single gentleman and Mr Garland was
      not suffered to cool, but had a rapid growth and flourished exceedingly.
      They were soon in habits of constant intercourse and communication; and
      the single gentleman labouring at this time under a slight attack of
      illness&mdash;the consequence most probably of his late excited feelings
      and subsequent disappointment&mdash;furnished a reason for their holding
      yet more frequent correspondence; so that some one of the inmates of Abel
      Cottage, Finchley, came backwards and forwards between that place and
      Bevis Marks, almost every day.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the pony had now thrown off all disguise, and without any mincing of
      the matter or beating about the bush, sturdily refused to be driven by
      anybody but Kit, it generally happened that whether old Mr Garland came,
      or Mr Abel, Kit was of the party. Of all messages and inquiries, Kit was,
      in right of his position, the bearer; thus it came about that, while the
      single gentleman remained indisposed, Kit turned into Bevis Marks every
      morning with nearly as much regularity as the General Postman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Sampson Brass, who no doubt had his reasons for looking sharply about
      him, soon learnt to distinguish the pony's trot and the clatter of the
      little chaise at the corner of the street. Whenever the sound reached his
      ears, he would immediately lay down his pen and fall to rubbing his hands
      and exhibiting the greatest glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha ha!' he would cry. 'Here's the pony again! Most remarkable pony,
      extremely docile, eh, Mr Richard, eh sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick would return some matter-of-course reply, and Mr Brass standing on
      the bottom rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the street over the
      top of the window-blind, would take an observation of the visitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The old gentleman again!' he would exclaim, 'a very prepossessing old
      gentleman, Mr Richard&mdash;charming countenance, sir&mdash;extremely calm&mdash;benevolence
      in every feature, sir. He quite realises my idea of King Lear, as he
      appeared when in possession of his kingdom, Mr Richard&mdash;the same good
      humour, the same white hair and partial baldness, the same liability to be
      imposed upon. Ah! A sweet subject for contemplation, sir, very sweet!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Mr Garland having alighted and gone up-stairs, Sampson would nod and
      smile to Kit from the window, and presently walk out into the street to
      greet him, when some such conversation as the following would ensue.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Admirably groomed, Kit'&mdash;Mr Brass is patting the pony&mdash;'does
      you great credit&mdash;amazingly sleek and bright to be sure. He literally
      looks as if he had been varnished all over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the pony himself, and expresses his
      conviction, 'that Mr Brass will not find many like him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A beautiful animal indeed!' cries Brass. 'Sagacious too?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless you!' replies Kit, 'he knows what you say to him as well as a
      Christian does.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does he indeed!' cries Brass, who has heard the same thing in the same
      place from the same person in the same words a dozen times, but is
      paralysed with astonishment notwithstanding. 'Dear me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I little thought the first time I saw him, Sir,' says Kit, pleased with
      the attorney's strong interest in his favourite, 'that I should come to be
      as intimate with him as I am now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' rejoins Mr Brass, brim-full of moral precepts and love of virtue. 'A
      charming subject of reflection for you, very charming. A subject of proper
      pride and congratulation, Christopher. Honesty is the best policy.&mdash;I
      always find it so myself. I lost forty-seven pound ten by being honest
      this morning. But it's all gain, it's gain!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass slyly tickles his nose with his pen, and looks at Kit with the
      water standing in his eyes. Kit thinks that if ever there was a good man
      who belied his appearance, that man is Sampson Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A man,' says Sampson, 'who loses forty-seven pound ten in one morning by
      his honesty, is a man to be envied. If it had been eighty pound, the
      luxuriousness of feeling would have been increased. Every pound lost,
      would have been a hundredweight of happiness gained. The still small
      voice, Christopher,' cries Brass, smiling, and tapping himself on the
      bosom, 'is a-singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness and joy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit is so improved by the conversation, and finds it go so completely home
      to his feelings, that he is considering what he shall say, when Mr Garland
      appears. The old gentleman is helped into the chaise with great
      obsequiousness by Mr Sampson Brass; and the pony, after shaking his head
      several times, and standing for three or four minutes with all his four
      legs planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made up his mind never to
      stir from that spot, but there to live and die, suddenly darts off,
      without the smallest notice, at the rate of twelve English miles an hour.
      Then, Mr Brass and his sister (who has joined him at the door) exchange an
      odd kind of smile&mdash;not at all a pleasant one in its expression&mdash;and
      return to the society of Mr Richard Swiveller, who, during their absence,
      has been regaling himself with various feats of pantomime, and is
      discovered at his desk, in a very flushed and heated condition, violently
      scratching out nothing with half a penknife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened that
      Sampson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr Swiveller, if not
      to Peckham Rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place from
      which he could not be expected to return for two or three hours, or in all
      probability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not, to say the
      truth, renowned for using great expedition on such occasions, but rather
      for protracting and spinning out the time to the very utmost limit of
      possibility. Mr Swiveller out of sight, Miss Sally immediately withdrew.
      Mr Brass would then set the office-door wide open, hum his old tune with
      great gaiety of heart, and smile seraphically as before. Kit coming
      down-stairs would be called in; entertained with some moral and agreeable
      conversation; perhaps entreated to mind the office for an instant while Mr
      Brass stepped over the way; and afterwards presented with one or two
      half-crowns as the case might be. This occurred so often, that Kit,
      nothing doubting but that they came from the single gentleman who had
      already rewarded his mother with great liberality, could not enough admire
      his generosity; and bought so many cheap presents for her, and for little
      Jacob, and for the baby, and for Barbara to boot, that one or other of
      them was having some new trifle every day of their lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      While these acts and deeds were in progress in and out of the office of
      Sampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein, began to
      find the time hang heavy on his hands. For the better preservation of his
      cheerfulness therefore, and to prevent his faculties from rusting, he
      provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards, and accustomed
      himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, thirty, or sometimes
      even fifty thousand pounds aside, besides many hazardous bets to a
      considerable amount.
    </p>
    <p>
      As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the magnitude
      of the interests involved, Mr Swiveller began to think that on those
      evenings when Mr and Miss Brass were out (and they often went out now) he
      heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the direction of the
      door, which it occurred to him, after some reflection, must proceed from
      the small servant, who always had a cold from damp living. Looking
      intently that way one night, he plainly distinguished an eye gleaming and
      glistening at the keyhole; and having now no doubt that his suspicions
      were correct, he stole softly to the door, and pounced upon her before she
      was aware of his approach.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my word I didn't,' cried the
      small servant, struggling like a much larger one. 'It's so very dull,
      down-stairs, Please don't you tell upon me, please don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell upon you!' said Dick. 'Do you mean to say you were looking through
      the keyhole for company?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, upon my word I was,' replied the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How long have you been cooling your eye there?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had
      refreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which, no
      doubt, the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr Swiveller;
      but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered himself
      speedily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well&mdash;come in'&mdash;he said, after a little consideration. 'Here&mdash;sit
      down, and I'll teach you how to play.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I durstn't do it,' rejoined the small servant; 'Miss Sally 'ud kill
      me, if she know'd I come up here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you got a fire down-stairs?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very little one,' replied the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I'll
      come,' said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. 'Why, how thin you
      are! What do you mean by it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It ain't my fault.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Could you eat any bread and meat?' said Dick, taking down his hat. 'Yes?
      Ah! I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?'
</p>
    <p>
'I had a sip of it once,' said  the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's a state of things!' cried Mr Swiveller, raising his eyes to the
      ceiling. 'She never tasted it&mdash;it can't be tasted in a sip! Why, how
      old are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a
      moment; then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back, vanished
      straightway.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who
      bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great pot,
      filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a grateful
      steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular recipe which Mr
      Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a period when he was deep in
      his books and desirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving the boy of
      his burden at the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to
      prevent surprise, Mr Swiveller followed her into the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There!' said Richard, putting the plate before her. 'First of all clear
      that off, and then you'll see what's next.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next,' said Dick, handing the purl, 'take a pull at that; but moderate
      your transports, you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it good?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! isn't it?' said the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, and
      took a long draught himself, steadfastly regarding his companion while he
      did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself to teaching
      her the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being both
      sharp-witted and cunning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Mr Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and
      trimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt,
      'those are the stakes. If you win, you get 'em all. If I win, I get 'em.
      To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness,
      do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'fire away!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered
      which to play, and Mr Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air
      which such society required, took another pull at the tankard, and waited
      for her lead.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0414m.jpg" alt="0414m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0414.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap58"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 58
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying success,
      until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the purl, and
      the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that gentleman mindful of
      the flight of Time, and the expediency of withdrawing before Mr Sampson
      and Miss Sally Brass returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With which object in view, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller gravely, 'I
      shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and to
      retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely
      observing, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care
      not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still is
      growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, your
      health. You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is damp, and the
      marble floor is&mdash;if I may be allowed the expression&mdash;sloppy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr Swiveller had been
      sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude he now
      gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly sipped the
      last choice drops of nectar.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the
      Play?' said Mr Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and
      raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a theatrical
      bandit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' said Mr Swiveller, with a portentous frown. ''Tis well. Marchioness!&mdash;but
      no matter. Some wine there. Ho!' He illustrated these melodramatic morsels
      by handing the tankard to himself with great humility, receiving it
      haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical
      conventionalities as Mr Swiveller (having indeed never seen a play, or
      heard one spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors and in other
      forbidden places), was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel in their
      nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that Mr Swiveller
      felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one more suitable to
      private life, as he asked,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do they often go where glory waits 'em, and leave you here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes; I believe you they do,' returned the small servant. 'Miss
      Sally's such a one-er for that, she is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a what?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a one-er,' returned the Marchioness.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment's reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his
      responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on; as it
      was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her
      opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a
      momentary check of little consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp,' said the small servant with a shrewd
      look; 'they go to a many places, bless you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is Mr Brass a wunner?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't,' replied the small servant,
      shaking her head. 'Bless you, he'd never do anything without her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! He wouldn't, wouldn't he?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Sally keeps him in such order,' said the small servant; 'he always
      asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, you
      wouldn't believe how much he catches it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose,' said Dick, 'that they consult together, a good deal, and talk
      about a great many people&mdash;about me for instance, sometimes, eh,
      Marchioness?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness nodded amazingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Complimentary?' said Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left off
      nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side, with a
      vehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' Dick muttered. 'Would it be any breach of confidence,
      Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has now
      the honour to&mdash;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Sally says you're a funny chap,' replied his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that's not uncomplimentary.
      Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King Cole
      was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages of
      history.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But she says,' pursued his companion, 'that you an't to be trusted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, really Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully; 'several
      ladies and gentlemen&mdash;not exactly professional persons, but
      tradespeople, ma'am, tradespeople&mdash;have made the same remark. The
      obscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to
      that opinion to-night when I ordered him to prepare the banquet. It's a
      popular prejudice, Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don't know why, for I
      have been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can safely
      say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me&mdash;never. Mr
      Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that Mr
      Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and seeming
      to recollect herself, added imploringly, 'But don't you ever tell upon me,
      or I shall be beat to death.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, rising, 'the word of a gentleman is as
      good as his bond&mdash;sometimes better, as in the present case, where his
      bond might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am your friend, and I
      hope we shall play many more rubbers together in this same saloon. But,
      Marchioness,' added Richard, stopping in his way to the door, and wheeling
      slowly round upon the small servant, who was following with the candle;
      'it occurs to me that you must be in the constant habit of airing your eye
      at keyholes, to know all this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I only wanted,' replied the trembling Marchioness, 'to know where the key
      of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn't have taken much, if I
      had found it&mdash;only enough to squench my hunger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You didn't find it then?' said Dick. 'But of course you didn't, or you'd
      be plumper. Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for ever, then
      for ever fare thee well&mdash;and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case
      of accidents.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this parting injunction, Mr Swiveller emerged from the house; and
      feeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as promised
      to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong and heady
      compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings, and to bed
      at once. Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments (for he still
      retained the plural fiction) being at no great distance from the office,
      he was soon seated in his own bed-chamber, where, having pulled off one
      boot and forgotten the other, he fell into deep cogitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, folding his arms, 'is a very
      extraordinary person&mdash;surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste
      of beer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and
      taking a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors&mdash;can
      these things be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an
      opposition to the decrees of fate? It is a most inscrutable and
      unmitigated staggerer!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became aware
      of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity he proceeded to
      divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity all the time, and
      sighing deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These rubbers,' said Mr Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly the
      same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial fireside.
      Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings the changes on
      'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her to banish her regrets, and
      when they win a smile from her, they think that she forgets&mdash;but she
      don't. By this time, I should say,' added Richard, getting his left cheek
      into profile, and looking complacently at the reflection of a very little
      scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; 'by this time, I should say, the
      iron has entered into her soul. It serves her right!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Melting from this stern and obdurate, into the tender and pathetic mood,
      Mr Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and even made a
      show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better of, and
      wrenched the tassel from his nightcap instead. At last, undressing himself
      with a gloomy resolution, he got into bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some men in his blighted position would have taken to drinking; but as Mr
      Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the news
      that Sophy Wackles was lost to him for ever, to playing the flute;
      thinking after mature consideration that it was a good, sound, dismal
      occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but calculated
      to awaken a fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours. In pursuance
      of this resolution, he now drew a little table to his bedside, and
      arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the best advantage,
      took his flute from its box, and began to play most mournfully.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0418m.jpg" alt="0418m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0418.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The air was 'Away with melancholy'&mdash;a composition, which, when it is
      played very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage of
      being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the
      instrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find the
      next, has not a lively effect. Yet, for half the night, or more, Mr
      Swiveller, lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the ceiling, and
      sometimes half out of bed to correct himself by the book, played this
      unhappy tune over and over again; never leaving off, save for a minute or
      two at a time to take breath and soliloquise about the Marchioness, and
      then beginning again with renewed vigour. It was not until he had quite
      exhausted his several subjects of meditation, and had breathed into the
      flute the whole sentiment of the purl down to its very dregs, and had
      nearly maddened the people of the house, and at both the next doors, and
      over the way&mdash;that he shut up the music-book, extinguished the
      candle, and finding himself greatly lightened and relieved in his mind,
      turned round and fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      He awoke in the morning, much refreshed; and having taken half an hour's
      exercise at the flute, and graciously received a notice to quit from his
      landlady, who had been in waiting on the stairs for that purpose since the
      dawn of day, repaired to Bevis Marks; where the beautiful Sally was
      already at her post, bearing in her looks a radiance, mild as that which
      beameth from the virgin moon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller acknowledged her presence by a nod, and exchanged his coat
      for the aquatic jacket; which usually took some time fitting on, for in
      consequence of a tightness in the sleeves, it was only to be got into by a
      series of struggles. This difficulty overcome, he took his seat at the
      desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say'&mdash;quoth Miss Brass, abruptly breaking silence, 'you haven't
      seen a silver pencil-case this morning, have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't meet many in the street,' rejoined Mr Swiveller. 'I saw one&mdash;a
      stout pencil-case of respectable appearance&mdash;but as he was in company
      with an elderly penknife, and a young toothpick with whom he was in
      earnest conversation, I felt a delicacy in speaking to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but have you?' returned Miss Brass. 'Seriously, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a dull dog you must be to ask me such a question seriously,' said Mr
      Swiveller. 'Haven't I this moment come?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, all I know is,' replied Miss Sally, 'that it's not to be found, and
      that it disappeared one day this week, when I left it on the desk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Halloa!' thought Richard, 'I hope the Marchioness hasn't been at work
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was a knife too,' said Miss Sally, 'of the same pattern. They were
      given to me by my father, years ago, and are both gone. You haven't missed
      anything yourself, have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller involuntarily clapped his hands to the jacket to be quite
      sure that it <i>was </i>a jacket and not a skirted coat; and having satisfied
      himself of the safety of this, his only moveable in Bevis Marks, made
      answer in the negative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a very unpleasant thing, Dick,' said Miss Brass, pulling out the tin
      box and refreshing herself with a pinch of snuff; 'but between you and me&mdash;between
      friends you know, for if Sammy knew it, I should never hear the last of it&mdash;some
      of the office-money, too, that has been left about, has gone in the same
      way. In particular, I have missed three half-crowns at three different
      times.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't mean that?' cried Dick. 'Be careful what you say, old boy, for
      this is a serious matter. Are you quite sure? Is there no mistake?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is so, and there can't be any mistake at all,' rejoined Miss Brass
      emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then by Jove,' thought Richard, laying down his pen, 'I am afraid the
      Marchioness is done for!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The more he discussed the subject in his thoughts, the more probable it
      appeared to Dick that the miserable little servant was the culprit. When
      he considered on what a spare allowance of food she lived, how neglected
      and untaught she was, and how her natural cunning had been sharpened by
      necessity and privation, he scarcely doubted it. And yet he pitied her so
      much, and felt so unwilling to have a matter of such gravity disturbing
      the oddity of their acquaintance, that he thought, and thought truly, that
      rather than receive fifty pounds down, he would have the Marchioness
      proved innocent.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was plunged in very profound and serious meditation upon this
      theme, Miss Sally sat shaking her head with an air of great mystery and
      doubt; when the voice of her brother Sampson, carolling a cheerful strain,
      was heard in the passage, and that gentleman himself, beaming with
      virtuous smiles, appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Richard, sir, good morning! Here we are again, sir, entering upon
      another day, with our bodies strengthened by slumber and breakfast, and
      our spirits fresh and flowing. Here we are, Mr Richard, rising with the
      sun to run our little course&mdash;our course of duty, sir&mdash;and, like
      him, to get through our day's work with credit to ourselves and advantage
      to our fellow-creatures. A charming reflection sir, very charming!'
    </p>
    <p>
      While he addressed his clerk in these words, Mr Brass was, somewhat
      ostentatiously, engaged in minutely examining and holding up against the
      light a five-pound bank note, which he had brought in, in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Richard not receiving his remarks with anything like enthusiasm, his
      employer turned his eyes to his face, and observed that it wore a troubled
      expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're out of spirits, sir,' said Brass. 'Mr Richard, sir, we should fall
      to work cheerfully, and not in a despondent state. It becomes us, Mr
      Richard, sir, to&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the chaste Sarah heaved a loud sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me!' said Mr Sampson, 'you too! Is anything the matter? Mr Richard,
      sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that she was making signals to him, to
      acquaint her brother with the subject of their recent conversation. As his
      own position was not a very pleasant one until the matter was set at rest
      one way or other, he did so; and Miss Brass, plying her snuff-box at a
      most wasteful rate, corroborated his account.
    </p>
    <p>
      The countenance of Sampson fell, and anxiety overspread his features.
      Instead of passionately bewailing the loss of his money, as Miss Sally had
      expected, he walked on tiptoe to the door, opened it, looked outside, shut
      it softly, returned on tiptoe, and said in a whisper,
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a most extraordinary and painful circumstance&mdash;Mr Richard,
      sir, a most painful circumstance. The fact is, that I myself have missed
      several small sums from the desk, of late, and have refrained from
      mentioning it, hoping that accident would discover the offender; but it
      has not done so&mdash;it has not done so. Sally&mdash;Mr Richard, sir&mdash;this
      is a particularly distressing affair!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Sampson spoke, he laid the bank-note upon the desk among some papers,
      in an absent manner, and thrust his hands into his pockets. Richard
      Swiveller pointed to it, and admonished him to take it up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Mr Richard, sir,' rejoined Brass with emotion, 'I will not take it
      up. I will let it lie there, sir. To take it up, Mr Richard, sir, would
      imply a doubt of you; and in you, sir, I have unlimited confidence. We
      will let it lie there, Sir, if you please, and we will not take it up by
      any means.' With that, Mr Brass patted him twice or thrice on the
      shoulder, in a most friendly manner, and entreated him to believe that he
      had as much faith in his honesty as he had in his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although at another time Mr Swiveller might have looked upon this as a
      doubtful compliment, he felt it, under the then-existing circumstances, a
      great relief to be assured that he was not wrongfully suspected. When he
      had made a suitable reply, Mr Brass wrung him by the hand, and fell into a
      brown study, as did Miss Sally likewise. Richard too remained in a
      thoughtful state; fearing every moment to hear the Marchioness impeached,
      and unable to resist the conviction that she must be guilty.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they had severally remained in this condition for some minutes, Miss
      Sally all at once gave a loud rap upon the desk with her clenched fist,
      and cried, 'I've hit it!'&mdash;as indeed she had, and chipped a piece out
      of it too; but that was not her meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' cried Brass anxiously. 'Go on, will you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why,' replied his sister with an air of triumph, 'hasn't there been
      somebody always coming in and out of this office for the last three or
      four weeks; hasn't that somebody been left alone in it sometimes&mdash;thanks
      to you; and do you mean to tell me that that somebody isn't the thief!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What somebody?' blustered Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what do you call him&mdash;Kit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Garland's young man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never!' cried Brass. 'Never. I'll not hear of it. Don't tell me'&mdash;said
      Sampson, shaking his head, and working with both his hands as if he were
      clearing away ten thousand cobwebs. 'I'll never believe it of him. Never!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' repeated Miss Brass, taking another pinch of snuff, 'that he's
      the thief.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' returned Sampson violently, 'that he is not. What do you mean?
      How dare you? Are characters to be whispered away like this? Do you know
      that he's the honestest and faithfullest fellow that ever lived, and that
      he has an irreproachable good name? Come in, come in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      These last words were not addressed to Miss Sally, though they partook of
      the tone in which the indignant remonstrances that preceded them had been
      uttered. They were addressed to some person who had knocked at the
      office-door; and they had hardly passed the lips of Mr Brass, when this
      very Kit himself looked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the gentleman up-stairs, sir, if you please?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Kit,' said Brass, still fired with an honest indignation, and
      frowning with knotted brows upon his sister; 'Yes Kit, he is. I am glad to
      see you Kit, I am rejoiced to see you. Look in again, as you come
      down-stairs, Kit. That lad a robber!' cried Brass when he had withdrawn,
      'with that frank and open countenance! I'd trust him with untold gold. Mr
      Richard, sir, have the goodness to step directly to Wrasp and Co.'s in
      Broad Street, and inquire if they have had instructions to appear in
      Carkem and Painter. <i>That </i>lad a robber,' sneered Sampson, flushed and
      heated with his wrath. 'Am I blind, deaf, silly; do I know nothing of
      human nature when I see it before me? Kit a robber! Bah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Flinging this final interjection at Miss Sally with immeasurable scorn and
      contempt, Sampson Brass thrust his head into his desk, as if to shut the
      base world from his view, and breathed defiance from under its half-closed
      lid.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap59"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 59
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Kit, having discharged his errand, came down-stairs from the single
      gentleman's apartment after the lapse of a quarter of an hour or so, Mr
      Sampson Brass was alone in the office. He was not singing as usual, nor
      was he seated at his desk. The open door showed him standing before the
      fire with his back towards it, and looking so very strange that Kit
      supposed he must have been suddenly taken ill.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is anything the matter, sir?' said Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Matter!' cried Brass. 'No. Why anything the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are so very pale,' said Kit, 'that I should hardly have known you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh pooh! mere fancy,' cried Brass, stooping to throw up the cinders.
      'Never better, Kit, never better in all my life. Merry too. Ha ha! How's
      our friend above-stairs, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A great deal better,' said Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad to hear it,' rejoined Brass; 'thankful, I may say. An excellent
      gentleman&mdash;worthy, liberal, generous, gives very little trouble&mdash;an
      admirable lodger. Ha ha! Mr Garland&mdash;he's well I hope, Kit&mdash;and
      the pony&mdash;my friend, my particular friend you know. Ha ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit gave a satisfactory account of all the little household at Abel
      Cottage. Mr Brass, who seemed remarkably inattentive and impatient,
      mounted on his stool, and beckoning him to come nearer, took him by the
      button-hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been thinking, Kit,' said the lawyer, 'that I could throw some
      little emoluments in your mother's way&mdash;You have a mother, I think?
      If I recollect right, you told me&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, Sir, yes certainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A widow, I think? an industrious widow?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A harder-working woman or a better mother never lived, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' cried Brass. 'That's affecting, truly affecting. A poor widow
      struggling to maintain her orphans in decency and comfort, is a delicious
      picture of human goodness.&mdash;Put down your hat, Kit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you Sir, I must be going directly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Put it down while you stay, at any rate,' said Brass, taking it from him
      and making some confusion among the papers, in finding a place for it on
      the desk. 'I was thinking, Kit, that we have often houses to let for
      people we are concerned for, and matters of that sort. Now you know we're
      obliged to put people into those houses to take care of 'em&mdash;very
      often undeserving people that we can't depend upon. What's to prevent our
      having a person that we <i>can </i>depend upon, and enjoying the delight of doing
      a good action at the same time? I say, what's to prevent our employing
      this worthy woman, your mother? What with one job and another, there's
      lodging&mdash;and good lodging too&mdash;pretty well all the year round,
      rent free, and a weekly allowance besides, Kit, that would provide her
      with a great many comforts she don't at present enjoy. Now what do you
      think of that? Do you see any objection? My only desire is to serve you,
      Kit; therefore if you do, say so freely.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Brass spoke, he moved the hat twice or thrice, and shuffled among the
      papers again, as if in search of something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can I see any objection to such a kind offer, sir?' replied Kit with
      his whole heart. 'I don't know how to thank you sir, I don't indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then,' said Brass, suddenly turning upon him and thrusting his face
      close to Kit's with such a repulsive smile that the latter, even in the
      very height of his gratitude, drew back, quite startled. 'Why then, it's
      done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit looked at him in some confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done, I say,' added Sampson, rubbing his hands and veiling himself again
      in his usual oily manner. 'Ha ha! and so you shall find Kit, so you shall
      find. But dear me,' said Brass, 'what a time Mr Richard is gone! A sad
      loiterer to be sure! Will you mind the office one minute, while I run
      up-stairs? Only one minute. I'll not detain you an instant longer, on any
      account, Kit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Talking as he went, Mr Brass bustled out of the office, and in a very
      short time returned. Mr Swiveller came back, almost at the same instant;
      and as Kit was leaving the room hastily, to make up for lost time, Miss
      Brass herself encountered him in the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' sneered Sally, looking after him as she entered. 'There goes your
      pet, Sammy, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! There he goes,' replied Brass. 'My pet, if you please. An honest
      fellow, Mr Richard, sir&mdash;a worthy fellow indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' coughed Miss Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you, you aggravating vagabond,' said the angry Sampson, 'that I'd
      stake my life upon his honesty. Am I never to hear the last of this? Am I
      always to be baited, and beset, by your mean suspicions? Have you no
      regard for true merit, you malignant fellow? If you come to that, I'd
      sooner suspect your honesty than his.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sally pulled out the tin snuff-box, and took a long, slow pinch,
      regarding her brother with a steady gaze all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She drives me wild, Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass, 'she exasperates me
      beyond all bearing. I am heated and excited, sir, I know I am. These are
      not business manners, sir, nor business looks, but she carries me out of
      myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why don't you leave him alone?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because she can't, sir,' retorted Brass; 'because to chafe and vex me is
      a part of her nature, Sir, and she will and must do it, or I don't believe
      she'd have her health. But never mind,' said Brass, 'never mind. I've
      carried my point. I've shown my confidence in the lad. He has minded the
      office again. Ha ha! Ugh, you viper!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The beautiful virgin took another pinch, and put the snuff-box in her
      pocket; still looking at her brother with perfect composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has minded the office again,' said Brass triumphantly; 'he has had my
      confidence, and he shall continue to have it; he&mdash;why, where's the&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What have you lost?' inquired Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me!' said Brass, slapping all his pockets, one after another, and
      looking into his desk, and under it, and upon it, and wildly tossing the
      papers about, 'the note, Mr Richard, sir, the five-pound note&mdash;what
      can have become of it? I laid it down here&mdash;God bless me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' cried Miss Sally, starting up, clapping her hands, and scattering
      the papers on the floor. 'Gone! Now who's right? Now who's got it? Never
      mind five pounds&mdash;what's five pounds? He's honest, you know, quite
      honest. It would be mean to suspect him. Don't run after him. No, no, not
      for the world!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it really gone though?' said Dick, looking at Brass with a face as
      pale as his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word, Mr Richard, Sir,' replied the lawyer, feeling in all his
      pockets with looks of the greatest agitation, 'I fear this is a black
      business. It's certainly gone, Sir. What's to be done?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't run after him,' said Miss Sally, taking more snuff. 'Don't run
      after him on any account. Give him time to get rid of it, you know. It
      would be cruel to find him out!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller and Sampson Brass looked from Miss Sally to each other, in a
      state of bewilderment, and then, as by one impulse, caught up their hats
      and rushed out into the street&mdash;darting along in the middle of the
      road, and dashing aside all obstructions, as though they were running for
      their lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened that Kit had been running too, though not so fast, and having
      the start of them by some few minutes, was a good distance ahead. As they
      were pretty certain of the road he must have taken, however, and kept on
      at a great pace, they came up with him, at the very moment when he had
      taken breath, and was breaking into a run again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop!' cried Sampson, laying his hand on one shoulder, while Mr Swiveller
      pounced upon the other. 'Not so fast sir. You're in a hurry?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I am,' said Kit, looking from one to the other in great surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&mdash;I&mdash;can hardly believe it,' panted Sampson, 'but something of
      value is missing from the office. I hope you don't know what.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Know what! good Heaven, Mr Brass!' cried Kit, trembling from head to
      foot; 'you don't suppose&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' rejoined Brass quickly, 'I don't suppose anything. Don't say I
      said you did. You'll come back quietly, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I will,' returned Kit. 'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure!' said Brass. 'Why not? I hope there may turn out to be no why
      not. If you knew the trouble I've been in, this morning, through taking
      your part, Christopher, you'd be sorry for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I am sure you'll be sorry for having suspected me sir,' replied Kit.
      'Come. Let us make haste back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly!' cried Brass, 'the quicker, the better. Mr Richard&mdash;have
      the goodness, sir, to take that arm. I'll take this one. It's not easy
      walking three abreast, but under these circumstances it must be done, sir;
      there's no help for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit did turn from white to red, and from red to white again, when they
      secured him thus, and for a moment seemed disposed to resist. But, quickly
      recollecting himself, and remembering that if he made any struggle, he
      would perhaps be dragged by the collar through the public streets, he only
      repeated, with great earnestness and with the tears standing in his eyes,
      that they would be sorry for this&mdash;and suffered them to lead him off.
      While they were on the way back, Mr Swiveller, upon whom his present
      functions sat very irksomely, took an opportunity of whispering in his ear
      that if he would confess his guilt, even by so much as a nod, and promise
      not to do so any more, he would connive at his kicking Sampson Brass on
      the shins and escaping up a court; but Kit indignantly rejecting this
      proposal, Mr Richard had nothing for it, but to hold him tight until they
      reached Bevis Marks, and ushered him into the presence of the charming
      Sarah, who immediately took the precaution of locking the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, you know,' said Brass, 'if this is a case of innocence, it is a case
      of that description, Christopher, where the fullest disclosure is the best
      satisfaction for everybody. Therefore if you'll consent to an
      examination,' he demonstrated what kind of examination he meant by turning
      back the cuffs of his coat, 'it will be a comfortable and pleasant thing
      for all parties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Search me,' said Kit, proudly holding up his arms. 'But mind, sir&mdash;I
      know you'll be sorry for this, to the last day of your life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is certainly a very painful occurrence,' said Brass with a sigh, as he
      dived into one of Kit's pockets, and fished up a miscellaneous collection
      of small articles; 'very painful. Nothing here, Mr Richard, Sir, all
      perfectly satisfactory. Nor here, sir. Nor in the waistcoat, Mr Richard,
      nor in the coat tails. So far, I am rejoiced, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Swiveller, holding Kit's hat in his hand, was watching the
      proceedings with great interest, and bore upon his face the slightest
      possible indication of a smile, as Brass, shutting one of his eyes, looked
      with the other up the inside of one of the poor fellow's sleeves as if it
      were a telescope&mdash;when Sampson turning hastily to him, bade him
      search the hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's a handkerchief,' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No harm in that sir,' rejoined Brass, applying his eye to the other
      sleeve, and speaking in the voice of one who was contemplating an immense
      extent of prospect. 'No harm in a handkerchief Sir, whatever. The faculty
      don't consider it a healthy custom, I believe, Mr Richard, to carry one's
      handkerchief in one's hat&mdash;I have heard that it keeps the head too
      warm&mdash;but in every other point of view, its being there, is extremely
      satisfactory&mdash;extremely so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      An exclamation, at once from Richard Swiveller, Miss Sally, and Kit
      himself, cut the lawyer short. He turned his head, and saw Dick standing
      with the bank-note in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the hat?' cried Brass in a sort of shriek.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Under the handkerchief, and tucked beneath the lining,' said Dick, aghast
      at the discovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass looked at him, at his sister, at the walls, at the ceiling, at
      the floor&mdash;everywhere but at Kit, who stood quite stupefied and
      motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this,' cried Sampson, clasping his hands, 'is the world that turns
      upon its own axis, and has Lunar influences, and revolutions round
      Heavenly Bodies, and various games of that sort! This is human natur, is
      it! Oh natur, natur! This is the miscreant that I was going to benefit
      with all my little arts, and that, even now, I feel so much for, as to
      wish to let him go! But,' added Mr Brass with greater fortitude, 'I am
      myself a lawyer, and bound to set an example in carrying the laws of my
      happy country into effect. Sally my dear, forgive me, and catch hold of
      him on the other side. Mr Richard, sir, have the goodness to run and fetch
      a constable. The weakness is past and over sir, and moral strength
      returns. A constable, sir, if you please!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap60"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 60
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it stood as one entranced, with his eyes opened wide and fixed upon the
      ground, regardless alike of the tremulous hold which Mr Brass maintained
      on one side of his cravat, and of the firmer grasp of Miss Sally upon the
      other; although this latter detention was in itself no small
      inconvenience, as that fascinating woman, besides screwing her knuckles
      inconveniently into his throat from time to time, had fastened upon him in
      the first instance with so tight a grip that even in the disorder and
      distraction of his thoughts he could not divest himself of an uneasy sense
      of choking. Between the brother and sister he remained in this posture,
      quite unresisting and passive, until Mr Swiveller returned, with a police
      constable at his heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      This functionary, being, of course, well used to such scenes; looking upon
      all kinds of robbery, from petty larceny up to housebreaking or ventures
      on the highway, as matters in the regular course of business; and
      regarding the perpetrators in the light of so many customers coming to be
      served at the wholesale and retail shop of criminal law where he stood
      behind the counter; received Mr Brass's statement of facts with about as
      much interest and surprise, as an undertaker might evince if required to
      listen to a circumstantial account of the last illness of a person whom he
      was called in to wait upon professionally; and took Kit into custody with
      a decent indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had better,' said this subordinate minister of justice, 'get to the
      office while there's a magistrate sitting. I shall want you to come along
      with us, Mr Brass, and the&mdash;' he looked at Miss Sally as if in some
      doubt whether she might not be a griffin or other fabulous monster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The lady, eh?' said Sampson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' replied the constable. 'Yes&mdash;the lady. Likewise the young man
      that found the property.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Richard, Sir,' said Brass in a mournful voice. 'A sad necessity. But
      the altar of our country sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll have a hackney-coach, I suppose?' interrupted the constable,
      holding Kit (whom his other captors had released) carelessly by the arm, a
      little above the elbow. 'Be so good as send for one, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, hear me speak a word,' cried Kit, raising his eyes and looking
      imploringly about him. 'Hear me speak a word. I am no more guilty than any
      one of you. Upon my soul I am not. I a thief! Oh, Mr Brass, you know me
      better. I am sure you know me better. This is not right of you, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I give you my word, constable&mdash;' said Brass. But here the constable
      interposed with the constitutional principle 'words be blowed;' observing
      that words were but spoon-meat for babes and sucklings, and that oaths
      were the food for strong men.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite true, constable,' assented Brass in the same mournful tone.
      'Strictly correct. I give you my oath, constable, that down to a few
      minutes ago, when this fatal discovery was made, I had such confidence in
      that lad, that I'd have trusted him with&mdash;a hackney-coach, Mr
      Richard, sir; you're very slow, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is there that knows me,' cried Kit, 'that would not trust me&mdash;
      that does not? ask anybody whether they have ever doubted me; whether I
      have ever wronged them of a farthing. Was I ever once dishonest when I was
      poor and hungry, and is it likely I would begin now! Oh consider what you
      do. How can I meet the kindest friends that ever human creature had, with
      this dreadful charge upon me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass rejoined that it would have been well for the prisoner if he had
      thought of that before, and was about to make some other gloomy
      observations when the voice of the single gentleman was heard, demanding
      from above-stairs what was the matter, and what was the cause of all that
      noise and hurry. Kit made an involuntary start towards the door in his
      anxiety to answer for himself, but being speedily detained by the
      constable, had the agony of seeing Sampson Brass run out alone to tell the
      story in his own way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And he can hardly believe it, either,' said Sampson, when he returned,
      'nor nobody will. I wish I could doubt the evidence of my senses, but
      their depositions are unimpeachable. It's of no use cross-examining my
      eyes,' cried Sampson, winking and rubbing them, 'they stick to their first
      account, and will. Now, Sarah, I hear the coach in the Marks; get on your
      bonnet, and we'll be off. A sad errand! a moral funeral, quite!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Brass,' said Kit. 'Do me one favour. Take me to Mr Witherden's first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sampson shook his head irresolutely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do,' said Kit. 'My master's there. For Heaven's sake, take me there,
      first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I don't know,' stammered Brass, who perhaps had his reasons for
      wishing to show as fair as possible in the eyes of the notary. 'How do we
      stand in point of time, constable, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The constable, who had been chewing a straw all this while with great
      philosophy, replied that if they went away at once they would have time
      enough, but that if they stood shilly-shallying there, any longer, they
      must go straight to the Mansion House; and finally expressed his opinion
      that that was where it was, and that was all about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Richard Swiveller having arrived inside the coach, and still remaining
      immoveable in the most commodious corner with his face to the horses, Mr
      Brass instructed the officer to remove his prisoner, and declared himself
      quite ready. Therefore, the constable, still holding Kit in the same
      manner, and pushing him on a little before him, so as to keep him at about
      three-quarters of an arm's length in advance (which is the professional
      mode), thrust him into the vehicle and followed himself. Miss Sally
      entered next; and there being now four inside, Sampson Brass got upon the
      box, and made the coachman drive on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still completely stunned by the sudden and terrible change which had taken
      place in his affairs, Kit sat gazing out of the coach window, almost
      hoping to see some monstrous phenomenon in the streets which might give
      him reason to believe he was in a dream. Alas! Everything was too real and
      familiar: the same succession of turnings, the same houses, the same
      streams of people running side by side in different directions upon the
      pavement, the same bustle of carts and carriages in the road, the same
      well-remembered objects in the shop windows: a regularity in the very
      noise and hurry which no dream ever mirrored. Dream-like as the story was,
      it was true. He stood charged with robbery; the note had been found upon
      him, though he was innocent in thought and deed; and they were carrying
      him back, a prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Absorbed in these painful ruminations, thinking with a drooping heart of
      his mother and little Jacob, feeling as though even the consciousness of
      innocence would be insufficient to support him in the presence of his
      friends if they believed him guilty, and sinking in hope and courage more
      and more as they drew nearer to the notary's, poor Kit was looking
      earnestly out of the window, observant of nothing,&mdash;when all at once,
      as though it had been conjured up by magic, he became aware of the face of
      Quilp.
    </p>
    <p>
      And what a leer there was upon the face! It was from the open window of a
      tavern that it looked out; and the dwarf had so spread himself over it,
      with his elbows on the window-sill and his head resting on both his hands,
      that what between this attitude and his being swoln with suppressed
      laughter, he looked puffed and bloated into twice his usual breadth. Mr
      Brass, on recognising him, immediately stopped the coach. As it came to a
      halt directly opposite to where he stood, the dwarf pulled off his hat,
      and saluted the party with a hideous and grotesque politeness.
</p>
    <p>
'Aha!' he
      cried. 'Where now, Brass? where now? Sally with you too? Sweet Sally! And
      Dick? Pleasant Dick! And Kit! Honest Kit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's extremely cheerful!' said Brass to the coachman. 'Very much so! Ah,
      sir&mdash;a sad business! Never believe in honesty any more, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' returned the dwarf. 'Why not, you rogue of a lawyer, why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bank-note lost in our office sir,' said Brass, shaking his head. 'Found
      in his hat sir&mdash;he previously left alone there&mdash;no mistake at
      all sir&mdash;chain of evidence complete&mdash;not a link wanting.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' cried the dwarf, leaning half his body out of window. 'Kit a
      thief! Kit a thief! Ha ha ha! Why, he's an uglier-looking thief than can
      be seen anywhere for a penny. Eh, Kit&mdash;eh? Ha ha ha! Have you taken
      Kit into custody before he had time and opportunity to beat me! Eh, Kit,
      eh?' And with that, he burst into a yell of laughter, manifestly to the
      great terror of the coachman, and pointed to a dyer's pole hard by, where
      a dangling suit of clothes bore some resemblance to a man upon a gibbet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it coming to that, Kit!' cried the dwarf, rubbing his hands violently.
      'Ha ha ha ha! What a disappointment for little Jacob, and for his darling
      mother! Let him have the Bethel minister to comfort and console him,
      Brass. Eh, Kit, eh? Drive on coachey, drive on. Bye bye, Kit; all good go
      with you; keep up your spirits; my love to the Garlands&mdash;the dear old
      lady and gentleman. Say I inquired after 'em, will you? Blessings on 'em,
      on you, and on everybody, Kit. Blessings on all the world!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such good wishes and farewells, poured out in a rapid torrent until
      they were out of hearing, Quilp suffered them to depart; and when he could
      see the coach no longer, drew in his head, and rolled upon the ground in
      an ecstacy of enjoyment.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the notary's, which they were not long in doing, for
      they had encountered the dwarf in a bye street at a very little distance
      from the house, Mr Brass dismounted; and opening the coach door with a
      melancholy visage, requested his sister to accompany him into the office,
      with the view of preparing the good people within, for the mournful
      intelligence that awaited them. Miss Sally complying, he desired Mr
      Swiveller to accompany them. So, into the office they went; Mr Sampson and
      his sister arm-in-arm; and Mr Swiveller following, alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The notary was standing before the fire in the outer office, talking to Mr
      Abel and the elder Mr Garland, while Mr Chuckster sat writing at the desk,
      picking up such crumbs of their conversation as happened to fall in his
      way. This posture of affairs Mr Brass observed through the glass-door as
      he was turning the handle, and seeing that the notary recognised him, he
      began to shake his head and sigh deeply while that partition yet divided
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' said Sampson, taking off his hat, and kissing the two fore-fingers
      of his right hand beaver glove, 'my name is Brass&mdash;Brass of Bevis
      Marks, Sir. I have had the honour and pleasure, Sir, of being concerned
      against you in some little testamentary matters. How do you do, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My clerk will attend to any business you may have come upon, Mr Brass,'
      said the notary, turning away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you Sir,' said Brass, 'thank you, I am sure. Allow me, Sir, to
      introduce my sister&mdash;quite one of us Sir, although of the weaker sex&mdash;of
      great use in my business Sir, I assure you. Mr Richard, sir, have the
      goodness to come foward if you please&mdash;No really,' said Brass,
      stepping between the notary and his private office (towards which he had
      begun to retreat), and speaking in the tone of an injured man, 'really
      Sir, I must, under favour, request a word or two with you, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Brass,' said the other, in a decided tone, 'I am engaged. You see that
      I am occupied with these gentlemen. If you will communicate your business
      to Mr Chuckster yonder, you will receive every attention.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' said Brass, laying his right hand on his waistcoat, and
      looking towards the father and son with a smooth smile&mdash;'Gentlemen, I
      appeal to you&mdash;really, gentlemen&mdash;consider, I beg of you. I am
      of the law. I am styled "gentleman" by Act of Parliament. I maintain the
      title by the annual payment of twelve pound sterling for a certificate. I
      am not one of your players of music, stage actors, writers of books, or
      painters of pictures, who assume a station that the laws of their country
      don't recognise. I am none of your strollers or vagabonds. If any man
      brings his action against me, he must describe me as a gentleman, or his
      action is null and void. I appeal to you&mdash;is this quite respectful?
      Really gentlemen&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, will you have the goodness to state your business then, Mr Brass?'
      said the notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' rejoined Brass, 'I will. Ah Mr Witherden! you little know the&mdash;but
      I will not be tempted to travel from the point, sir, I believe the name of
      one of these gentlemen is Garland.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of both,' said the notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In-deed!' rejoined Brass, cringing excessively. 'But I might have known
      that, from the uncommon likeness. Extremely happy, I am sure, to have the
      honour of an introduction to two such gentlemen, although the occasion is
      a most painful one. One of you gentlemen has a servant called Kit?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Both,' replied the notary.
</p>
    <p>
'Two Kits?' said Brass smiling. 'Dear me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'One Kit, sir,' returned Mr Witherden angrily, 'who is employed by both
      gentlemen. What of him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This of him, sir,' rejoined Brass, dropping his voice impressively. 'That
      young man, sir, that I have felt unbounded and unlimited confidence in,
      and always behaved to as if he was my equal&mdash;that young man has this
      morning committed a robbery in my office, and been taken almost in the
      fact.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This must be some falsehood!' cried the notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not possible,' said Mr Abel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll not believe one word of it,' exclaimed the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass looked mildly round upon them, and rejoined,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Witherden, sir, <i>your </i>words are actionable, and if I was a man of low
      and mean standing, who couldn't afford to be slandered, I should proceed
      for damages. Hows'ever, sir, being what I am, I merely scorn such
      expressions. The honest warmth of the other gentleman I respect, and I'm
      truly sorry to be the messenger of such unpleasant news. I shouldn't have
      put myself in this painful position, I assure you, but that the lad
      himself desired to be brought here in the first instance, and I yielded to
      his prayers. Mr Chuckster, sir, will you have the goodness to tap at the
      window for the constable that's waiting in the coach?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The three gentlemen looked at each other with blank faces when these words
      were uttered, and Mr Chuckster, doing as he was desired, and leaping off
      his stool with something of the excitement of an inspired prophet whose
      foretellings had in the fulness of time been realised, held the door open
      for the entrance of the wretched captive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a scene as there was, when Kit came in, and bursting into the rude
      eloquence with which Truth at length inspired him, called Heaven to
      witness that he was innocent, and that how the property came to be found
      upon him he knew not! Such a confusion of tongues, before the
      circumstances were related, and the proofs disclosed! Such a dead silence
      when all was told, and his three friends exchanged looks of doubt and
      amazement!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it not possible,' said Mr Witherden, after a long pause, 'that this
      note may have found its way into the hat by some accident,&mdash;such as
      the removal of papers on the desk, for instance?'
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was clearly shown to be quite impossible. Mr Swiveller, though an
      unwilling witness, could not help proving to demonstration, from the
      position in which it was found, that it must have been designedly
      secreted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very distressing,' said Brass, 'immensely distressing, I am sure.
      When he comes to be tried, I shall be very happy to recommend him to mercy
      on account of his previous good character. I did lose money before,
      certainly, but it doesn't quite follow that he took it. The presumption's
      against him&mdash;strongly against him&mdash;but we're Christians, I
      hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose,' said the constable, looking round, 'that no gentleman here
      can give evidence as to whether he's been flush of money of late, Do you
      happen to know, Sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has had money from time to time, certainly,' returned Mr Garland, to
      whom the man had put the question. 'But that, as he always told me, was
      given him by Mr Brass himself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes to be sure,' said Kit eagerly. 'You can bear me out in that, Sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' cried Brass, looking from face to face with an expression of stupid
      amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The money you know, the half-crowns, that you gave me&mdash;from the
      lodger,' said Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear me!' cried Brass, shaking his head and frowning heavily. 'This is
      a bad case, I find; a very bad case indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! Did you give him no money on account of anybody, Sir?' asked Mr
      Garland, with great anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I give him money, Sir!' returned Sampson. 'Oh, come you know, this is too
      barefaced. Constable, my good fellow, we had better be going.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' shrieked Kit. 'Does he deny that he did? ask him, somebody, pray.
      Ask him to tell you whether he did or not!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you, sir?' asked the notary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you what, gentlemen,' replied Brass, in a very grave manner,
      'he'll not serve his case this way, and really, if you feel any interest
      in him, you had better advise him to go upon some other tack. Did I, sir?
      Of course I never did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' cried Kit, on whom a light broke suddenly, 'Master, Mr Abel,
      Mr Witherden, every one of you&mdash;he did it! What I have done to offend
      him, I don't know, but this is a plot to ruin me. Mind, gentlemen, it's a
      plot, and whatever comes of it, I will say with my dying breath that he
      put that note in my hat himself! Look at him, gentlemen! see how he
      changes colour. Which of us looks the guilty person&mdash;he, or I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hear him, gentlemen?' said Brass, smiling, 'you hear him. Now, does
      this case strike you as assuming rather a black complexion, or does it
      not? Is it at all a treacherous case, do you think, or is it one of mere
      ordinary guilt? Perhaps, gentlemen, if he had not said this in your
      presence and I had reported it, you'd have held this to be impossible
      likewise, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such pacific and bantering remarks did Mr Brass refute the foul
      aspersion on his character; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by stronger
      feelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more jealous regard for the
      honour of her family, flew from her brother's side, without any previous
      intimation of her design, and darted at the prisoner with the utmost fury.
      It would undoubtedly have gone hard with Kit's face, but that the wary
      constable, foreseeing her design, drew him aside at the critical moment,
      and thus placed Mr Chuckster in circumstances of some jeopardy; for that
      gentleman happening to be next the object of Miss Brass's wrath; and rage
      being, like love and fortune, blind; was pounced upon by the fair
      enslaver, and had a false collar plucked up by the roots, and his hair
      very much dishevelled, before the exertions of the company could make her
      sensible of her mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      The constable, taking warning by this desperate attack, and thinking
      perhaps that it would be more satisfactory to the ends of justice if the
      prisoner were taken before a magistrate, whole, rather than in small
      pieces, led him back to the hackney-coach without more ado, and moreover
      insisted on Miss Brass becoming an outside passenger; to which proposal
      the charming creature, after a little angry discussion, yielded her
      consent; and so took her brother Sampson's place upon the box: Mr Brass
      with some reluctance agreeing to occupy her seat inside. These
      arrangements perfected, they drove to the justice-room with all speed,
      followed by the notary and his two friends in another coach. Mr Chuckster
      alone was left behind&mdash;greatly to his indignation; for he held the
      evidence he could have given, relative to Kit's returning to work out the
      shilling, to be so very material as bearing upon his hypocritical and
      designing character, that he considered its suppression little better than
      a compromise of felony.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the justice-room, they found the single gentleman, who had gone
      straight there, and was expecting them with desperate impatience. But not
      fifty single gentlemen rolled into one could have helped poor Kit, who in
      half an hour afterwards was committed for trial, and was assured by a
      friendly officer on his way to prison that there was no occasion to be
      cast down, for the sessions would soon be on, and he would, in all
      likelihood, get his little affair disposed of, and be comfortably
      transported, in less than a fortnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap61"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 61
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>et moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is very questionable
      whether a guilty man would have felt half as much misery that night, as
      Kit did, being innocent. The world, being in the constant commission of
      vast quantities of injustice, is a little too apt to comfort itself with
      the idea that if the victim of its falsehood and malice have a clear
      conscience, he cannot fail to be sustained under his trials, and somehow
      or other to come right at last; 'in which case,' say they who have hunted
      him down, '&mdash;though we certainly don't expect it&mdash;nobody will be
      better pleased than we.' Whereas, the world would do well to reflect, that
      injustice is in itself, to every generous and properly constituted mind,
      an injury, of all others the most insufferable, the most torturing, and
      the most hard to bear; and that many clear consciences have gone to their
      account elsewhere, and many sound hearts have broken, because of this very
      reason; the knowledge of their own deserts only aggravating their
      sufferings, and rendering them the less endurable.
    </p>
    <p>
      The world, however, was not in fault in Kit's case. But Kit was innocent;
      and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends deemed him guilty&mdash;that
      Mr and Mrs Garland would look upon him as a monster of ingratitude&mdash;that
      Barbara would associate him with all that was bad and criminal&mdash;that
      the pony would consider himself forsaken&mdash;and that even his own
      mother might perhaps yield to the strong appearances against him, and
      believe him to be the wretch he seemed&mdash;knowing and feeling all this,
      he experienced, at first, an agony of mind which no words can describe,
      and walked up and down the little cell in which he was locked up for the
      night, almost beside himself with grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even when the violence of these emotions had in some degree subsided, and
      he was beginning to grow more calm, there came into his mind a new
      thought, the anguish of which was scarcely less. The child&mdash;the
      bright star of the simple fellow's life&mdash;she, who always came back
      upon him like a beautiful dream&mdash;who had made the poorest part of his
      existence, the happiest and best&mdash;who had ever been so gentle, and
      considerate, and good&mdash;if she were ever to hear of this, what would
      she think! As this idea occurred to him, the walls of the prison seemed to
      melt away, and the old place to reveal itself in their stead, as it was
      wont to be on winter nights&mdash;the fireside, the little supper table,
      the old man's hat, and coat, and stick&mdash;the half-opened door, leading
      to her little room&mdash;they were all there. And Nell herself was there,
      and he&mdash;both laughing heartily as they had often done&mdash;and when
      he had got as far as this, Kit could go no farther, but flung himself upon
      his poor bedstead and wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no end; but he
      slept too, and dreamed&mdash;always of being at liberty, and roving about,
      now with one person and now with another, but ever with a vague dread of
      being recalled to prison; not that prison, but one which was in itself a
      dim idea&mdash;not of a place, but of a care and sorrow: of something
      oppressive and always present, and yet impossible to define. At last, the
      morning dawned, and there was the jail itself&mdash;cold, black, and
      dreary, and very real indeed.
</p>
    <p>
He was left to himself, however, and there
      was comfort in that. He had liberty to walk in a small paved yard at a
      certain hour, and learnt from the turnkey, who came to unlock his cell and
      show him where to wash, that there was a regular time for visiting, every
      day, and that if any of his friends came to see him, he would be fetched
      down to the grate. When he had given him this information, and a tin
      porringer containing his breakfast, the man locked him up again; and went
      clattering along the stone passage, opening and shutting a great many
      other doors, and raising numberless loud echoes which resounded through
      the building for a long time, as if they were in prison too, and unable to
      get out.
    </p>
    <p>
      This turnkey had given him to understand that he was lodged, like some few
      others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners; because he was not
      supposed to be utterly depraved and irreclaimable, and had never occupied
      apartments in that mansion before. Kit was thankful for this indulgence,
      and sat reading the church catechism very attentively (though he had known
      it by heart from a little child), until he heard the key in the lock, and
      the man entered again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now then,' he said, 'come on!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where to, Sir?' asked Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man contented himself by briefly replying 'Wisitors;' and taking him
      by the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable had done the day
      before, led him, through several winding ways and strong gates, into a
      passage, where he placed him at a grating and turned upon his heel. Beyond
      this grating, at the distance of about four or five feet, was another
      exactly like it. In the space between, sat a turnkey reading a newspaper,
      and outside the further railing, Kit saw, with a palpitating heart, his
      mother with the baby in her arms; Barbara's mother with her never-failing
      umbrella; and poor little Jacob, staring in with all his might, as though
      he were looking for the bird, or the wild beast, and thought the men were
      mere accidents with whom the bars could have no possible concern.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0438m.jpg" alt="0438m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0438.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      But when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms between the
      rails to hug him, found that he came no nearer, but still stood afar off
      with his head resting on the arm by which he held to one of the bars, he
      began to cry most piteously; whereupon, Kit's mother and Barbara's mother,
      who had restrained themselves as much as possible, burst out sobbing and
      weeping afresh. Poor Kit could not help joining them, and not one of them
      could speak a word. During this melancholy pause, the turnkey read his
      newspaper with a waggish look (he had evidently got among the facetious
      paragraphs) until, happening to take his eyes off for an instant, as if to
      get by dint of contemplation at the very marrow of some joke of a deeper
      sort than the rest, it appeared to occur to him, for the first time, that
      somebody was crying.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, ladies, ladies,' he said, looking round with surprise, 'I'd advise
      you not to waste time like this. It's allowanced here, you know. You
      mustn't let that child make that noise either. It's against all rules.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm his poor mother, sir,'&mdash;sobbed Mrs Nubbles, curtseying humbly,
      'and this is his brother, sir. Oh dear me, dear me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' replied the turnkey, folding his paper on his knee, so as to get
      with greater convenience at the top of the next column. 'It can't be
      helped you know. He ain't the only one in the same fix. You mustn't make a
      noise about it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that he went on reading. The man was not unnaturally cruel or
      hard-hearted. He had come to look upon felony as a kind of disorder, like
      the scarlet fever or erysipelas: some people had it&mdash;some hadn't&mdash;just
      as it might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! my darling Kit,' said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had
      charitably relieved of the baby, 'that I should see my poor boy here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't believe that I did what they accuse me of, mother dear?' cried
      Kit, in a choking voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe it!' exclaimed the poor woman, 'I that never knew you tell a
      lie, or do a bad action from your cradle&mdash;that have never had a
      moment's sorrow on your account, except it was the poor meals that you
      have taken with such good humour and content, that I forgot how little
      there was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful you were, though you
      were but a child!&mdash;I believe it of the son that's been a comfort to
      me from the hour of his birth until this time, and that I never laid down
      one night in anger with! I believe it of you Kit!&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then, thank God!' said Kit, clutching the bars with an earnestness
      that shook them, 'and I can bear it, mother! Come what may, I shall always
      have one drop of happiness in my heart when I think that you said that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this the poor woman fell a-crying again, and Barbara's mother too. And
      little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time resolved
      themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit couldn't go out for
      a walk if he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions, tigers or other
      natural curiosities behind those bars&mdash;nothing indeed, but a caged
      brother&mdash;added his tears to theirs with as little noise as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more than
      she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and submissively
      addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he please to listen to her
      for a minute? The turnkey, being in the very crisis and passion of a joke,
      motioned to her with his hand to keep silent one minute longer, for her
      life. Nor did he remove his hand into its former posture, but kept it in
      the same warning attitude until he had finished the paragraph, when he
      paused for a few seconds, with a smile upon his face, as who should say
      'this editor is a comical blade&mdash;a funny dog,' and then asked her
      what she wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have brought him a little something to eat,' said the good woman. 'If
      you please, Sir, might he have it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,&mdash;he may have it. There's no rule against that. Give it to me
      when you go, and I'll take care he has it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but if you please sir&mdash;don't be angry with me sir&mdash;I am his
      mother, and you had a mother once&mdash;if I might only see him eat a
      little bit, I should go away, so much more satisfied that he was all
      comfortable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of Barbara's mother,
      and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was crowing and laughing with its
      might&mdash;under the idea, apparently, that the whole scene had been
      invented and got up for its particular satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one and rather
      out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his paper, and coming
      round where Kit's mother stood, took the basket from her, and after
      inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and went back to his place. It
      may be easily conceived that the prisoner had no great appetite, but he
      sat down on the ground, and ate as hard as he could, while, at every
      morsel he put into his mouth, his mother sobbed and wept afresh, though
      with a softened grief that bespoke the satisfaction the sight afforded
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about his
      employers, and whether they had expressed any opinion concerning him; but
      all he could learn was that Mr Abel had himself broken the intelligence to
      his mother, with great kindness and delicacy, late on the previous night,
      but had himself expressed no opinion of his innocence or guilt. Kit was on
      the point of mustering courage to ask Barbara's mother about Barbara, when
      the turnkey who had conducted him, reappeared, a second turnkey appeared
      behind his visitors, and the third turnkey with the newspaper cried
      'Time's up!'&mdash;adding in the same breath 'Now for the next party!' and
      then plunging deep into his newspaper again. Kit was taken off in an
      instant, with a blessing from his mother, and a scream from little Jacob,
      ringing in his ears. As he was crossing the next yard with the basket in
      his hand, under the guidance of his former conductor, another officer
      called to them to stop, and came up with a pint pot of porter in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is Christopher Nubbles, isn't it, that come in last night for
      felony?' said the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      His comrade replied that this was the chicken in question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then here's your beer,' said the other man to Christopher. 'What are you
      looking at? There an't a discharge in it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon,' said Kit. 'Who sent it me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, your friend,' replied the man. 'You're to have it every day, he
      says. And so you will, if he pays for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My friend!' repeated Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're all abroad, seemingly,' returned the other man. 'There's his
      letter. Take hold!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as follows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Drink of this cup, you'll find there's a spell in its every drop 'gainst
      the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! <i>Her</i>
      cup was a fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and Co.'s).&mdash;If they
      ever send it in a flat state, complain to the Governor. Yours, R. S.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'R. S.!' said Kit, after some consideration. 'It must be Mr Richard
      Swiveller. Well, its very kind of him, and I thank him heartily.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap62"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 62
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> faint light, twinkling from the window of the counting-house on Quilp's
      wharf, and looking inflamed and red through the night-fog, as though it
      suffered from it like an eye, forewarned Mr Sampson Brass, as he
      approached the wooden cabin with a cautious step, that the excellent
      proprietor, his esteemed client, was inside, and probably waiting with his
      accustomed patience and sweetness of temper the fulfilment of the
      appointment which now brought Mr Brass within his fair domain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A treacherous place to pick one's steps in, of a dark night,' muttered
      Sampson, as he stumbled for the twentieth time over some stray lumber, and
      limped in pain. 'I believe that boy strews the ground differently every
      day, on purpose to bruise and maim one; unless his master does it with his
      own hands, which is more than likely. I hate to come to this place without
      Sally. She's more protection than a dozen men.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he paid this compliment to the merit of the absent charmer, Mr Brass
      came to a halt; looking doubtfully towards the light, and over his
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's he about, I wonder?' murmured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe, and
      endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of what was passing inside, which at that
      distance was impossible&mdash;'drinking, I suppose,&mdash;making himself
      more fiery and furious, and heating his malice and mischievousness till
      they boil. I'm always afraid to come here by myself, when his account's a
      pretty large one. I don't believe he'd mind throttling me, and dropping me
      softly into the river when the tide was at its strongest, any more than
      he'd mind killing a rat&mdash;indeed I don't know whether he wouldn't
      consider it a pleasant joke. Hark! Now he's singing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Quilp was certainly entertaining himself with vocal exercise, but it
      was rather a kind of chant than a song; being a monotonous repetition of
      one sentence in a very rapid manner, with a long stress upon the last
      word, which he swelled into a dismal roar. Nor did the burden of this
      performance bear any reference to love, or war, or wine, or loyalty, or
      any other, the standard topics of song, but to a subject not often set to
      music or generally known in ballads; the words being these:&mdash;'The
      worthy magistrate, after remarking that the prisoner would find some
      difficulty in persuading a jury to believe his tale, committed him to take
      his trial at the approaching sessions; and directed the customary
      recognisances to be entered into for the pros-e-cu-tion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Every time he came to this concluding word, and had exhausted all possible
      stress upon it, Quilp burst into a shriek of laughter, and began again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's dreadfully imprudent,' muttered Brass, after he had listened to two
      or three repetitions of the chant. 'Horribly imprudent. I wish he was
      dumb. I wish he was deaf. I wish he was blind. Hang him,' cried Brass, as
      the chant began again. 'I wish he was dead!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Giving utterance to these friendly aspirations in behalf of his client, Mr
      Sampson composed his face into its usual state of smoothness, and waiting
      until the shriek came again and was dying away, went up to the wooden
      house, and knocked at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in!' cried the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you do to-night sir?' said Sampson, peeping in. 'Ha ha ha! How do
      you do sir? Oh dear me, how very whimsical! Amazingly whimsical to be
      sure!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0444m.jpg" alt="0444m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0444.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Come in, you fool!' returned the dwarf, 'and don't stand there shaking
      your head and showing your teeth. Come in, you false witness, you
      perjurer, you suborner of evidence, come in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has the richest humour!' cried Brass, shutting the door behind him;
      'the most amazing vein of comicality! But isn't it rather injudicious, sir&mdash;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What?' demanded Quilp. 'What, Judas?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Judas!' cried Brass. 'He has such extraordinary spirits! His humour is so
      extremely playful! Judas! Oh yes&mdash;dear me, how very good! Ha ha ha!'
</p>
    <p>
      All this time, Sampson was rubbing his hands, and staring, with ludicrous
      surprise and dismay, at a great, goggle-eyed, blunt-nosed figure-head of
      some old ship, which was reared up against the wall in a corner near the
      stove, looking like a goblin or hideous idol whom the dwarf worshipped. A
      mass of timber on its head, carved into the dim and distant semblance of a
      cocked hat, together with a representation of a star on the left breast
      and epaulettes on the shoulders, denoted that it was intended for the
      effigy of some famous admiral; but, without those helps, any observer
      might have supposed it the authentic portrait of a distinguished merman,
      or great sea-monster. Being originally much too large for the apartment
      which it was now employed to decorate, it had been sawn short off at the
      waist. Even in this state it reached from floor to ceiling; and thrusting
      itself forward, with that excessively wide-awake aspect, and air of
      somewhat obtrusive politeness, by which figure-heads are usually
      characterised, seemed to reduce everything else to mere pigmy proportions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know it?' said the dwarf, watching Sampson's eyes. 'Do you see the
      likeness?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' said Brass, holding his head on one side, and throwing it a little
      back, as connoisseurs do. 'Now I look at it again, I fancy I see a&mdash;yes,
      there certainly is something in the smile that reminds me of&mdash;and yet
      upon my word I&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the fact was, that Sampson, having never seen anything in the
      smallest degree resembling this substantial phantom, was much perplexed;
      being uncertain whether Mr Quilp considered it like himself, and had
      therefore bought it for a family portrait; or whether he was pleased to
      consider it as the likeness of some enemy. He was not very long in doubt;
      for, while he was surveying it with that knowing look which people assume
      when they are contemplating for the first time portraits which they ought
      to recognise but don't, the dwarf threw down the newspaper from which he
      had been chanting the words already quoted, and seizing a rusty iron bar,
      which he used in lieu of poker, dealt the figure such a stroke on the nose
      that it rocked again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it like Kit&mdash;is it his picture, his image, his very self?' cried
      the dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the insensible countenance, and
      covering it with deep dimples. 'Is it the exact model and counterpart of
      the dog&mdash;is it&mdash;is it&mdash;is it?' And with every repetition of
      the question, he battered the great image, until the perspiration streamed
      down his face with the violence of the exercise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although this might have been a very comical thing to look at from a
      secure gallery, as a bull-fight is found to be a comfortable spectacle by
      those who are not in the arena, and a house on fire is better than a play
      to people who don't live near it, there was something in the earnestness
      of Mr Quilp's manner which made his legal adviser feel that the
      counting-house was a little too small, and a deal too lonely, for the
      complete enjoyment of these humours. Therefore, he stood as far off as he
      could, while the dwarf was thus engaged; whimpering out but feeble
      applause; and when Quilp left off and sat down again from pure exhaustion,
      approached with more obsequiousness than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excellent indeed!' cried Brass. 'He he! Oh, very good Sir. You know,'
      said Sampson, looking round as if in appeal to the bruised animal, 'he's
      quite a remarkable man&mdash;quite!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit down,' said the dwarf. 'I bought the dog yesterday. I've been
      screwing gimlets into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and cutting my
      name on him. I mean to burn him at last.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha ha!' cried Brass. 'Extremely entertaining, indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here,' said Quilp, beckoning him to draw near. 'What's injudicious,
      hey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing Sir&mdash;nothing. Scarcely worth mentioning Sir; but I thought
      that song&mdash;admirably humorous in itself you know&mdash;was perhaps
      rather&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Quilp, 'rather what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just bordering, or as one may say remotely verging, upon the confines of
      injudiciousness perhaps, Sir,' returned Brass, looking timidly at the
      dwarf's cunning eyes, which were turned towards the fire and reflected its
      red light.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why?' inquired Quilp, without looking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, you know, sir,' returned Brass, venturing to be more familiar: '&mdash;the
      fact is, sir, that any allusion to these little combinings together, of
      friends, for objects in themselves extremely laudable, but which the law
      terms conspiracies, are&mdash;you take me, sir?&mdash;best kept snug and
      among friends, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh!' said Quilp, looking up with a perfectly vacant countenance. 'What do
      you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cautious, exceedingly cautious, very right and proper!' cried Brass,
      nodding his head. 'Mum, sir, even here&mdash;my meaning, sir, exactly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Your </i>meaning exactly, you brazen scarecrow,&mdash;what's your meaning?'
      retorted Quilp. 'Why do you talk to me of combining together? Do I
      combine? Do I know anything about your combinings?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No no, sir&mdash;certainly not; not by any means,' returned Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you so wink and nod at me,' said the dwarf, looking about him as if
      for his poker, 'I'll spoil the expression of your monkey's face, I will.'
 </p>
    <p>
      'Don't put yourself out of the way I beg, sir,' rejoined Brass, checking
      himself with great alacrity. 'You're quite right, sir, quite right. I
      shouldn't have mentioned the subject, sir. It's much better not to. You're
      quite right, sir. Let us change it, if you please. You were asking, sir,
      Sally told me, about our lodger. He has not returned, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No?' said Quilp, heating some rum in a little saucepan, and watching it
      to prevent its boiling over. 'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, sir,' returned Brass, 'he&mdash;dear me, Mr Quilp, sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter?' said the dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of
      carrying the saucepan to his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have forgotten the water, sir,' said Brass. 'And&mdash;excuse me, sir&mdash;but
      it's burning hot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Deigning no other than a practical answer to this remonstrance, Mr Quilp
      raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off all the
      spirit it contained, which might have been in quantity about half a pint,
      and had been but a moment before, when he took it off the fire, bubbling
      and hissing fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle stimulant, and shaken
      his fist at the admiral, he bade Mr Brass proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But first,' said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, 'have a drop yourself&mdash;a
      nice drop&mdash;a good, warm, fiery drop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, sir,' replied Brass, 'if there was such a thing as a mouthful of
      water that could be got without trouble&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no such thing to be had here,' cried the dwarf. 'Water for
      lawyers! Melted lead and brimstone, you mean, nice hot blistering pitch
      and tar&mdash;that's the thing for them&mdash;eh, Brass, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha ha ha!' laughed Mr Brass. 'Oh very biting! and yet it's like being
      tickled&mdash;there's a pleasure in it too, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Drink that,' said the dwarf, who had by this time heated some more. 'Toss
      it off, don't leave any heeltap, scorch your throat and be happy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The wretched Sampson took a few short sips of the liquor, which
      immediately distilled itself into burning tears, and in that form came
      rolling down his cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour of his
      face and eyelids to a deep red, and giving rise to a violent fit of
      coughing, in the midst of which he was still heard to declare, with the
      constancy of a martyr, that it was 'beautiful indeed!' While he was yet in
      unspeakable agonies, the dwarf renewed their conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The lodger,' said Quilp, '&mdash;what about him?'
</p>
    <p>
'He is still, sir,'
      returned Brass, with intervals of coughing, 'stopping with the Garland
      family. He has only been home once, Sir, since the day of the examination
      of that culprit. He informed Mr Richard, sir, that he couldn't bear the
      house after what had taken place; that he was wretched in it; and that he
      looked upon himself as being in a certain kind of way the cause of the
      occurrence.&mdash;A very excellent lodger Sir. I hope we may not lose
      him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yah!' cried the dwarf. 'Never thinking of anybody but yourself&mdash;why
      don't you retrench then&mdash;scrape up, hoard, economise, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, sir,' replied Brass, 'upon my word I think Sarah's as good an
      economiser as any going. I do indeed, Mr Quilp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, drink, man!' cried the dwarf. 'You
      took a clerk to oblige me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Delighted, sir, I am sure, at any time,' replied Sampson. 'Yes, Sir, I
      did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then now you may discharge him,' said Quilp. 'There's a means of
      retrenchment for you at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Discharge Mr Richard, sir?' cried Brass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you more than one clerk, you parrot, that you ask the question?
      Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word, Sir,' said Brass, 'I wasn't prepared for this--'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could you be?' sneered the dwarf, 'when I wasn't? How often am I to
      tell you that I brought him to you that I might always have my eye on him
      and know where he was&mdash;and that I had a plot, a scheme, a little
      quiet piece of enjoyment afoot, of which the very cream and essence was,
      that this old man and grandchild (who have sunk underground I think)
      should be, while he and his precious friend believed them rich, in reality
      as poor as frozen rats?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I quite understood that, sir,' rejoined Brass. 'Thoroughly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Sir,' retorted Quilp, 'and do you understand now, that they're not
      poor&mdash;that they can't be, if they have such men as your lodger
      searching for them, and scouring the country far and wide?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I do, Sir,' said Sampson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course you do,' retorted the dwarf, viciously snapping at his words.
      'Of course do you understand then, that it's no matter what comes of this
      fellow? of course do you understand that for any other purpose he's no man
      for me, nor for you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have frequently said to Sarah, sir,' returned Brass, 'that he was of no
      use at all in the business. You can't put any confidence in him, sir. If
      you'll believe me I've found that fellow, in the commonest little matters
      of the office that have been trusted to him, blurting out the truth,
      though expressly cautioned. The aggravation of that chap sir, has exceeded
      anything you can imagine, it has indeed. Nothing but the respect and
      obligation I owe to you, sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      As it was plain that Sampson was bent on a complimentary harangue, unless
      he received a timely interruption, Mr Quilp politely tapped him on the
      crown of his head with the little saucepan, and requested that he would be
      so obliging as to hold his peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Practical, sir, practical,' said Brass, rubbing the place and smiling;
      'but still extremely pleasant&mdash;immensely so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hearken to me, will you?' returned Quilp, 'or I'll be a little more
      pleasant, presently. There's no chance of his comrade and friend
      returning. The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I learn, for some
      knavery, and has found his way abroad. Let him rot there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, sir. Quite proper.&mdash;Forcible!' cried Brass, glancing at
      the admiral again, as if he made a third in company. 'Extremely forcible!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hate him,' said Quilp between his teeth, 'and have always hated him,
      for family reasons. Besides, he was an intractable ruffian; otherwise he
      would have been of use. This fellow is pigeon-hearted and light-headed. I
      don't want him any longer. Let him hang or drown&mdash;starve&mdash;go to
      the devil.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means, sir,' returned Brass. 'When would you wish him, sir, to&mdash;ha,
      ha!&mdash;to make that little excursion?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When this trial's over,' said Quilp. 'As soon as that's ended, send him
      about his business.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It shall be done, sir,' returned Brass; 'by all means. It will be rather
      a blow to Sarah, sir, but she has all her feelings under control. Ah, Mr
      Quilp, I often think, sir, if it had only pleased Providence to bring you
      and Sarah together, in earlier life, what blessed results would have
      flowed from such a union! You never saw our dear father, sir?&mdash;A
      charming gentleman. Sarah was his pride and joy, sir. He would have closed
      his eyes in bliss, would Foxey, Mr Quilp, if he could have found her such
      a partner. You esteem her, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I love her,' croaked the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're very good, Sir,' returned Brass, 'I am sure. Is there any other
      order, sir, that I can take a note of, besides this little matter of Mr
      Richard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'None,' replied the dwarf, seizing the saucepan. 'Let us drink the lovely
      Sarah.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If we could do it in something, sir, that wasn't quite boiling,'
      suggested Brass humbly, 'perhaps it would be better. I think it will be
      more agreeable to Sarah's feelings, when she comes to hear from me of the
      honour you have done her, if she learns it was in liquor rather cooler
      than the last, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But to these remonstrances, Mr Quilp turned a deaf ear. Sampson Brass, who
      was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled to take further
      draughts of the same strong bowl, found that, instead of at all
      contributing to his recovery, they had the novel effect of making the
      counting-house spin round and round with extreme velocity, and causing the
      floor and ceiling to heave in a very distressing manner. After a brief
      stupor, he awoke to a consciousness of being partly under the table and
      partly under the grate. This position not being the most comfortable one
      he could have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger to his feet, and,
      holding on by the admiral, looked round for his host.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass's first impression was, that his host was gone and had left him
      there alone&mdash;perhaps locked him in for the night. A strong smell of
      tobacco, however, suggested a new train of ideas, he looked upward, and
      saw that the dwarf was smoking in his hammock.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good bye, Sir,' cried Brass faintly. 'Good bye, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you stop all night?' said the dwarf, peeping out. 'Do stop all
      night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't indeed, Sir,' replied Brass, who was almost dead from nausea
      and the closeness of the room. 'If you'd have the goodness to show me a
      light, so that I may see my way across the yard, sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quilp was out in an instant; not with his legs first, or his head first,
      or his arms first, but bodily&mdash;altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' he said, taking up a lantern, which was now the only light
      in the place. 'Be careful how you go, my dear friend. Be sure to pick your
      way among the timber, for all the rusty nails are upwards. There's a dog
      in the lane. He bit a man last night, and a woman the night before, and
      last Tuesday he killed a child&mdash;but that was in play. Don't go too
      near him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which side of the road is he, sir?' asked Brass, in great dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He lives on the right hand,' said Quilp, 'but sometimes he hides on the
      left, ready for a spring. He's uncertain in that respect. Mind you take
      care of yourself. I'll never forgive you if you don't. There's the light
      out&mdash;never mind&mdash;you know the way&mdash;straight on!' Quilp had
      slily shaded the light by holding it against his breast, and now stood
      chuckling and shaking from head to foot in a rapture of delight, as he
      heard the lawyer stumbling up the yard, and now and then falling heavily
      down. At length, however, he got quit of the place, and was out of
      hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang once more into his hammock.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap63"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 63
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he professional gentleman who had given Kit the consolatory piece of
      information relative to the settlement of his trifle of business at the
      Old Bailey, and the probability of its being very soon disposed of, turned
      out to be quite correct in his prognostications. In eight days' time, the
      sessions commenced. In one day afterwards, the Grand Jury found a True
      Bill against Christopher Nubbles for felony; and in two days from that
      finding, the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was called upon to plead Guilty
      or Not Guilty to an Indictment for that he the said Christopher did
      feloniously abstract and steal from the dwelling-house and office of one
      Sampson Brass, gentleman, one Bank Note for Five Pounds issued by the
      Governor and Company of the Bank of England; in contravention of the
      Statutes in that case made and provided, and against the peace of our
      Sovereign Lord the King, his crown and dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in a low and trembling voice,
      pleaded Not Guilty; and here, let those who are in the habit of forming
      hasty judgments from appearances, and who would have had Christopher, if
      innocent, speak out very strong and loud, observe, that confinement and
      anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts; and that to one who has been
      close shut up, though it be only for ten or eleven days, seeing but stone
      walls and a very few stony faces, the sudden entrance into a great hall
      filled with life, is a rather disconcerting and startling circumstance. To
      this, it must be added, that life in a wig is to a large class of people
      much more terrifying and impressive than life with its own head of hair;
      and if, in addition to these considerations, there be taken into account
      Kit's natural emotion on seeing the two Mr Garlands and the little Notary
      looking on with pale and anxious faces, it will perhaps seem matter of no
      very great wonder that he should have been rather out of sorts, and unable
      to make himself quite at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although he had never seen either of the Mr Garlands, or Mr Witherden,
      since the time of his arrest, he had been given to understand that they
      had employed counsel for him. Therefore, when one of the gentlemen in wigs
      got up and said 'I am for the prisoner, my Lord,' Kit made him a bow; and
      when another gentleman in a wig got up and said 'And I'm against him, my
      Lord,' Kit trembled very much, and bowed to him too. And didn't he hope in
      his own heart that his gentleman was a match for the other gentleman, and
      would make him ashamed of himself in no time!
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman who was against him had to speak first, and being in
      dreadfully good spirits (for he had, in the last trial, very nearly
      procured the acquittal of a young gentleman who had had the misfortune to
      murder his father) he spoke up, you may be sure; telling the jury that if
      they acquitted this prisoner they must expect to suffer no less pangs and
      agonies than he had told the other jury they would certainly undergo if
      they convicted that prisoner. And when he had told them all about the
      case, and that he had never known a worse case, he stopped a little while,
      like a man who had something terrible to tell them, and then said that he
      understood an attempt would be made by his learned friend (and here he
      looked sideways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the testimony of those
      immaculate witnesses whom he should call before them; but he did hope and
      trust that his learned friend would have a greater respect and veneration
      for the character of the prosecutor; than whom, as he well knew, there did
      not exist, and never had existed, a more honourable member of that most
      honourable profession to which he was attached. And then he said, did the
      jury know Bevis Marks? And if they did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted for
      their own character, they did) did they know the historical and elevating
      associations connected with that most remarkable spot? Did they believe
      that a man like Brass could reside in a place like Bevis Marks, and not be
      a virtuous and most upright character? And when he had said a great deal
      to them on this point, he remembered that it was an insult to their
      understandings to make any remarks on what they must have felt so strongly
      without him, and therefore called Sampson Brass into the witness-box,
      straightway.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then up comes Mr Brass, very brisk and fresh; and, having bowed to the
      judge, like a man who has had the pleasure of seeing him before, and who
      hopes he has been pretty well since their last meeting, folds his arms,
      and looks at his gentleman as much as to say 'Here I am&mdash;full of
      evidence&mdash;Tap me!' And the gentleman does tap him presently, and with
      great discretion too; drawing off the evidence by little and little, and
      making it run quite clear and bright in the eyes of all present. Then,
      Kit's gentleman takes him in hand, but can make nothing of him; and after
      a great many very long questions and very short answers, Mr Sampson Brass
      goes down in glory.
    </p>
    <p>
      To him succeeds Sarah, who in like manner is easy to be managed by Mr
      Brass's gentleman, but very obdurate to Kit's. In short, Kit's gentleman
      can get nothing out of her but a repetition of what she has said before
      (only a little stronger this time, as against his client), and therefore
      lets her go, in some confusion. Then, Mr Brass's gentleman calls Richard
      Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller appears accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Mr Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this witness is
      disposed to be friendly to the prisoner&mdash;which, to say the truth, he
      is rather glad to hear, as his strength is considered to lie in what is
      familiarly termed badgering. Wherefore, he begins by requesting the
      officer to be quite sure that this witness kisses the book, then goes to
      work at him, tooth and nail.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Swiveller,' says this gentleman to Dick, when he had told his tale
      with evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it: 'Pray sir,
      where did you dine yesterday?'&mdash;'Where did I dine yesterday?'&mdash;'Aye,
      sir, where did you dine yesterday&mdash;was it near here, sir?'&mdash;'Oh
      to be sure&mdash;yes&mdash;just over the way.'&mdash;'To be sure. Yes.
      Just over the way,' repeats Mr Brass's gentleman, with a glance at the
      court.&mdash;'Alone, sir?'&mdash;'I beg your pardon,' says Mr Swiveller,
      who has not caught the question&mdash;'Alone, sir?' repeats Mr Brass's
      gentleman in a voice of thunder, 'did you dine alone? Did you treat
      anybody, sir? Come!'&mdash;'Oh yes, to be sure&mdash;yes, I did,' says Mr
      Swiveller with a smile.&mdash;'Have the goodness to banish a levity, sir,
      which is very ill-suited to the place in which you stand (though perhaps
      you have reason to be thankful that it's only that place),' says Mr
      Brass's gentleman, with a nod of the head, insinuating that the dock is Mr
      Swiveller's legitimate sphere of action; 'and attend to me. You were
      waiting about here, yesterday, in expectation that this trial was coming
      on. You dined over the way. You treated somebody. Now, was that somebody
      brother to the prisoner at the bar?'&mdash;Mr Swiveller is proceeding to
      explain&mdash;'Yes or No, sir,' cries Mr Brass's gentleman&mdash;'But will
      you allow me&mdash;'&mdash;'Yes or No, sir'&mdash;'Yes it was, but&mdash;'&mdash;'Yes
      it was,' cries the gentleman, taking him up short. 'And a very pretty
      witness <i>you </i>are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Down sits Mr Brass's gentleman. Kit's gentleman, not knowing how the
      matter really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard Swiveller
      retires abashed. Judge, jury and spectators have visions of his lounging
      about, with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute young fellow of six
      feet high. The reality is, little Jacob, with the calves of his legs
      exposed to the open air, and himself tied up in a shawl. Nobody knows the
      truth; everybody believes a falsehood; and all because of the ingenuity of
      Mr Brass's gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then come the witnesses to character, and here Mr Brass's gentleman shines
      again. It turns out that Mr Garland has had no character with Kit, no
      recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was suddenly
      dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons. 'Really Mr Garland,'
      says Mr Brass's gentleman, 'for a person who has arrived at your time of
      life, you are, to say the least of it, singularly indiscreet, I think.'
      The jury think so too, and find Kit guilty. He is taken off, humbly
      protesting his innocence. The spectators settle themselves in their places
      with renewed attention, for there are several female witnesses to be
      examined in the next case, and it has been rumoured that Mr Brass's
      gentleman will make great fun in cross-examining them for the prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs,
      accompanied by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul! never does anything but
      cry, and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues. The newspaper-reading
      turnkey has told them all. He don't think it will be transportation for
      life, because there's time to prove the good character yet, and that is
      sure to serve him. He wonders what he did it for. 'He never did it!' cries
      Kit's mother. 'Well,' says the turnkey, 'I won't contradict you. It's all
      one, now, whether he did it or not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it&mdash;
      God, and those to whom he has given such tenderness, only know in how much
      agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart, and, under pretence of having the
      children lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara's mother in a whisper to
      take her home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some friend will rise up for us, mother,' cried Kit, 'I am sure. If not
      now, before long. My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall be
      brought back again; I feel confidence in that. You must teach little Jacob
      and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had ever been
      dishonest, when they grew old enough to understand, it would break my
      heart to know it, if I was thousands of miles away.&mdash;Oh! is there no
      good gentleman here, who will take care of her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the
      earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the
      bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm after
      the manner of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and commanding
      Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach waiting, bears her swiftly
      off.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0454m.jpg" alt="0454m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0454.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Well; Richard took her home. And what astonishing absurdities in the way
      of quotation from song and poem he perpetrated on the road, no man knows.
      He took her home, and stayed till she was recovered; and, having no money
      to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks, bidding the driver
      (for it was Saturday night) wait at the door while he went in for
      'change.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass cheerfully, 'Good evening!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr Richard did, that
      night, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villany. Perhaps it
      was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless nature
      this impulse; but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon him, and he
      said in as few words as possible, what he wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Money?' cried Brass, taking out his purse. 'Ha ha! To be sure, Mr
      Richard, to be sure, sir. All men must live. You haven't change for a
      five-pound note, have you sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned Dick, shortly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Brass, 'here's the very sum. That saves trouble. You're very
      welcome I'm sure.&mdash;Mr Richard, sir&mdash;' Dick, who had by this time
      reached the door, turned round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't,' said Brass, 'trouble yourself to come back any more, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see, Mr Richard,' said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and
      rocking himself to and fro on his stool, 'the fact is, that a man of your
      abilities is lost, Sir, quite lost, in our dry and mouldy line. It's
      terrible drudgery&mdash;shocking. I should say, now, that the stage, or
      the&mdash;or the army, Mr Richard&mdash;or something very superior in the
      licensed victualling way&mdash;was the kind of thing that would call out
      the genius of such a man as you. I hope you'll look in to see us now and
      then. Sally, Sir, will be delighted I'm sure. She's extremely sorry to
      lose you, Mr Richard, but a sense of her duty to society reconciles her.
      An amazing creature that, sir! You'll find the money quite correct, I
      think. There's a cracked window sir, but I've not made any deduction on
      that account. Whenever we part with friends, Mr Richard, let us part
      liberally. A delightful sentiment, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      To all these rambling observations, Mr Swiveller answered not one word,
      but, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round ball:
      looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some intention of bowling
      him down with it. He only took it under his arm, however, and marched out
      of the office in profound silence. When he had closed the door, he
      re-opened it, stared in again for a few moments with the same portentous
      gravity, and nodding his head once, in a slow and ghost-like manner,
      vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      He paid the coachman, and turned his back on Bevis Marks, big with great
      designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard Swiveller,
      are extremely precarious. The spiritual excitement of the last fortnight,
      working upon a system affected in no slight degree by the spirituous
      excitement of some years, proved a little too much for him. That very
      night, Mr Richard was seized with an alarming illness, and in twenty-four
      hours was stricken with a raging fever.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap64"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 64
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>ossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce thirst
      which nothing could appease; unable to find, in any change of posture, a
      moment's peace or ease; and rambling, ever, through deserts of thought
      where there was no resting-place, no sight or sound suggestive of
      refreshment or repose, nothing but a dull eternal weariness, with no
      change but the restless shiftings of his miserable body, and the weary
      wandering of his mind, constant still to one ever-present anxiety&mdash;to
      a sense of something left undone, of some fearful obstacle to be
      surmounted, of some carking care that would not be driven away, and which
      haunted the distempered brain, now in this form, now in that, always
      shadowy and dim, but recognisable for the same phantom in every shape it
      took: darkening every vision like an evil conscience, and making slumber
      horrible&mdash;in these slow tortures of his dread disease, the
      unfortunate Richard lay wasting and consuming inch by inch, until, at
      last, when he seemed to fight and struggle to rise up, and to be held down
      by devils, he sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than sleep
      itself, he began gradually to remember something of these sufferings, and
      to think what a long night it had been, and whether he had not been
      delirious twice or thrice. Happening, in the midst of these cogitations,
      to raise his hand, he was astonished to find how heavy it seemed, and yet
      how thin and light it really was. Still, he felt indifferent and happy;
      and having no curiosity to pursue the subject, remained in the same waking
      slumber until his attention was attracted by a cough. This made him doubt
      whether he had locked his door last night, and feel a little surprised at
      having a companion in the room. Still, he lacked energy to follow up this
      train of thought; and unconsciously fell, in a luxury of repose, to
      staring at some green stripes on the bed-furniture, and associating them
      strangely with patches of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between made
      gravel-walks, and so helped out a long perspective of trim gardens.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite lost
      himself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more. The walks
      shrunk into stripes again at the sound, and raising himself a little in
      the bed, and holding the curtain open with one hand, he looked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same room certainly, and still by candlelight; but with what unbounded
      astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins, and articles of
      linen airing by the fire, and such-like furniture of a sick chamber&mdash;all
      very clean and neat, but all quite different from anything he had left
      there, when he went to bed! The atmosphere, too, filled with a cool smell
      of herbs and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled; the&mdash;the what? The
      Marchioness?
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0458m.jpg" alt="0458m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0458.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat, intent
      upon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner as if she feared
      to disturb him&mdash;shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, playing,
      counting, pegging&mdash;going through all the mysteries of cribbage as if
      she had been in full practice from her cradle! Mr Swiveller contemplated
      these things for a short time, and suffering the curtain to fall into its
      former position, laid his head on the pillow again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm dreaming,' thought Richard, 'that's clear. When I went to bed, my
      hands were not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost see through 'em.
      If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian Night,
      instead of a London one. But I have no doubt I'm asleep. Not the least.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the small servant had another cough.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very remarkable!' thought Mr Swiveller. 'I never dreamt such a real cough
      as that before. I don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either a cough or
      a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams that one never
      does. There's another&mdash;and another&mdash;I say!&mdash;I'm dreaming
      rather fast!'
    </p>
    <p>
      For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after some
      reflection, pinched himself in the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Queerer still!' he thought. 'I came to bed rather plump than otherwise,
      and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I'll take another survey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr Swiveller
      that the objects by which he was surrounded were real, and that he saw
      them, beyond all question, with his waking eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard. 'I'm in Damascus
      or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a wager with
      another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive, and the
      worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of China, has brought me away,
      room and all, to compare us together. Perhaps,' said Mr Swiveller, turning
      languidly round on his pillow, and looking on that side of his bed which
      was next the wall, 'the Princess may be still&mdash;No, she's gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking it to
      be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr
      Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take the first
      favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An occasion presented
      itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and omitted to take the
      usual advantage; upon which Mr Swiveller called out as loud as he could&mdash;'Two
      for his heels!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands. 'Arabian Night,
      certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their hands instead of
      ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black slaves, with jars of
      jewels on their heads!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy; for
      directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry; declaring, not in
      choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she was 'so glad, she didn't
      know what to do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, 'be pleased to draw
      nearer. First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me where I
      shall find my voice; and secondly, what has become of my flesh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again; whereupon
      Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected likewise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appearances, Marchioness,'
      said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a trembling lip, 'that I have
      been ill.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You just have!' replied the small servant, wiping her eyes. 'And haven't
      you been a talking nonsense!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Dick. 'Very ill, Marchioness, have I been?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dead, all but,' replied the small servant. 'I never thought you'd get
      better. Thank Heaven you have!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller was silent for a long while. By and bye, he began to talk
      again, inquiring how long he had been there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three weeks to-morrow,' replied the servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three what?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weeks,' returned the Marchioness emphatically; 'three long, slow weeks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The bare thought of having been in such extremity, caused Richard to fall
      into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his full length. The
      Marchioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more comfortably, and felt
      that his hands and forehead were quite cool&mdash;a discovery that filled
      her with delight&mdash;cried a little more, and then applied herself to
      getting tea ready, and making some thin dry toast.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful heart,
      very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made herself, and
      attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass, whom, in his
      own mind, he could not thank enough. When the Marchioness had finished her
      toasting, she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and brought him some crisp
      slices and a great basin of weak tea, with which (she said) the doctor had
      left word he might refresh himself when he awoke. She propped him up with
      pillows, if not as skilfully as if she had been a professional nurse all
      her life, at least as tenderly; and looked on with unutterable
      satisfaction while the patient&mdash;stopping every now and then to shake
      her by the hand&mdash;took his poor meal with an appetite and relish,
      which the greatest dainties of the earth, under any other circumstances,
      would have failed to provoke. Having cleared away, and disposed everything
      comfortably about him again, she sat down at the table to take her own
      tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'how's Sally?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very
      uttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What, haven't you seen her lately?' said Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Seen her!' cried the small servant. 'Bless you, I've run away!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so
      remained for about five minutes. By slow degrees he resumed his sitting
      posture after that lapse of time, and inquired:
    </p>
    <p>
      'And where do you live, Marchioness?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Live!' cried the small servant. 'Here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Mr Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had been shot.
      Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech, until she had finished
      her meal, put everything in its place, and swept the hearth; when he
      motioned her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being propped up again,
      opened a farther conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so,' said Dick, 'you have run away?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the Marchioness, 'and they've been a tizing of me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Been&mdash;I beg your pardon,' said Dick&mdash;'what have they been
      doing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Been a tizing of me&mdash;tizing you know&mdash;in the newspapers,'
      rejoined the Marchioness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye, aye,' said Dick, 'advertising?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant nodded, and winked. Her eyes were so red with waking and
      crying, that the Tragic Muse might have winked with greater consistency.
      And so Dick felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me,' said he, 'how it was that you thought of coming here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, you see,' returned the Marchioness, 'when you was gone, I hadn't any
      friend at all, because the lodger he never come back, and I didn't know
      where either him or you was to be found, you know. But one morning, when I
      was&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was near a keyhole?' suggested Mr Swiveller, observing that she faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well then,' said the small servant, nodding; 'when I was near the office
      keyhole&mdash;as you see me through, you know&mdash;I heard somebody
      saying that she lived here, and was the lady whose house you lodged at,
      and that you was took very bad, and wouldn't nobody come and take care of
      you. Mr Brass, he says, "It's no business of mine," he says; and Miss
      Sally, she says, "He's a funny chap, but it's no business of mine;" and
      the lady went away, and slammed the door to, when she went out, I can tell
      you. So I run away that night, and come here, and told 'em you was my
      brother, and they believed me, and I've been here ever since.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This poor little Marchioness has been wearing herself to death!' cried
      Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No I haven't,' she returned, 'not a bit of it. Don't you mind about me. I
      like sitting up, and I've often had a sleep, bless you, in one of them
      chairs. But if you could have seen how you tried to jump out o' winder,
      and if you could have heard how you used to keep on singing and making
      speeches, you wouldn't have believed it&mdash;I'm so glad you're better,
      Mr Liverer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Liverer indeed!' said Dick thoughtfully. 'It's well I am a liverer. I
      strongly suspect I should have died, Marchioness, but for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point, Mr Swiveller took the small servant's hand in his again,
      and being, as we have seen, but poorly, might in struggling to express his
      thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that she quickly changed the
      theme by making him lie down, and urging him to keep very quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The doctor,' she told him, 'said you was to be kept quite still, and
      there was to be no noise nor nothing. Now, take a rest, and then we'll
      talk again. I'll sit by you, you know. If you shut your eyes, perhaps
      you'll go to sleep. You'll be all the better for it, if you do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchioness, in saying these words, brought a little table to the
      bedside, took her seat at it, and began to work away at the concoction of
      some cooling drink, with the address of a score of chemists. Richard
      Swiveller being indeed fatigued, fell into a slumber, and waking in about
      half an hour, inquired what time it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just gone half after six,' replied his small friend, helping him to sit
      up again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marchioness,' said Richard, passing his hand over his forehead and
      turning suddenly round, as though the subject but that moment flashed upon
      him, 'what has become of Kit?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been sentenced to transportation for a great many years, she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he gone?' asked Dick&mdash;'his mother&mdash;how is she,&mdash;what
      has become of her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      His nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothing about them.
      'But, if I thought,' said she, very slowly, 'that you'd keep quiet, and
      not put yourself into another fever, I could tell you&mdash;but I won't
      now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, do,' said Dick. 'It will amuse me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! would it though!' rejoined the small servant, with a horrified look.
      'I know better than that. Wait till you're better and then I'll tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend: and his eyes, being large
      and hollow from illness, assisted the expression so much, that she was
      quite frightened, and besought him not to think any more about it. What
      had already fallen from her, however, had not only piqued his curiosity,
      but seriously alarmed him, wherefore he urged her to tell him the worst at
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh there's no worst in it,' said the small servant. 'It hasn't anything
      to do with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has it anything to do with&mdash;is it anything you heard through chinks
      or keyholes&mdash;and that you were not intended to hear?' asked Dick, in
      a breathless state.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In&mdash;in Bevis Marks?' pursued Dick hastily. 'Conversations between
      Brass and Sally?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' cried the small servant again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Swiveller thrust his lank arm out of bed, and, gripping her by the
      wrist and drawing her close to him, bade her out with it, and freely too,
      or he would not answer for the consequences; being wholly unable to endure
      the state of excitement and expectation. She, seeing that he was greatly
      agitated, and that the effects of postponing her revelation might be much
      more injurious than any that were likely to ensue from its being made at
      once, promised compliance, on condition that the patient kept himself
      perfectly quiet, and abstained from starting up or tossing about.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But if you begin to do that,' said the small servant, 'I'll leave off.
      And so I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can't leave off, till you have gone on,' said Dick. 'And do go on,
      there's a darling. Speak, sister, speak. Pretty Polly say. Oh tell me
      when, and tell me where, pray Marchioness, I beseech you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Unable to resist these fervent adjurations, which Richard Swiveller poured
      out as passionately as if they had been of the most solemn and tremendous
      nature, his companion spoke thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well! Before I run away, I used to sleep in the kitchen&mdash;where we
      played cards, you know. Miss Sally used to keep the key of the kitchen
      door in her pocket, and she always come down at night to take away the
      candle and rake out the fire. When she had done that, she left me to go to
      bed in the dark, locked the door on the outside, put the key in her pocket
      again, and kept me locked up till she come down in the morning&mdash;very
      early I can tell you&mdash;and let me out. I was terrible afraid of being
      kept like this, because if there was a fire, I thought they might forget
      me and only take care of themselves you know. So, whenever I see an old
      rusty key anywhere, I picked it up and tried if it would fit the door, and
      at last I found in the dust cellar a key that did fit it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, Mr Swiveller made a violent demonstration with his legs. But the
      small servant immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided again, and
      pleading a momentary forgetfulness of their compact, entreated her to
      proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They kept me very short,' said the small servant. 'Oh! you can't think
      how short they kept me! So I used to come out at night after they'd gone
      to bed, and feel about in the dark for bits of biscuit, or sangwitches
      that you'd left in the office, or even pieces of orange peel to put into
      cold water and make believe it was wine. Did you ever taste orange peel
      and water?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller replied that he had never tasted that ardent liquor; and once
      more urged his friend to resume the thread of her narrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you make believe very much, it's quite nice,' said the small servant,
      'but if you don't, you know, it seems as if it would bear a little more
      seasoning, certainly. Well, sometimes I used to come out after they'd gone
      to bed, and sometimes before, you know; and one or two nights before there
      was all that precious noise in the office&mdash;when the young man was
      took, I mean&mdash;I come upstairs while Mr Brass and Miss Sally was
      a-sittin' at the office fire; and I tell you the truth, that I come to
      listen again, about the key of the safe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to make a great cone of the
      bedclothes, and conveyed into his countenance an expression of the utmost
      concern. But the small servant pausing, and holding up her finger, the
      cone gently disappeared, though the look of concern did not.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was him and her,' said the small servant, 'a-sittin' by the fire,
      and talking softly together. Mr Brass says to Miss Sally, "Upon my word,"
      he says "it's a dangerous thing, and it might get us into a world of
      trouble, and I don't half like it." She says&mdash;you know her way&mdash;she
      says, "You're the chickenest-hearted, feeblest, faintest man I ever see,
      and I think," she says, "that I ought to have been the brother, and you
      the sister. Isn't Quilp," she says, "our principal support?" "He certainly
      is," says Mr Brass, "And an't we," she says, "constantly ruining somebody
      or other in the way of business?" "We certainly are," says Mr Brass. "Then
      does it signify," she says, "about ruining this Kit when Quilp desires
      it?" "It certainly does not signify," says Mr Brass. Then they whispered
      and laughed for a long time about there being no danger if it was well
      done, and then Mr Brass pulls out his pocket-book, and says, "Well," he
      says, "here it is&mdash;Quilp's own five-pound note. We'll agree that way,
      then," he says. "Kit's coming to-morrow morning, I know. While he's
      up-stairs, you'll get out of the way, and I'll clear off Mr Richard.
      Having Kit alone, I'll hold him in conversation, and put this property in
      his hat. I'll manage so, besides," he says, "that Mr Richard shall find it
      there, and be the evidence. And if that don't get Christopher out of Mr
      Quilp's way, and satisfy Mr Quilp's grudges," he says, "the Devil's in
      it." Miss Sally laughed, and said that was the plan, and as they seemed to
      be moving away, and I was afraid to stop any longer, I went down-stairs
      again.&mdash;There!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The small servant had gradually worked herself into as much agitation as
      Mr Swiveller, and therefore made no effort to restrain him when he sat up
      in bed and hastily demanded whether this story had been told to anybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could it be?' replied his nurse. 'I was almost afraid to think about
      it, and hoped the young man would be let off. When I heard 'em say they
      had found him guilty of what he didn't do, you was gone, and so was the
      lodger&mdash;though I think I should have been frightened to tell him,
      even if he'd been there. Ever since I come here, you've been out of your
      senses, and what would have been the good of telling you then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, plucking off his nightcap and flinging
      it to the other end of the room; 'if you'll do me the favour to retire for
      a few minutes and see what sort of a night it is, I'll get up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You mustn't think of such a thing,' cried his nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must indeed,' said the patient, looking round the room. 'Whereabouts
      are my clothes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I'm so glad&mdash;you haven't got any,' replied the Marchioness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ma'am!' said Mr Swiveller, in great astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that was
      ordered for you. But don't take on about that,' urged the Marchioness, as
      Dick fell back upon his pillow. 'You're too weak to stand, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid,' said Richard dolefully, 'that you're right. What ought I to
      do! what is to be done!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It naturally occurred to him on very little reflection, that the first
      step to take would be to communicate with one of the Mr Garlands
      instantly. It was very possible that Mr Abel had not yet left the office.
      In as little time as it takes to tell it, the small servant had the
      address in pencil on a piece of paper; a verbal description of father and
      son, which would enable her to recognise either, without difficulty; and a
      special caution to be shy of Mr Chuckster, in consequence of that
      gentleman's known antipathy to Kit. Armed with these slender powers, she
      hurried away, commissioned to bring either old Mr Garland or Mr Abel,
      bodily, to that apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose,' said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into the
      room again, to make sure that he was comfortable, 'I suppose there's
      nothing left&mdash;not so much as a waistcoat even?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's embarrassing,' said Mr Swiveller, 'in case of fire&mdash;even an
      umbrella would be something&mdash;but you did quite right, dear
      Marchioness. I should have died without you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap65"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 65
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was well for the small servant that she was of a sharp, quick nature,
      or the consequence of sending her out alone, from the very neighbourhood
      in which it was most dangerous for her to appear, would probably have been
      the restoration of Miss Sally Brass to the supreme authority over her
      person. Not unmindful of the risk she ran, however, the Marchioness no
      sooner left the house than she dived into the first dark by-way that
      presented itself, and, without any present reference to the point to which
      her journey tended, made it her first business to put two good miles of
      brick and mortar between herself and Bevis Marks.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had accomplished this object, she began to shape her course for
      the notary's office, to which&mdash;shrewdly inquiring of apple-women and
      oyster-sellers at street-corners, rather than in lighted shops or of
      well-dressed people, at the hazard of attracting notice&mdash;she easily
      procured a direction. As carrier-pigeons, on being first let loose in a
      strange place, beat the air at random for a short time before darting off
      towards the spot for which they are designed, so did the Marchioness
      flutter round and round until she believed herself in safety, and then
      bear swiftly down upon the port for which she was bound.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had no bonnet&mdash;nothing on her head but a great cap which, in some
      old time, had been worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in head-dresses was,
      as we have seen, peculiar&mdash;and her speed was rather retarded than
      assisted by her shoes, which, being extremely large and slipshod, flew off
      every now and then, and were difficult to find again, among the crowd of
      passengers. Indeed, the poor little creature experienced so much trouble
      and delay from having to grope for these articles of dress in mud and
      kennel, and suffered in these researches so much jostling, pushing,
      squeezing and bandying from hand to hand, that by the time she reached the
      street in which the notary lived, she was fairly worn out and exhausted,
      and could not refrain from tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      But to have got there at last was a great comfort, especially as there
      were lights still burning in the office window, and therefore some hope
      that she was not too late. So the Marchioness dried her eyes with the
      backs of her hands, and, stealing softly up the steps, peeped in through
      the glass door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Chuckster was standing behind the lid of his desk, making such
      preparations towards finishing off for the night, as pulling down his
      wristbands and pulling up his shirt-collar, settling his neck more
      gracefully in his stock, and secretly arranging his whiskers by the aid of
      a little triangular bit of looking glass. Before the ashes of the fire
      stood two gentlemen, one of whom she rightly judged to be the notary, and
      the other (who was buttoning his great-coat and was evidently about to
      depart immediately) Mr Abel Garland.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having made these observations, the small spy took counsel with herself,
      and resolved to wait in the street until Mr Abel came out, as there would
      be then no fear of having to speak before Mr Chuckster, and less
      difficulty in delivering her message. With this purpose she slipped out
      again, and crossing the road, sat down upon a door-step just opposite.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had hardly taken this position, when there came dancing up the street,
      with his legs all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns, a pony. This
      pony had a little phaeton behind him, and a man in it; but neither man nor
      phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the least, as he reared up on his hind
      legs, or stopped, or went on, or stood still again, or backed, or went
      side-ways, without the smallest reference to them&mdash;just as the fancy
      seized him, and as if he were the freest animal in creation. When they
      came to the notary's door, the man called out in a very respectful manner,
      'Woa then'&mdash;intimating that if he might venture to express a wish, it
      would be that they stopped there. The pony made a moment's pause; but, as
      if it occurred to him that to stop when he was required might be to
      establish an inconvenient and dangerous precedent, he immediately started
      off again, rattled at a fast trot to the street corner, wheeled round,
      came back, and then stopped of his own accord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! you're a precious creatur!' said the man&mdash;who didn't venture by
      the bye to come out in his true colours until he was safe on the pavement.
      'I wish I had the rewarding of you&mdash;I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What has he been doing?' said Mr Abel, tying a shawl round his neck as he
      came down the steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's enough to fret a man's heart out,' replied the hostler. 'He is the
      most wicious rascal&mdash;Woa then, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll never stand still, if you call him names,' said Mr Abel, getting
      in, and taking the reins. 'He's a very good fellow if you know how to
      manage him. This is the first time he has been out, this long while, for
      he has lost his old driver and wouldn't stir for anybody else, till this
      morning. The lamps are right, are they? That's well. Be here to take him
      to-morrow, if you please. Good night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention, the
      pony yielded to Mr Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the small
      servant had been afraid to approach. She had nothing for it now,
      therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel to stop.
      Being out of breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make him
      hear. The case was desperate; for the pony was quickening his pace. The
      Marchioness hung on behind for a few moments, and, feeling that she could
      go no farther, and must soon yield, clambered by a vigorous effort into
      the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of the shoes for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to do
      to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round: little
      dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until the Marchioness,
      having in some degree recovered her breath, and the loss of her shoe, and
      the novelty of her position, uttered close into his ear, the words&mdash;'I
      say, Sir'&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried, with
      some trepidation, 'God bless me, what is this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be frightened, Sir,' replied the still panting messenger. 'Oh I've
      run such a way after you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you want with me?' said Mr Abel. 'How did you come here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I got in behind,' replied the Marchioness. 'Oh please drive on, sir&mdash;don't
      stop&mdash;and go towards the City, will you? And oh do please make haste,
      because it's of consequence. There's somebody wants to see you there. He
      sent me to say would you come directly, and that he knowed all about Kit,
      and could save him yet, and prove his innocence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you tell me, child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please to drive on&mdash;
      quick, please! I've been such a time gone, he'll think I'm lost.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled by some
      secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and neither
      slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until they
      arrived at the door of Mr Swiveller's lodging, where, marvellous to
      relate, he consented to stop when Mr Abel checked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See! It's the room up there,' said the Marchioness, pointing to one where
      there was a faint light. 'Come!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0468m.jpg" alt="0468m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0468.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Mr Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in
      existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard of
      people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and murdered, under
      circumstances very like the present, and, for anything he knew to the
      contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness. His regard for Kit,
      however, overcame every other consideration. So, entrusting Whisker to the
      charge of a man who was lingering hard by in expectation of the job, he
      suffered his companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the dark and
      narrow stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a
      dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'An't it nice to see him lying there so quiet?' said his guide, in an
      earnest whisper. 'Oh! you'd say it was, if you had only seen him two or
      three days ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the
      bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his
      reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached the
      bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in the
      wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how is this?' said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him. 'You
      have been ill?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' replied Dick. 'Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of your
      Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you. Another shake
      of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide, and
      took a chair by the bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have sent for you, Sir,' said Dick&mdash;'but she told you on what
      account?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know what to
      say or think,' replied Mr Abel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll say that presently,' retorted Dick. 'Marchioness, take a seat on
      the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me; and be
      particular. Don't you speak another word, Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before,
      without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes fixed
      on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was concluded, took
      the word again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have heard it all, and you'll not forget it. I'm too giddy and too
      queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what to do.
      After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you went home fast
      in your life, go home fast to-night. Don't stop to say one word to me, but
      go. She will be found here, whenever she's wanted; and as to me, you're
      pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two. There are more reasons
      than one for that. Marchioness, a light! If you lose another minute in
      looking at me, sir, I'll never forgive you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an
      instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him down-stairs,
      reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had
      dashed away at full gallop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right!' said Dick; 'and hearty of him; and I honour him from this
      time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you must be
      tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to see you take
      it as if I might drink it myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to
      indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller's extreme
      contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat order, she
      wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug before the
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, 'Strew then, oh
      strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good
      night, Marchioness!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap66"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 66
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow
      degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the
      curtains, he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary, and the single
      gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with great
      earnestness but in very subdued tones&mdash;fearing, no doubt, to disturb
      him. He lost no time in letting them know that this precaution was
      unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly approached his bedside. Old
      Mr Garland was the first to stretch out his hand, and inquire how he felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak as
      need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and pressing up
      to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set his breakfast
      before him, and insisted on his taking it before he underwent the fatigue
      of speaking or of being spoken to. Mr Swiveller, who was perfectly
      ravenous, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct and consistent dreams
      of mutton chops, double stout, and similar delicacies, felt even the weak
      tea and dry toast such irresistible temptations, that he consented to eat
      and drink on one condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that is,' said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland's hand,
      'that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop. Is
      it too late?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For completing the work you began so well last night?' returned the old
      gentleman. 'No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not, I assure
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Comforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food
      with a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the
      eating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing him eat. The manner of
      this meal was this:&mdash;Mr Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup
      of tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or drink, as the case might be,
      constantly kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight locked;
      and to shake, or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would stop every
      now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect seriousness of
      intention, and the utmost gravity. As often as he put anything into his
      mouth, whether for eating or drinking, the face of the Marchioness lighted
      up beyond all description; but whenever he gave her one or other of these
      tokens of recognition, her countenance became overshadowed, and she began
      to sob. Now, whether she was in her laughing joy, or in her crying one,
      the Marchioness could not help turning to the visitors with an appealing
      look, which seemed to say, 'You see this fellow&mdash;can I help this?'&mdash;and
      they, being thus made, as it were, parties to the scene, as regularly
      answered by another look, 'No. Certainly not.' This dumb-show, taking
      place during the whole time of the invalid's breakfast, and the invalid
      himself, pale and emaciated, performing no small part in the same, it may
      be fairly questioned whether at any meal, where no word, good or bad, was
      spoken from beginning to end, so much was expressed by gestures in
      themselves so slight and unimportant.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length&mdash;and to say the truth before very long&mdash;Mr Swiveller
      had despatched as much toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it
      was discreet to let him have. But the cares of the Marchioness did not
      stop here; for, disappearing for an instant and presently returning with a
      basin of fair water, she laved his face and hands, brushed his hair, and
      in short made him as spruce and smart as anybody under such circumstances
      could be made; and all this, in as brisk and business-like a manner, as if
      he were a very little boy, and she his grown-up nurse. To these various
      attentions, Mr Swiveller submitted in a kind of grateful astonishment
      beyond the reach of language. When they were at last brought to an end,
      and the Marchioness had withdrawn into a distant corner to take her own
      poor breakfast (cold enough by that time), he turned his face away for
      some few moments, and shook hands heartily with the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' said Dick, rousing himself from this pause, and turning round
      again, 'you'll excuse me. Men who have been brought so low as I have been,
      are easily fatigued. I am fresh again now, and fit for talking. We're
      short of chairs here, among other trifles, but if you'll do me the favour
      to sit upon the bed&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What can we do for you?' said Mr Garland, kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you could make the Marchioness yonder, a Marchioness, in real, sober
      earnest,' returned Dick, 'I'd thank you to get it done off-hand. But as
      you can't, and as the question is not what you will do for me, but what
      you will do for somebody else who has a better claim upon you, pray sir
      let me know what you intend doing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's chiefly on that account that we have come just now,' said the single
      gentleman, 'for you will have another visitor presently. We feared you
      would be anxious unless you knew from ourselves what steps we intended to
      take, and therefore came to you before we stirred in the matter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' returned Dick, 'I thank you. Anybody in the helpless state
      that you see me in, is naturally anxious. Don't let me interrupt you,
      sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, you see, my good fellow,' said the single gentleman, 'that while we
      have no doubt whatever of the truth of this disclosure, which has so
      providentially come to light&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meaning hers?' said Dick, pointing towards the Marchioness.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;Meaning hers, of course. While we have no doubt of that, or that a
      proper use of it would procure the poor lad's immediate pardon and
      liberation, we have a great doubt whether it would, by itself, enable us
      to reach Quilp, the chief agent in this villany. I should tell you that
      this doubt has been confirmed into something very nearly approaching
      certainty by the best opinions we have been enabled, in this short space
      of time, to take upon the subject. You'll agree with us, that to give him
      even the most distant chance of escape, if we could help it, would be
      monstrous. You say with us, no doubt, if somebody must escape, let it be
      any one but he.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' returned Dick, 'certainly. That is if somebody must&mdash;but upon
      my word, I'm unwilling that anybody should. Since laws were made for every
      degree, to curb vice in others as well as in me&mdash;and so forth you
      know&mdash;doesn't it strike you in that light?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The single gentleman smiled as if the light in which Mr Swiveller had put
      the question were not the clearest in the world, and proceeded to explain
      that they contemplated proceeding by stratagem in the first instance; and
      that their design was to endeavour to extort a confession from the gentle
      Sarah.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When she finds how much we know, and how we know it,' he said, 'and that
      she is clearly compromised already, we are not without strong hopes that
      we may be enabled through her means to punish the other two effectually.
      If we could do that, she might go scot-free for aught I cared.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick received this project in anything but a gracious manner, representing
      with as much warmth as he was then capable of showing, that they would
      find the old buck (meaning Sarah) more difficult to manage than Quilp
      himself&mdash;that, for any tampering, terrifying, or cajolery, she was a
      very unpromising and unyielding subject&mdash;that she was of a kind of
      brass not easily melted or moulded into shape&mdash;in short, that they
      were no match for her, and would be signally defeated. But it was in vain
      to urge them to adopt some other course. The single gentleman has been
      described as explaining their joint intentions, but it should have been
      written that they all spoke together; that if any one of them by chance
      held his peace for a moment, he stood gasping and panting for an
      opportunity to strike in again: in a word, that they had reached that
      pitch of impatience and anxiety where men can neither be persuaded nor
      reasoned with; and that it would have been as easy to turn the most
      impetuous wind that ever blew, as to prevail on them to reconsider their
      determination. So, after telling Mr Swiveller how they had not lost sight
      of Kit's mother and the children; how they had never once even lost sight
      of Kit himself, but had been unremitting in their endeavours to procure a
      mitigation of his sentence; how they had been perfectly distracted between
      the strong proofs of his guilt, and their own fading hopes of his
      innocence; and how he, Richard Swiveller, might keep his mind at rest, for
      everything should be happily adjusted between that time and night;&mdash;after
      telling him all this, and adding a great many kind and cordial
      expressions, personal to himself, which it is unnecessary to recite, Mr
      Garland, the notary, and the single gentleman, took their leaves at a very
      critical time, or Richard Swiveller must assuredly have been driven into
      another fever, whereof the results might have been fatal.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0474m.jpg" alt="0474m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0474.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Mr Abel remained behind, very often looking at his watch and at the room
      door, until Mr Swiveller was roused from a short nap, by the setting-down
      on the landing-place outside, as from the shoulders of a porter, of some
      giant load, which seemed to shake the house, and made the little physic
      bottles on the mantel-shelf ring again. Directly this sound reached his
      ears, Mr Abel started up, and hobbled to the door, and opened it; and
      behold! there stood a strong man, with a mighty hamper, which, being
      hauled into the room and presently unpacked, disgorged such treasures as
      tea, and coffee, and wine, and rusks, and oranges, and grapes, and fowls
      ready trussed for boiling, and calves'-foot jelly, and arrow-root, and
      sago, and other delicate restoratives, that the small servant, who had
      never thought it possible that such things could be, except in shops,
      stood rooted to the spot in her one shoe, with her mouth and eyes watering
      in unison, and her power of speech quite gone. But, not so Mr Abel; or the
      strong man who emptied the hamper, big as it was, in a twinkling; and not
      so the nice old lady, who appeared so suddenly that she might have come
      out of the hamper too (it was quite large enough), and who, bustling about
      on tiptoe and without noise&mdash;now here, now there, now everywhere at
      once&mdash;began to fill out the jelly in tea-cups, and to make chicken
      broth in small saucepans, and to peel oranges for the sick man and to cut
      them up in little pieces, and to ply the small servant with glasses of
      wine and choice bits of everything until more substantial meat could be
      prepared for her refreshment. The whole of which appearances were so
      unexpected and bewildering, that Mr Swiveller, when he had taken two
      oranges and a little jelly, and had seen the strong man walk off with the
      empty basket, plainly leaving all that abundance for his use and benefit,
      was fain to lie down and fall asleep again, from sheer inability to
      entertain such wonders in his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the single gentleman, the Notary, and Mr Garland, repaired to a
      certain coffee-house, and from that place indited and sent a letter to
      Miss Sally Brass, requesting her, in terms mysterious and brief, to favour
      an unknown friend who wished to consult her, with her company there, as
      speedily as possible. The communication performed its errand so well, that
      within ten minutes of the messenger's return and report of its delivery,
      Miss Brass herself was announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray ma'am,' said the single gentleman, whom she found alone in the room,
      'take a chair.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Brass sat herself down, in a very stiff and frigid state, and seemed&mdash;as
      indeed she was&mdash;not a little astonished to find that the lodger and
      her mysterious correspondent were one and the same person.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You did not expect to see me?' said the single gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't think much about it,' returned the beauty. 'I supposed it was
      business of some kind or other. If it's about the apartments, of course
      you'll give my brother regular notice, you know&mdash;or money. That's
      very easily settled. You're a responsible party, and in such a case lawful
      money and lawful notice are pretty much the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am obliged to you for your good opinion,' retorted the single
      gentleman, 'and quite concur in these sentiments. But that is not the
      subject on which I wish to speak with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Sally. 'Then just state the particulars, will you? I suppose
      it's professional business?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, it is connected with the law, certainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well,' returned Miss Brass. 'My brother and I are just the same. I
      can take any instructions, or give you any advice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As there are other parties interested besides myself,' said the single
      gentleman, rising and opening the door of an inner room, 'we had better
      confer together. Miss Brass is here, gentlemen.'
</p>
    <p>
Mr Garland and the Notary
      walked in, looking very grave; and, drawing up two chairs, one on each
      side of the single gentleman, formed a kind of fence round the gentle
      Sarah, and penned her into a corner. Her brother Sampson under such
      circumstances would certainly have evinced some confusion or anxiety, but
      she&mdash;all composure&mdash;pulled out the tin box, and calmly took a
      pinch of snuff.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Brass,' said the Notary, taking the word at this crisis, 'we
      professional people understand each other, and, when we choose, can say
      what we have to say, in very few words. You advertised a runaway servant,
      the other day?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' returned Miss Sally, with a sudden flush overspreading her
      features, 'what of that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is found, ma'am,' said the Notary, pulling out his
      pocket-handkerchief with a flourish. 'She is found.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who found her?' demanded Sarah hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We did, ma'am&mdash;we three. Only last night, or you would have heard
      from us before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now I have heard from you,' said Miss Brass, folding her arms as
      though she were about to deny something to the death, 'what have you got
      to say? Something you have got into your heads about her, of course. Prove
      it, will you&mdash;that's all. Prove it. You have found her, you say. I
      can tell you (if you don't know it) that you have found the most artful,
      lying, pilfering, devilish little minx that was ever born.&mdash;Have you
      got her here?' she added, looking sharply round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, she is not here at present,' returned the Notary. 'But she is quite
      safe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' cried Sally, twitching a pinch of snuff out of her box, as
      spitefully as if she were in the very act of wrenching off the small
      servant's nose; 'she shall be safe enough from this time, I warrant you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope so,' replied the Notary. 'Did it occur to you for the first time,
      when you found she had run away, that there were two keys to your kitchen
      door?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sally took another pinch, and putting her head on one side, looked at
      her questioner, with a curious kind of spasm about her mouth, but with a
      cunning aspect of immense expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two keys,' repeated the Notary; 'one of which gave her the opportunities
      of roaming through the house at nights when you supposed her fast locked
      up, and of overhearing confidential consultations&mdash;among others, that
      particular conference, to be described to-day before a justice, which you
      will have an opportunity of hearing her relate; that conference which you
      and Mr Brass held together, on the night before that most unfortunate and
      innocent young man was accused of robbery, by a horrible device of which I
      will only say that it may be characterised by the epithets which you have
      applied to this wretched little witness, and by a few stronger ones
      besides.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sally took another pinch. Although her face was wonderfully composed, it
      was apparent that she was wholly taken by surprise, and that what she had
      expected to be taxed with, in connection with her small servant, was
      something very different from this.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, come, Miss Brass,' said the Notary, 'you have great command of
      feature, but you feel, I see, that by a chance which never entered your
      imagination, this base design is revealed, and two of its plotters must be
      brought to justice. Now, you know the pains and penalties you are liable
      to, and so I need not dilate upon them, but I have a proposal to make to
      you. You have the honour of being sister to one of the greatest scoundrels
      unhung; and, if I may venture to say so to a lady, you are in every
      respect quite worthy of him. But connected with you two is a third party,
      a villain of the name of Quilp, the prime mover of the whole diabolical
      device, who I believe to be worse than either. For his sake, Miss Brass,
      do us the favour to reveal the whole history of this affair. Let me remind
      you that your doing so, at our instance, will place you in a safe and
      comfortable position&mdash;your present one is not desirable&mdash;and
      cannot injure your brother; for against him and you we have quite
      sufficient evidence (as you hear) already. I will not say to you that we
      suggest this course in mercy (for, to tell you the truth, we do not
      entertain any regard for you), but it is a necessity to which we are
      reduced, and I recommend it to you as a matter of the very best policy.
      Time,' said Mr Witherden, pulling out his watch, 'in a business like this,
      is exceedingly precious. Favour us with your decision as speedily as
      possible, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With a smile upon her face, and looking at each of the three by turns,
      Miss Brass took two or three more pinches of snuff, and having by this
      time very little left, travelled round and round the box with her
      forefinger and thumb, scraping up another. Having disposed of this
      likewise and put the box carefully in her pocket, she said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am to accept or reject at once, am I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Mr Witherden.
    </p>
    <p>
      The charming creature was opening her lips to speak in reply, when the
      door was hastily opened too, and the head of Sampson Brass was thrust into
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse me,' said the gentleman hastily. 'Wait a bit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and quite indifferent to the astonishment his presence
      occasioned, he crept in, shut the door, kissed his greasy glove as
      servilely as if it were the dust, and made a most abject bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sarah,' said Brass, 'hold your tongue if you please, and let me speak.
      Gentlemen, if I could express the pleasure it gives me to see three such
      men in a happy unity of feeling and concord of sentiment, I think you
      would hardly believe me. But though I am unfortunate&mdash;nay, gentlemen,
      criminal, if we are to use harsh expressions in a company like this&mdash;still,
      I have my feelings like other men. I have heard of a poet, who remarked
      that feelings were the common lot of all. If he could have been a pig,
      gentlemen, and have uttered that sentiment, he would still have been
      immortal.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you're not an idiot,' said Miss Brass harshly, 'hold your peace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sarah, my dear,' returned her brother, 'thank you. But I know what I am
      about, my love, and will take the liberty of expressing myself
      accordingly. Mr Witherden, Sir, your handkerchief is hanging out of your
      pocket&mdash;would you allow me to&mdash;,
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr Brass advanced to remedy this accident, the Notary shrunk from him
      with an air of disgust. Brass, who over and above his usual prepossessing
      qualities, had a scratched face, a green shade over one eye, and a hat
      grievously crushed, stopped short, and looked round with a pitiful smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He shuns me,' said Sampson, 'even when I would, as I may say, heap coals
      of fire upon his head. Well! Ah! But I am a falling house, and the rats
      (if I may be allowed the expression in reference to a gentleman I respect
      and love beyond everything) fly from me! Gentlemen&mdash;regarding your
      conversation just now, I happened to see my sister on her way here, and,
      wondering where she could be going to, and being&mdash;may I venture to
      say?&mdash;naturally of a suspicious turn, followed her. Since then, I
      have been listening.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0479m.jpg" alt="0479m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0479.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'If you're not mad,' interposed Miss Sally, 'stop there, and say no more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sarah, my dear,' rejoined Brass with undiminished politeness, 'I thank
      you kindly, but will still proceed. Mr Witherden, sir, as we have the
      honour to be members of the same profession&mdash;to say nothing of that
      other gentleman having been my lodger, and having partaken, as one may
      say, of the hospitality of my roof&mdash;I think you might have given me
      the refusal of this offer in the first instance. I do indeed. Now, my dear
      Sir,' cried Brass, seeing that the Notary was about to interrupt him,
      'suffer me to speak, I beg.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Witherden was silent, and Brass went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you will do me the favour,' he said, holding up the green shade, and
      revealing an eye most horribly discoloured, 'to look at this, you will
      naturally inquire, in your own minds, how did I get it. If you look from
      that, to my face, you will wonder what could have been the cause of all
      these scratches. And if from them to my hat, how it came into the state in
      which you see it. Gentlemen,' said Brass, striking the hat fiercely with
      his clenched hand, 'to all these questions I answer&mdash;Quilp!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The three gentlemen looked at each other, but said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' pursued Brass, glancing aside at his sister, as though he were
      talking for her information, and speaking with a snarling malignity, in
      violent contrast to his usual smoothness, 'that I answer to all these
      questions,&mdash;Quilp&mdash;Quilp, who deludes me into his infernal den,
      and takes a delight in looking on and chuckling while I scorch, and burn,
      and bruise, and maim myself&mdash;Quilp, who never once, no never once, in
      all our communications together, has treated me otherwise than as a dog&mdash;Quilp,
      whom I have always hated with my whole heart, but never so much as lately.
      He gives me the cold shoulder on this very matter as if he had had nothing
      to do with it, instead of being the first to propose it. I can't trust
      him. In one of his howling, raving, blazing humours, I believe he'd let it
      out, if it was murder, and never think of himself so long as he could
      terrify me. Now,' said Brass, picking up his hat again and replacing the
      shade over his eye, and actually crouching down, in the excess of his
      servility, 'what does all this lead to?&mdash;what should you say it led
      me to, gentlemen?&mdash;could you guess at all near the mark?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody spoke. Brass stood smirking for a little while, as if he had
      propounded some choice conundrum; and then said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be short with you, then, it leads me to this. If the truth has come
      out, as it plainly has in a manner that there's no standing up against&mdash;and
      a very sublime and grand thing is Truth, gentlemen, in its way, though
      like other sublime and grand things, such as thunder-storms and that,
      we're not always over and above glad to see it&mdash;I had better turn
      upon this man than let this man turn upon me. It's clear to me that I am
      done for. Therefore, if anybody is to split, I had better be the person
      and have the advantage of it. Sarah, my dear, comparatively speaking
      you're safe. I relate these circumstances for my own profit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that, Mr Brass, in a great hurry, revealed the whole story; bearing
      as heavily as possible on his amiable employer, and making himself out to
      be rather a saint-like and holy character, though subject&mdash;he
      acknowledged&mdash;to human weaknesses. He concluded thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, gentlemen, I am not a man who does things by halves. Being in for a
      penny, I am ready, as the saying is, to be in for a pound. You must do
      with me what you please, and take me where you please. If you wish to have
      this in writing, we'll reduce it into manuscript immediately. You will be
      tender with me, I am sure. I am quite confident you will be tender with
      me. You are men of honour, and have feeling hearts. I yielded from
      necessity to Quilp, for though necessity has no law, she has her lawyers.
      I yield to you from necessity too; from policy besides; and because of
      feelings that have been a pretty long time working within me. Punish
      Quilp, gentlemen. Weigh heavily upon him. Grind him down. Tread him under
      foot. He has done as much by me, for many and many a day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having now arrived at the conclusion of his discourse, Sampson checked the
      current of his wrath, kissed his glove again, and smiled as only parasites
      and cowards can.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this,' said Miss Brass, raising her head, with which she had hitherto
      sat resting on her hands, and surveying him from head to foot with a
      bitter sneer, 'this is my brother, is it! This is my brother, that I have
      worked and toiled for, and believed to have had something of the man in
      him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sarah, my dear,' returned Sampson, rubbing his hands feebly; 'you disturb
      our friends. Besides you&mdash;you're disappointed, Sarah, and, not
      knowing what you say, expose yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, you pitiful dastard,' retorted the lovely damsel, 'I understand you.
      You feared that I should be beforehand with you. But do you think that I
      would have been enticed to say a word! I'd have scorned it, if they had
      tried and tempted me for twenty years.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He he!' simpered Brass, who, in his deep debasement, really seemed to
      have changed sexes with his sister, and to have made over to her any spark
      of manliness he might have possessed. 'You think so, Sarah, you think so
      perhaps; but you would have acted quite different, my good fellow. You
      will not have forgotten that it was a maxim with Foxey&mdash;our revered
      father, gentlemen&mdash;"Always suspect everybody." That's the maxim to go
      through life with! If you were not actually about to purchase your own
      safety when I showed myself, I suspect you'd have done it by this time.
      And therefore I've done it myself, and spared you the trouble as well as
      the shame. The shame, gentlemen,' added Brass, allowing himself to be
      slightly overcome, 'if there is any, is mine. It's better that a female
      should be spared it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With deference to the better opinion of Mr Brass, and more particularly to
      the authority of his Great Ancestor, it may be doubted, with humility,
      whether the elevating principle laid down by the latter gentleman, and
      acted upon by his descendant, is always a prudent one, or attended in
      practice with the desired results. This is, beyond question, a bold and
      presumptuous doubt, inasmuch as many distinguished characters, called men
      of the world, long-headed customers, knowing dogs, shrewd fellows, capital
      hands at business, and the like, have made, and do daily make, this axiom
      their polar star and compass. Still, the doubt may be gently insinuated.
      And in illustration it may be observed, that if Mr Brass, not being
      over-suspicious, had, without prying and listening, left his sister to
      manage the conference on their joint behalf, or prying and listening, had
      not been in such a mighty hurry to anticipate her (which he would not have
      been, but for his distrust and jealousy), he would probably have found
      himself much better off in the end. Thus, it will always happen that these
      men of the world, who go through it in armour, defend themselves from
      quite as much good as evil; to say nothing of the inconvenience and
      absurdity of mounting guard with a microscope at all times, and of wearing
      a coat of mail on the most innocent occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The three gentlemen spoke together apart, for a few moments. At the end of
      their consultation, which was very brief, the Notary pointed to the
      writing materials on the table, and informed Mr Brass that if he wished to
      make any statement in writing, he had the opportunity of doing so. At the
      same time he felt bound to tell him that they would require his
      attendance, presently, before a justice of the peace, and that in what he
      did or said, he was guided entirely by his own discretion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' said Brass, drawing off his glove, and crawling in spirit
      upon the ground before them, 'I will justify the tenderness with which I
      know I shall be treated; and as, without tenderness, I should, now that
      this discovery has been made, stand in the worst position of the three,
      you may depend upon it I will make a clean breast. Mr Witherden, sir, a
      kind of faintness is upon my spirits&mdash;if you would do me the favour
      to ring the bell and order up a glass of something warm and spicy, I
      shall, notwithstanding what has passed, have a melancholy pleasure in
      drinking your good health. I had hoped,' said Brass, looking round with a
      mournful smile, 'to have seen you three gentlemen, one day or another,
      with your legs under the mahogany in my humble parlour in the Marks. But
      hopes are fleeting. Dear me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Brass found himself so exceedingly affected, at this point, that he
      could say or do nothing more until some refreshment arrived. Having
      partaken of it, pretty freely for one in his agitated state, he sat down
      to write.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lovely Sarah, now with her arms folded, and now with her hands clasped
      behind her, paced the room with manly strides while her brother was thus
      employed, and sometimes stopped to pull out her snuff-box and bite the
      lid. She continued to pace up and down until she was quite tired, and then
      fell asleep on a chair near the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      It has been since supposed, with some reason, that this slumber was a sham
      or feint, as she contrived to slip away unobserved in the dusk of the
      afternoon. Whether this was an intentional and waking departure, or a
      somnambulistic leave-taking and walking in her sleep, may remain a subject
      of contention; but, on one point (and indeed the main one) all parties are
      agreed. In whatever state she walked away, she certainly did not walk back
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mention having been made of the dusk of the afternoon, it will be inferred
      that Mr Brass's task occupied some time in the completion. It was not
      finished until evening; but, being done at last, that worthy person and
      the three friends adjourned in a hackney-coach to the private office of a
      justice, who, giving Mr Brass a warm reception and detaining him in a
      secure place that he might insure to himself the pleasure of seeing him on
      the morrow, dismissed the others with the cheering assurance that a
      warrant could not fail to be granted next day for the apprehension of Mr
      Quilp, and that a proper application and statement of all the
      circumstances to the secretary of state (who was fortunately in town),
      would no doubt procure Kit's free pardon and liberation without delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, indeed, it seemed that Quilp's malignant career was drawing to a
      close, and that retribution, which often travels slowly&mdash;especially
      when heaviest&mdash;had tracked his footsteps with a sure and certain
      scent and was gaining on him fast. Unmindful of her stealthy tread, her
      victim holds his course in fancied triumph. Still at his heels she comes,
      and once afoot, is never turned aside!
    </p>
    <p>
      Their business ended, the three gentlemen hastened back to the lodgings of
      Mr Swiveller, whom they found progressing so favourably in his recovery as
      to have been able to sit up for half an hour, and to have conversed with
      cheerfulness. Mrs Garland had gone home some time since, but Mr Abel was
      still sitting with him. After telling him all they had done, the two Mr
      Garlands and the single gentleman, as if by some previous understanding,
      took their leaves for the night, leaving the invalid alone with the Notary
      and the small servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you are so much better,' said Mr Witherden, sitting down at the
      bedside, 'I may venture to communicate to you a piece of news which has
      come to me professionally.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea of any professional intelligence from a gentleman connected with
      legal matters, appeared to afford Richard any-thing but a pleasing
      anticipation. Perhaps he connected it in his own mind with one or two
      outstanding accounts, in reference to which he had already received divers
      threatening letters. His countenance fell as he replied,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, sir. I hope it's not anything of a very disagreeable nature,
      though?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I thought it so, I should choose some better time for communicating
      it,' replied the Notary. 'Let me tell you, first, that my friends who have
      been here to-day, know nothing of it, and that their kindness to you has
      been quite spontaneous and with no hope of return. It may do a
      thoughtless, careless man, good, to know that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick thanked him, and said he hoped it would.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been making some inquiries about you,' said Mr Witherden, 'little
      thinking that I should find you under such circumstances as those which
      have brought us together. You are the nephew of Rebecca Swiveller,
      spinster, deceased, of Cheselbourne in Dorsetshire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Deceased!' cried Dick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Deceased. If you had been another sort of nephew, you would have come
      into possession (so says the will, and I see no reason to doubt it) of
      five-and-twenty thousand pounds. As it is, you have fallen into an annuity
      of one hundred and fifty pounds a year; but I think I may congratulate you
      even upon that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' said Dick, sobbing and laughing together, 'you may. For, please
      God, we'll make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet! And she shall walk
      in silk attire, and siller have to spare, or may I never rise from this
      bed again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap67"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 67
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>nconscious of the proceedings faithfully narrated in the last chapter,
      and little dreaming of the mine which had been sprung beneath him (for, to
      the end that he should have no warning of the business a-foot, the
      profoundest secrecy was observed in the whole transaction), Mr Quilp
      remained shut up in his hermitage, undisturbed by any suspicion, and
      extremely well satisfied with the result of his machinations. Being
      engaged in the adjustment of some accounts&mdash;an occupation to which
      the silence and solitude of his retreat were very favourable&mdash;he had
      not strayed from his den for two whole days. The third day of his devotion
      to this pursuit found him still hard at work, and little disposed to stir
      abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the day next after Mr Brass's confession, and consequently, that
      which threatened the restriction of Mr Quilp's liberty, and the abrupt
      communication to him of some very unpleasant and unwelcome facts. Having
      no intuitive perception of the cloud which lowered upon his house, the
      dwarf was in his ordinary state of cheerfulness; and, when he found he was
      becoming too much engrossed by business with a due regard to his health
      and spirits, he varied its monotonous routine with a little screeching, or
      howling, or some other innocent relaxation of that nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was attended, as usual, by Tom Scott, who sat crouching over the fire
      after the manner of a toad, and, from time to time, when his master's back
      was turned, imitating his grimaces with a fearful exactness. The
      figure-head had not yet disappeared, but remained in its old place. The
      face, horribly seared by the frequent application of the red-hot poker,
      and further ornamented by the insertion, in the tip of the nose, of a
      tenpenny nail, yet smiled blandly in its less lacerated parts, and seemed,
      like a sturdy martyr, to provoke its tormentor to the commission of new
      outrages and insults.
</p>
    <p>
The day, in the highest and brightest quarters of
      the town, was damp, dark, cold and gloomy. In that low and marshy spot,
      the fog filled every nook and corner with a thick dense cloud. Every
      object was obscure at one or two yards' distance. The warning lights and
      fires upon the river were powerless beneath this pall, and, but for a raw
      and piercing chillness in the air, and now and then the cry of some
      bewildered boatman as he rested on his oars and tried to make out where he
      was, the river itself might have been miles away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mist, though sluggish and slow to move, was of a keenly searching
      kind. No muffling up in furs and broadcloth kept it out. It seemed to
      penetrate into the very bones of the shrinking wayfarers, and to rack them
      with cold and pains. Everything was wet and clammy to the touch. The warm
      blaze alone defied it, and leaped and sparkled merrily. It was a day to be
      at home, crowding about the fire, telling stories of travellers who had
      lost their way in such weather on heaths and moors; and to love a warm
      hearth more than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf's humour, as we know, was to have a fireside to himself; and
      when he was disposed to be convivial, to enjoy himself alone. By no means
      insensible to the comfort of being within doors, he ordered Tom Scott to
      pile the little stove with coals, and, dismissing his work for that day,
      determined to be jovial.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this end, he lighted up fresh candles and heaped more fuel on the fire;
      and having dined off a beefsteak, which he cooked himself in somewhat of a
      savage and cannibal-like manner, brewed a great bowl of hot punch, lighted
      his pipe, and sat down to spend the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, a low knocking at the cabin-door arrested his attention.
      When it had been twice or thrice repeated, he softly opened the little
      window, and thrusting his head out, demanded who was there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only me, Quilp,' replied a woman's voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only you!' cried the dwarf, stretching his neck to obtain a better view
      of his visitor. 'And what brings you here, you jade? How dare you approach
      the ogre's castle, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have come with some news,' rejoined his spouse. 'Don't be angry with
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it good news, pleasant news, news to make a man skip and snap his
      fingers?' said the dwarf. 'Is the dear old lady dead?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what news it is, or whether it's good or bad,' rejoined his
      wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then she's alive,' said Quilp, 'and there's nothing the matter with her.
      Go home again, you bird of evil note, go home!'
</p>
    <p>
'I have brought a letter,'
      cried the meek little woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Toss it in at the window here, and go your ways,' said Quilp,
      interrupting her, 'or I'll come out and scratch you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but please, Quilp&mdash;do hear me speak,' urged his submissive wife,
      in tears. 'Please do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speak then,' growled the dwarf with a malicious grin. 'Be quick and short
      about it. Speak, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was left at our house this afternoon,' said Mrs Quilp, trembling, 'by
      a boy who said he didn't know from whom it came, but that it was given to
      him to leave, and that he was told to say it must be brought on to you
      directly, for it was of the very greatest consequence.&mdash;But please,'
      she added, as her husband stretched out his hand for it, 'please let me
      in. You don't know how wet and cold I am, or how many times I have lost my
      way in coming here through this thick fog. Let me dry myself at the fire
      for five minutes. I'll go away directly you tell me to, Quilp. Upon my
      word I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her amiable husband hesitated for a few moments; but, bethinking himself
      that the letter might require some answer, of which she could be the
      bearer, closed the window, opened the door, and bade her enter. Mrs Quilp
      obeyed right willingly, and, kneeling down before the fire to warm her
      hands, delivered into his a little packet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad you're wet,' said Quilp, snatching it, and squinting at her.
      'I'm glad you're cold. I'm glad you lost your way. I'm glad your eyes are
      red with crying. It does my heart good to see your little nose so pinched
      and frosty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Quilp!' sobbed his wife. 'How cruel it is of you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did she think I was dead?' said Quilp, wrinkling his face into a most
      extraordinary series of grimaces. 'Did she think she was going to have all
      the money, and to marry somebody she liked? Ha ha ha! Did she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      These taunts elicited no reply from the poor little woman, who remained on
      her knees, warming her hands, and sobbing, to Mr Quilp's great delight.
      But, just as he was contemplating her, and chuckling excessively, he
      happened to observe that Tom Scott was delighted too; wherefore, that he
      might have no presumptuous partner in his glee, the dwarf instantly
      collared him, dragged him to the door, and after a short scuffle, kicked
      him into the yard. In return for this mark of attention, Tom immediately
      walked upon his hands to the window, and&mdash;if the expression be
      allowable&mdash;looked in with his shoes: besides rattling his feet upon
      the glass like a Banshee upside down. As a matter of course, Mr Quilp lost
      no time in resorting to the infallible poker, with which, after some
      dodging and lying in ambush, he paid his young friend one or two such
      unequivocal compliments that he vanished precipitately, and left him in
      quiet possession of the field.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So! That little job being disposed of,' said the dwarf, coolly, 'I'll
      read my letter. Humph!' he muttered, looking at the direction. 'I ought to
      know this writing. Beautiful Sally!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Opening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal hand, as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confidence. It has all come
      out. You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to call
      upon you. They have been very quiet as yet, because they mean to surprise
      you. Don't lose time. I didn't. I am not to be found anywhere. If I was
      you, I wouldn't either. S. B., late of B. M.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To describe the changes that passed over Quilp's face, as he read this
      letter half-a-dozen times, would require some new language: such, for
      power of expression, as was never written, read, or spoken. For a long
      time he did not utter one word; but, after a considerable interval, during
      which Mrs Quilp was almost paralysed with the alarm his looks engendered,
      he contrived to gasp out,
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had him here. If I only had him here&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Quilp!' said his wife, 'what's the matter? Who are you angry with?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;I should drown him,' said the dwarf, not heeding her. 'Too easy a
      death, too short, too quick&mdash;but the river runs close at hand. Oh! if
      I had him here! just to take him to the brink coaxingly and pleasantly,&mdash;holding
      him by the button-hole&mdash;joking with him,&mdash;and, with a sudden
      push, to send him splashing down! Drowning men come to the surface three
      times they say. Ah! To see him those three times, and mock him as his face
      came bobbing up,&mdash;oh, what a rich treat that would be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quilp!' stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on
      the shoulder: 'what has gone wrong?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure to
      himself that she could scarcely make herself intelligible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a bloodless cur!' said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and
      pressing them tight together. 'I thought his cowardice and servility were
      the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass&mdash;my dear,
      good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend&mdash;if I
      only had you here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these
      mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak, when
      he hurried to the door, and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his late
      gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There!' said the dwarf, pulling him in. 'Take her home. Don't come here
      to-morrow, for this place will be shut up. Come back no more till you hear
      from me or see me. Do you mind?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs Quilp to lead the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for you,' said the dwarf, addressing himself to her, 'ask no questions
      about me, make no search for me, say nothing concerning me. I shall not be
      dead, mistress, and that'll comfort you. He'll take care of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, Quilp? What is the matter? Where are you going? Do say something
      more?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll say that,' said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, 'and do that too,
      which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go directly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has anything happened?' cried his wife. 'Oh! Do tell me that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' snarled the dwarf. 'No. What matter which? I have told you what to
      do. Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a hair's
      breadth. Will you go!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am going, I'll go directly; but,' faltered his wife, 'answer me one
      question first. Has this letter any connexion with dear little Nell? I
      must ask you that&mdash;I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot think what days
      and nights of sorrow I have had through having once deceived that child. I
      don't know what harm I may have brought about, but, great or little, I did
      it for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me when I did it. Do answer me
      this question, if you please?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and caught up
      his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott dragged his charge
      away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could. It was well he did so,
      for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the neighbouring
      lane, and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense mist which
      obscured them from his view and appeared to thicken every moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will be a good night for travelling anonymously,' he said, as he
      returned slowly, being pretty well breathed with his run. 'Stay. We may
      look better here. This is too hospitable and free.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By a great exertion of strength, he closed the two old gates, which were
      deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam. That done, he
      shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried them.&mdash;Strong
      and fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed,' said the
      dwarf, when he had taken these precautions. 'There's a back lane, too,
      from there. That shall be my way out. A man need know his road well, to
      find it in this lovely place to-night. I need fear no unwelcome visitors
      while this lasts, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it had
      grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to his lair;
      and, after musing for some time over the fire, busied himself in
      preparations for a speedy departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his
      pockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or
      unclenched his teeth, which he had ground together on finishing Miss
      Brass's note.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Sampson!' he muttered, 'good worthy creature&mdash;if I could but hug
      you! If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I
      <i>could </i>squeeze them if I once had you tight&mdash;what a meeting there
      would be between us! If we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we'll
      have a greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me. This time, Sampson,
      this moment when all had gone on so well, was so nicely chosen! It was so
      thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good. Oh, if we were face to face in
      this room again, my white-livered man of law, how well contented one of us
      would be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank a long
      deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched mouth.
      Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he went on with
      his soliloquy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's Sally,' he said, with flashing eyes; 'the woman has spirit,
      determination, purpose&mdash;was she asleep, or petrified? She could have
      stabbed him&mdash;poisoned him safely. She might have seen this coming on.
      Why does she give me notice when it's too late? When he sat there,&mdash;yonder
      there, over there,&mdash;with his white face, and red head, and sickly
      smile, why didn't I know what was passing in his heart? It should have
      stopped beating, that night, if I had been in his secret, or there are no
      drugs to lull a man to sleep, or no fire to burn him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a
      ferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late times,
      springs from that old dotard and his darling child&mdash;two wretched
      feeble wanderers! I'll be their evil genius yet. And you, sweet Kit,
      honest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I
      bite. I hate you, my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as you are
      to-night, I'll have my turn.&mdash;&mdash;What's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking. Then, a
      pause; as if those who knocked had stopped to listen. Then, the noise
      again, more clamorous and importunate than before.
</p>
    <p>
'So soon!' said the
      dwarf. 'And so eager! I am afraid I shall disappoint you. It's well I'm
      quite prepared. Sally, I thank you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In his impetuous attempts to
      subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came
      tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning embers it had
      shot forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitchy darkness. The noise
      at the gate still continuing, he felt his way to the door, and stepped
      into the open air.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment the knocking ceased. It was about eight o'clock; but the
      dead of the darkest night would have been as noon-day in comparison with
      the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded everything
      from view. He darted forward for a few paces, as if into the mouth of some
      dim, yawning cavern; then, thinking he had gone wrong, changed the
      direction of his steps; then stood still, not knowing where to turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If they would knock again,' said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom by
      which he was surrounded, 'the sound might guide me! Come! Batter the gate
      once more!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed. Nothing was to
      be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals, the distant barkings
      of dogs. The sound was far away&mdash;now in one quarter, now answered in
      another&mdash;nor was it any guide, for it often came from shipboard, as
      he knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I could find a wall or fence,' said the dwarf, stretching out his
      arms, and walking slowly on, 'I should know which way to turn. A good,
      black, devil's night this, to have my dear friend here! If I had but that
      wish, it might, for anything I cared, never be day again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell&mdash;and next moment
      was fighting with the cold dark water!
    </p>
    <p>
      For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the
      knocking at the gate again&mdash;could hear a shout that followed it&mdash;could
      recognise the voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he could
      understand that they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the
      point from which they started; that they were all but looking on, while he
      was drowned; that they were close at hand, but could not make an effort to
      save him; that he himself had shut and barred them out. He answered the
      shout&mdash;with a yell, which seemed to make the hundred fires that
      danced before his eyes tremble and flicker, as if a gust of wind had
      stirred them. It was of no avail. The strong tide filled his throat, and
      bore him on, upon its rapid current.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with his
      hands, and looking out, with wild and glaring eyes that showed him some
      black object he was drifting close upon. The hull of a ship! He could
      touch its smooth and slippery surface with his hand. One loud cry, now&mdash;but
      the resistless water bore him down before he could give it utterance, and,
      driving him under it, carried away a corpse.
    </p>
    <p>
      It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against the
      slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging it
      heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to its own
      element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of the ugly
      plaything, it flung it on a swamp&mdash;a dismal place where pirates had
      swung in chains through many a wintry night&mdash;and left it there to
      bleach.
    </p>
    <p>
      And there it lay alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water that
      bore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along.
      The place the deserted carcass had left so recently, a living man, was now
      a blazing ruin. There was something of the glare upon its face. The hair,
      stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of death&mdash;such
      a mockery as the dead man himself would have delighted in when alive&mdash;about
      its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night wind.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0492m.jpg" alt="0492m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0492.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap68"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 68
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices,
      words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness&mdash;what
      a change is this! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening. They
      are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will die of joy, before he gets
      among them.
    </p>
    <p>
      They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off
      to-morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him know
      that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and perhaps he may
      be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come, they bring him to
      a room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost among them is his good
      old master, who comes and takes him by the hand. He hears that his
      innocence is established, and that he is pardoned. He cannot see the
      speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in trying to answer, falls
      down insensible.
    </p>
    <p>
      They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear this
      like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is because
      he does think of her so much, that the happy news had overpowered him.
      They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has gone abroad, and
      that all the town and country ring with sympathy for his misfortunes. He
      has no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet, have no wider range than home.
      Does she know it? what did she say? who told her? He can speak of nothing
      else.
    </p>
    <p>
      They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while,
      until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He is free to
      go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went away. The
      gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him. He feels very
      grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for the kind
      promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and he has much
      ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who
      are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his
      release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite
      hearty&mdash;there is something of surliness in his compliments. He looks
      upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that place
      on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without being duly
      qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he thinks, but he has
      no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the better.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and
      stand in the open air&mdash;in the street he has so often pictured to
      himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all his
      dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The night is bad,
      and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes! One of the gentlemen, in taking
      leave of him, pressed some money into his hand. He has not counted it; but
      when they have gone a few paces beyond the box for poor Prisoners, he
      hastily returns and drops it in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and, taking Kit
      inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first, they can only travel
      at a foot pace, and then with torches going on before, because of the
      heavy fog. But, as they get farther from the river, and leave the closer
      portions of the town behind, they are able to dispense with this
      precaution and to proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard galloping
      would be too slow for Kit; but, when they are drawing near their journey's
      end, he begs they may go more slowly, and, when the house appears in
      sight, that they may stop&mdash;only for a minute or two, to give him time
      to breathe.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to
      him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the garden-gate.
      Next minute, they are at the door. There is a noise of tongues, and tread
      of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and finds his mother clinging
      round his neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still holding the
      baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day when they little
      hoped to have such joy as this&mdash;there she is, Heaven bless her,
      crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and there
      is little Barbara&mdash;poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so much
      paler, and yet so very pretty&mdash;trembling like a leaf and supporting
      herself against the wall; and there is Mrs Garland, neater and nicer than
      ever, fainting away stone dead with nobody to help her; and there is Mr
      Abel, violently blowing his nose, and wanting to embrace everybody; and
      there is the single gentleman hovering round them all, and constant to
      nothing for an instant; and there is that good, dear, thoughtful little
      Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on the bottom stair, with his hands on
      his knees like an old man, roaring fearfully without giving any trouble to
      anybody; and each and all of them are for the time clean out of their
      wits, and do jointly and severally commit all manner of follies.
    </p>
    <p>
      And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again, and
      can find words and smiles, Barbara&mdash;that soft-hearted, gentle,
      foolish little Barbara&mdash;is suddenly missed, and found to be in a
      swoon by herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls into
      hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again, and is, indeed, so
      bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water she is
      hardly a bit better at last than she was at first. Then, Kit's mother
      comes in and says, will he come and speak to her; and Kit says 'Yes,' and
      goes; and he says in a kind voice 'Barbara!' and Barbara's mother tells
      her that 'it's only Kit;' and Barbara says (with her eyes closed all the
      time) 'Oh! but is it him indeed?' and Barbara's mother says 'To be sure it
      is, my dear; there's nothing the matter now.' And in further assurance
      that he's safe and sound, Kit speaks to her again; and then Barbara goes
      off into another fit of laughter, and then into another fit of crying; and
      then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod to each other and pretend to
      scold her&mdash;but only to bring her to herself the faster, bless you!&mdash;and
      being experienced matrons, and acute at perceiving the first dawning
      symptoms of recovery, they comfort Kit with the assurance that 'she'll do
      now,' and so dismiss him to the place from whence he came.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well! In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters of wine,
      and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and his friends
      were first-rate company; and there is little Jacob, walking, as the
      popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake, at a most surprising pace,
      and keeping his eye on the figs and oranges which are to follow, and
      making the best use of his time, you may believe. Kit no sooner comes in,
      than that single gentleman (never was such a busy gentleman) charges all
      the glasses&mdash;bumpers&mdash;and drinks his health, and tells him he
      shall never want a friend while he lives; and so does Mr Garland, and so
      does Mrs Garland, and so does Mr Abel. But even this honour and
      distinction is not all, for the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of
      his pocket a massive silver watch&mdash;going hard, and right to half a
      second&mdash;and upon the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with
      flourishes all over; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly for
      him, and presented to him on the spot. You may rest assured that Mr and
      Mrs Garland can't help hinting about their present, in store, and that Mr
      Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is the happiest of the
      happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be conveniently
      introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being an iron-shod
      quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of slipping away and hurrying
      to the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the latch, the pony neighs
      the loudest pony's greeting; before he has crossed the threshold, the pony
      is capering about his loose box (for he brooks not the indignity of a
      halter), mad to give him welcome; and when Kit goes up to caress and pat
      him, the pony rubs his nose against his coat, and fondles him more
      lovingly than ever pony fondled man. It is the crowning circumstance of
      his earnest, heartfelt reception; and Kit fairly puts his arm round
      Whisker's neck and hugs him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is again! she
      has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in the
      stable, of all places in the world? Why, since Kit has been away, the pony
      would take his food from nobody but her, and Barbara, you see, not
      dreaming that Christopher was there, and just looking in, to see that
      everything was right, has come upon him unawares. Blushing little Barbara!
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough; it may be that there are
      even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him for Barbara at any
      rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a great deal better. She is
      afraid&mdash;and here Barbara looks down and blushes more&mdash;that he
      must have thought her very foolish. 'Not at all,' says Kit. Barbara is
      glad of that, and coughs&mdash;Hem!&mdash;just the slightest cough
      possible&mdash;not more than that.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a discreet pony when he chooses! He is as quiet now as if he were of
      marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. 'We have
      hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara,' says Kit. Barbara gives him
      hers. Why, she is trembling now! Foolish, fluttering Barbara!
    </p>
    <p>
      Arm's length? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was not a long
      arm, by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out straight, but bent
      a little. Kit was so near her when they shook hands, that he could see a
      small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash. It was natural that he
      should look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural that Barbara should
      raise her eyes unconsciously, and find him out. Was it natural that at
      that instant, without any previous impulse or design, Kit should kiss
      Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara said 'for shame,' but let him
      do it too&mdash;twice. He might have done it thrice, but the pony kicked
      up his heels and shook his head, as if he were suddenly taken with
      convulsions of delight, and Barbara being frightened, ran away&mdash;not
      straight to where her mother and Kit's mother were, though, lest they
      should see how red her cheeks were, and should ask her why. Sly little
      Barbara!
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0496m.jpg" alt="0496m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0496.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and his
      mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby to
      boot, had had their suppers together&mdash;which there was no hurrying
      over, for they were going to stop there all night&mdash;Mr Garland called
      Kit to him, and taking him into a room where they could be alone, told him
      that he had something yet to say, which would surprise him greatly. Kit
      looked so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old
      gentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably surprised; and asked him
      if he would be ready next morning for a journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For a journey, sir!' cried Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess its
      purpose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes. I think you do already,' said his master. 'Try.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he plainly
      pronounced the words 'Miss Nell,' three or four times&mdash;shaking his
      head while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of that.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mr Garland, instead of saying 'Try again,' as Kit had made sure he
      would, told him very seriously, that he had guessed right.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The place of their retreat is indeed discovered,' he said, 'at last. And
      that is our journey's end.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it been
      found, and how long since, and was she well and happy?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Happy she is, beyond all doubt,' said Mr Garland. 'And well, I&mdash;I
      trust she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but she
      was better when I heard this morning, and they were full of hope. Sit you
      down, and you shall hear the rest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told. Mr Garland
      then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would remember to
      have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young man,
      hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a long way off, in a
      country-place, with an old clergyman who had been his early friend. How,
      although they loved each other as brothers should, they had not met for
      many years, but had communicated by letter from time to time, always
      looking forward to some period when they would take each other by the hand
      once more, and still letting the Present time steal on, as it was the
      habit for men to do, and suffering the Future to melt into the Past. How
      this brother, whose temper was very mild and quiet and retiring&mdash;such
      as Mr Abel's&mdash;was greatly beloved by the simple people among whom he
      dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor (for so they called him), and had
      every one experienced his charity and benevolence. How even those slight
      circumstances had come to his knowledge, very slowly and in course of
      years, for the Bachelor was one of those whose goodness shuns the light,
      and who have more pleasure in discovering and extolling the good deeds of
      others, than in trumpeting their own, be they never so commendable. How,
      for that reason, he seldom told them of his village friends; but how, for
      all that, his mind had become so full of two among them&mdash;a child and
      an old man, to whom he had been very kind&mdash;that, in a letter received
      a few days before, he had dwelt upon them from first to last, and had told
      such a tale of their wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it
      without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter, was
      directly led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers for whom
      so much search had been made, and whom Heaven had directed to his
      brother's care. How he had written for such further information as would
      put the fact beyond all doubt; how it had that morning arrived; had
      confirmed his first impression into a certainty; and was the immediate
      cause of that journey being planned, which they were to take to-morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the meantime,' said the old gentleman rising, and laying his hand on
      Kit's shoulder, 'you have a great need of rest; for such a day as this
      would wear out the strongest man. Good night, and Heaven send our journey
      may have a prosperous ending!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap69"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 69
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>it was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time
      before day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of
      spirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected
      intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the
      long dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that it
      was rest to rise.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end in
      view&mdash;had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be performed
      on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued under very
      privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great distress,
      fatigue, and suffering&mdash;had it been the dawn of some painful
      enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and endurance,
      and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if happily
      achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell&mdash;Kit's cheerful zeal
      would have been as highly roused: Kit's ardour and impatience would have
      been, at least, the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of an
      hour the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do
      something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, it
      is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else and
      was more locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making ready
      went briskly on, and by daybreak every preparation for the journey was
      completed. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite so nimble; for
      the travelling-carriage which had been hired for the occasion was not to
      arrive until nine o'clock, and there was nothing but breakfast to fill up
      the intervening blank of one hour and a half. Yes there was, though. There
      was Barbara. Barbara was busy, to be sure, but so much the better&mdash;Kit
      could help her, and that would pass away the time better than any means
      that could be devised. Barbara had no objection to this arrangement, and
      Kit, tracking out the idea which had come upon him so suddenly overnight,
      began to think that surely Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond
      of Barbara.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told&mdash;as it must and ought to be&mdash;Barbara
      seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure in the bustle
      of the occasion; and when Kit, in the openness of his heart, told her how
      glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more downcast still, and
      seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before!
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have not been home so long, Christopher,' said Barbara&mdash;and it
      is impossible to tell how carelessly she said it&mdash;'You have not been
      home so long, that you need to be glad to go away again, I should think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But for such a purpose,' returned Kit. 'To bring back Miss Nell! To see
      her again! Only think of that! I am so pleased too, to think that you will
      see her, Barbara, at last.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no gratification on this
      point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of
      her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his
      simplicity, why she was so cool about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I
      know,' said Kit, rubbing his hands. 'I'm sure you'll say that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara tossed her head again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter, Barbara?' said Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing,' cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted&mdash;not sulkily, or in an
      ugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than
      ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which Kit
      became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what Barbara meant
      now&mdash;he had his lesson by heart all at once&mdash;she was the book&mdash;there
      it was before him, as plain as print.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Barbara,' said Kit, 'you're not cross with me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh dear no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be
      cross? And what did it matter whether she was cross or not? Who minded
      her!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I do,' said Kit. 'Of course I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara didn't see why it was of course, at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit was sure she must. Would she think again?
    </p>
    <p>
      Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn't see why it was of
      course. She didn't understand what Christopher meant. And besides she was
      sure they wanted her up stairs by this time, and she must go, indeed&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but Barbara,' said Kit, detaining her gently, 'let us part friends. I
      was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have been a great
      deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn't been for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured&mdash;and when
      she trembled, like a little shrinking bird!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so strong
      as I could wish,' said Kit. 'When I want you to be pleased to see Miss
      Nell, it's only because I like you to be pleased with what pleases me&mdash;that's
      all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die to do her service, but
      you would think so too, if you knew her as I do. I am sure you would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been used, you see,' said Kit, 'to talk and think of her, almost
      as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her again, I think
      of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting
      out her hand and saying, "It's my own old Kit," or some such words as
      those&mdash;like what she used to say. I think of seeing her happy, and
      with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, and as she ought
      to be. When I think of myself, it's as her old servant, and one that loved
      her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and who would have gone&mdash;yes,
      and still would go&mdash;through any harm to serve her. Once, I couldn't
      help being afraid that if she came back with friends about her she might
      forget, or be ashamed of having known, a humble lad like me, and so might
      speak coldly, which would have cut me, Barbara, deeper than I can tell.
      But when I came to think again, I felt sure that I was doing her wrong in
      this; and so I went on, as I did at first, hoping to see her once more,
      just as she used to be. Hoping this, and remembering what she was, has
      made me feel as if I would always try to please her, and always be what I
      should like to seem to her if I was still her servant. If I'm the better
      for that&mdash;and I don't think I'm the worse&mdash;I am grateful to her
      for it, and love and honour her the more. That's the plain honest truth,
      dear Barbara, upon my word it is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being full
      of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this might have
      led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the carriage were
      heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring at the garden
      gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid dormant for a short
      time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr Chuckster in a
      hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single
      gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, he
      subsided into the bosom of the family; and, entertaining himself with a
      strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched, with genteel indifference,
      the process of loading the carriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Snobby's in this, I see, Sir?' he said to Mr Abel Garland. 'I thought he
      wasn't in the last trip because it was expected that his presence wouldn't
      be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To whom, Sir?' demanded Mr Abel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the old gentleman,' returned Mr Chuckster, slightly abashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our client prefers to take him now,' said Mr Abel, drily. 'There is no
      longer any need for that precaution, as my father's relationship to a
      gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence, will be
      a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' thought Mr Chuckster, looking out of window, 'anybody but me! Snobby
      before me, of course. He didn't happen to take that particular five-pound
      note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he's always up to something
      of that sort. I always said it, long before this came out. Devilish pretty
      girl that! 'Pon my soul, an amazing little creature!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0502m.jpg" alt="502m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0502.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Barbara was the subject of Mr Chuckster's commendations; and as she was
      lingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure), that
      gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the proceedings,
      which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take up his position at
      a convenient ogling distance. Having had great experience of the sex, and
      being perfectly acquainted with all those little artifices which find the
      readiest road to their hearts, Mr Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted
      one hand on his hip, and with the other adjusted his flowing hair. This is
      a favourite attitude in the polite circles, and, accompanied with a
      graceful whistling, has been known to do immense execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody
      took the smallest notice of this insinuating figure; the wretches being
      wholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to
      each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar practices.
      For now the single gentleman and Mr Garland were in the carriage, and the
      post-boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and muffled up, was in
      the rumble behind; and Mrs Garland was there, and Mr Abel was there, and
      Kit's mother was there, and little Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother
      was visible in remote perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby; and all
      were nodding, beckoning, curtseying, or crying out, 'Good bye!' with all
      the energy they could express. In another minute, the carriage was out of
      sight; and Mr Chuckster remained alone on the spot where it had lately
      been, with a vision of Kit standing up in the rumble waving his hand to
      Barbara, and of Barbara in the full light and lustre of his eyes&mdash;his
      eyes&mdash;Chuckster's&mdash;Chuckster the successful&mdash;on whom ladies
      of quality had looked with favour from phaetons in the parks on Sundays&mdash;waving
      hers to Kit!
    </p>
    <p>
      How Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some time
      rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the Prince of
      felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul of Snobs, and how he
      clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old villany of the
      shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose; which is to track the
      rolling wheels, and bear the travellers company on their cold, bleak
      journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against them
      fiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost from the
      trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But little cared Kit for
      weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind, as it came howling
      by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome. As it swept on with its
      cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves,
      and carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though some general
      sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in a hurry, like themselves.
      The harder the gusts, the better progress they appeared to make. It was a
      good thing to go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them one by
      one; to watch them driving up, gathering strength and fury as they came
      along; to bend for a moment, as they whistled past; and then to look back
      and see them speed away, their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the
      stout trees cowering down before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      All day long, it blew without cessation. The night was clear and
      starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing.
      Sometimes&mdash;towards the end of a long stage&mdash;Kit could not help
      wishing it were a little warmer: but when they stopped to change horses,
      and he had had a good run, and what with that, and the bustle of paying
      the old postilion, and rousing the new one, and running to and fro again
      until the horses were put to, he was so warm that the blood tingled and
      smarted in his fingers' ends&mdash;then, he felt as if to have it one
      degree less cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the
      journey: and up he jumped again, right cheerily, singing to the merry
      music of the wheels as they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople in
      their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely road.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to sleep,
      beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious and expectant,
      it naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on the manner in
      which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and fears they
      entertained respecting it. Of the former they had many, of the latter few&mdash;none
      perhaps beyond that indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from
      suddenly awakened hope, and protracted expectation.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night had worn
      away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more and more silent
      and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said abruptly:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you a good listener?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Like most other men, I suppose,' returned Mr Garland, smiling. 'I can be,
      if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still try to appear
      so. Why do you ask?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have a short narrative on my lips,' rejoined his friend, 'and will try
      you with it. It is very brief.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's sleeve, and
      proceeded thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      'There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There was a
      disparity in their ages&mdash;some twelve years. I am not sure but they
      may insensibly have loved each other the better for that reason. Wide as
      the interval between them was, however, they became rivals too soon. The
      deepest and strongest affection of both their hearts settled upon one
      object.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The youngest&mdash;there were reasons for his being sensitive and
      watchful&mdash;was the first to find this out. I will not tell you what
      misery he underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his mental
      struggle was. He had been a sickly child. His brother, patient and
      considerate in the midst of his own high health and strength, had many and
      many a day denied himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his couch,
      telling him old stories till his pale face lighted up with an unwonted
      glow; to carry him in his arms to some green spot, where he could tend the
      poor pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer day, and saw all
      nature healthy but himself; to be, in any way, his fond and faithful
      nurse. I may not dwell on all he did, to make the poor, weak creature love
      him, or my tale would have no end. But when the time of trial came, the
      younger brother's heart was full of those old days. Heaven strengthened it
      to repay the sacrifices of inconsiderate youth by one of thoughtful
      manhood. He left his brother to be happy. The truth never passed his lips,
      and he quitted the country, hoping to die abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven before long, and left
      him with an infant daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you will
      remember how the same face and figure&mdash;often the fairest and
      slightest of them all&mdash;come upon you in different generations; and
      how you trace the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits&mdash;never
      growing old or changing&mdash;the Good Angel of the race&mdash;abiding by
      them in all reverses&mdash;redeeming all their sins&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'In this daughter the mother lived again. You may judge with what devotion
      he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to this girl, her
      breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart to one who
      could not know its worth. Well! Her fond father could not see her pine and
      droop. He might be more deserving than he thought him. He surely might
      become so, with a wife like her. He joined their hands, and they were
      married.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the cold
      neglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he brought upon
      her; through all the struggles of their daily life, too mean and pitiful
      to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep devotion of
      her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can. Her means and
      substance wasted; her father nearly beggared by her husband's hand, and
      the hourly witness (for they lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage
      and unhappiness,&mdash;she never, but for him, bewailed her fate. Patient,
      and upheld by strong affection to the last, she died a widow of some three
      weeks' date, leaving to her father's care two orphans; one a son of ten or
      twelve years old; the other a girl&mdash;such another infant child&mdash;the
      same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature&mdash;as she had been
      herself when her young mother died.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken
      man; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years than by the heavy
      hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his possessions, he began to trade&mdash;in
      pictures first, and then in curious ancient things. He had entertained a
      fondness for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated
      were now to yield him an anxious and precarious subsistence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like her
      mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her
      mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his
      daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy soon spurned the
      shelter of his roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste.
      The old man and the child dwelt alone together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and
      dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature; when
      her face, constantly before him, reminded him, from hour to hour, of the
      too early change he had seen in such another&mdash;of all the sufferings
      he had watched and known, and all his child had undergone; when the young
      man's profligate and hardened course drained him of money as his father's
      had, and even sometimes occasioned them temporary privation and distress;
      it was then that there began to beset him, and to be ever in his mind, a
      gloomy dread of poverty and want. He had no thought for himself in this.
      His fear was for the child. It was a spectre in his house, and haunted him
      night and day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and had made
      his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary banishment had been
      misconstrued, and he had borne (not without pain) reproach and slight for
      doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful shadow on his
      path. Apart from this, communication between him and the elder was
      difficult, and uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not so wholly
      broken off but that he learnt&mdash;with long blanks and gaps between each
      interval of information&mdash;all that I have told you now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, dreams of their young, happy life&mdash;happy to him though laden
      with pain and early care&mdash;visited his pillow yet oftener than before;
      and every night, a boy again, he was at his brother's side. With the
      utmost speed he could exert, he settled his affairs; converted into money
      all the goods he had; and, with honourable wealth enough for both, with
      open heart and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with
      emotion such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening at his
      brother's door!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The rest,' said Mr Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, 'I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' rejoined his friend, 'we may spare ourselves the sequel. You know
      the poor result of all my search. Even when by dint of such inquiries as
      the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we found they had
      been seen with two poor travelling showmen&mdash;and in time discovered
      the men themselves&mdash;and in time, the actual place of their retreat;
      even then, we were too late. Pray God, we are not too late again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We cannot be,' said Mr Garland. 'This time we must succeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have believed and hoped so,' returned the other. 'I try to believe and
      hope so still. But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my good
      friend, and the sadness that gathers over me, will yield to neither hope
      nor reason.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That does not surprise me,' said Mr Garland; 'it is a natural consequence
      of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time and place; and above
      all, of this wild and dismal night. A dismal night, indeed! Hark! how the
      wind is howling!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap70"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 70
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ay broke, and found them still upon their way. Since leaving home, they
      had halted here and there for necessary refreshment, and had frequently
      been delayed, especially in the night time, by waiting for fresh horses.
      They had made no other stoppages, but the weather continued rough, and the
      roads were often steep and heavy. It would be night again before they
      reached their place of destination.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on manfully; and, having
      enough to do to keep his blood circulating, to picture to himself the
      happy end of this adventurous journey, and to look about him and be amazed
      at everything, had little spare time for thinking of discomforts. Though
      his impatience, and that of his fellow-travellers, rapidly increased as
      the day waned, the hours did not stand still. The short daylight of winter
      soon faded away, and it was dark again when they had yet many miles to
      travel.
    </p>
    <p>
      As it grew dusk, the wind fell; its distant moanings were more low and
      mournful; and, as it came creeping up the road, and rattling covertly
      among the dry brambles on either hand, it seemed like some great phantom
      for whom the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it stalked along.
      By degrees it lulled and died away, and then it came on to snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches deep,
      and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling wheels were
      noiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs, became a
      dull, muffled tramp. The life of their progress seemed to be slowly
      hushed, and something death-like to usurp its place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze upon their lashes and
      obscured his sight, Kit often tried to catch the earliest glimpse of
      twinkling lights, denoting their approach to some not distant town. He
      could descry objects enough at such times, but none correctly. Now, a tall
      church spire appeared in view, which presently became a tree, a barn, a
      shadow on the ground, thrown on it by their own bright lamps. Now, there
      were horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before, or meeting
      them in narrow ways; which, when they were close upon them, turned to
      shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a sturdy gable end, would rise up in the
      road; and, when they were plunging headlong at it, would be the road
      itself. Strange turnings too, bridges, and sheets of water, appeared to
      start up here and there, making the way doubtful and uncertain; and yet
      they were on the same bare road, and these things, like the others, as
      they were passed, turned into dim illusions.
    </p>
    <p>
      He descended slowly from his seat&mdash;for his limbs were numbed&mdash;when
      they arrived at a lone posting-house, and inquired how far they had to go
      to reach their journey's end. It was a late hour in such by-places, and
      the people were abed; but a voice answered from an upper window, Ten
      miles. The ten minutes that ensued appeared an hour; but at the end of
      that time, a shivering figure led out the horses they required, and after
      another brief delay they were again in motion.
</p>
    <p>
It was a cross-country
      road, full, after the first three or four miles, of holes and cart-ruts,
      which, being covered by the snow, were so many pitfalls to the trembling
      horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace. As it was next to impossible
      for men so much agitated as they were by this time, to sit still and move
      so slowly, all three got out and plodded on behind the carriage. The
      distance seemed interminable, and the walk was most laborious. As each was
      thinking within himself that the driver must have lost his way, a church
      bell, close at hand, struck the hour of midnight, and the carriage
      stopped. It had moved softly enough, but when it ceased to crunch the
      snow, the silence was as startling as if some great noise had been
      replaced by perfect stillness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the place, gentlemen,' said the driver, dismounting from his
      horse, and knocking at the door of a little inn. 'Halloa! Past twelve
      o'clock is the dead of night here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse the drowsy inmates.
      All continued dark and silent as before. They fell back a little, and
      looked up at the windows, which were mere black patches in the whitened
      house front. No light appeared. The house might have been deserted, or the
      sleepers dead, for any air of life it had about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      They spoke together with a strange inconsistency, in whispers; unwilling
      to disturb again the dreary echoes they had just now raised.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us go on,' said the younger brother, 'and leave this good fellow to
      wake them, if he can. I cannot rest until I know that we are not too late.
      Let us go on, in the name of Heaven!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accommodation as the
      house afforded, and to renew his knocking. Kit accompanied them with a
      little bundle, which he had hung in the carriage when they left home, and
      had not forgotten since&mdash;the bird in his old cage&mdash;just as she
      had left him. She would be glad to see her bird, he knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded, they lost sight of the
      church whose clock they had heard, and of the small village clustering
      round it. The knocking, which was now renewed, and which in that stillness
      they could plainly hear, troubled them. They wished the man would forbear,
      or that they had told him not to break the silence until they returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure cold white, again
      rose up before them, and a few moments brought them close beside it. A
      venerable building&mdash;grey, even in the midst of the hoary landscape.
      An ancient sun-dial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by the
      snow-drift, and scarcely to be known for what it was. Time itself seemed
      to have grown dull and old, as if no day were ever to displace the
      melancholy night.
    </p>
    <p>
      A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more than one path across
      the churchyard to which it led, and, uncertain which to take, they came to
      a stand again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The village street&mdash;if street that could be called which was an
      irregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some with
      their fronts, some with their backs, and some with gable ends towards the
      road, with here and there a signpost, or a shed encroaching on the path&mdash;was
      close at hand. There was a faint light in a chamber window not far off,
      and Kit ran towards that house to ask their way.
    </p>
    <p>
      His first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently appeared
      at the casement, wrapping some garment round his throat as a protection
      from the cold, and demanded who was abroad at that unseasonable hour,
      wanting him.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tis hard weather this,' he grumbled, 'and not a night to call me up in.
      My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from bed. The business
      on which folks want me, will keep cold, especially at this season. What do
      you want?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would not have roused you, if I had known you were old and ill,' said
      Kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Old!' repeated the other peevishly. 'How do you know I am old? Not so old
      as you think, friend, perhaps. As to being ill, you will find many young
      people in worse case than I am. More's the pity that it should be so&mdash;not
      that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I mean, but that they
      should be weak and tender. I ask your pardon though,' said the old man,
      'if I spoke rather rough at first. My eyes are not good at night&mdash;that's
      neither age nor illness; they never were&mdash;and I didn't see you were a
      stranger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sorry to call you from your bed,' said Kit, 'but those gentlemen you
      may see by the churchyard gate, are strangers too, who have just arrived
      from a long journey, and seek the parsonage-house. You can direct us?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should be able to,' answered the old man, in a trembling voice, 'for,
      come next summer, I have been sexton here, good fifty years. The right
      hand path, friend, is the road.&mdash;There is no ill news for our good
      gentleman, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the negative; he was
      turning back, when his attention was caught by the voice of a child.
      Looking up, he saw a very little creature at a neighbouring window.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is that?' cried the child, earnestly. 'Has my dream come true? Pray
      speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor boy!' said the sexton, before Kit could answer, 'how goes it,
      darling?'
</p>
    <p>
'Has my dream come true?' exclaimed the child again, in a voice
      so fervent that it might have thrilled to the heart of any listener. 'But
      no, that can never be! How could it be&mdash;Oh! how could it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I guess his meaning,' said the sexton. 'To bed again, poor boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay!' cried the child, in a burst of despair. 'I knew it could never be, I
      felt too sure of that, before I asked! But, all to-night, and last night
      too, it was the same. I never fall asleep, but that cruel dream comes
      back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Try to sleep again,' said the old man, soothingly. 'It will go in time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No no, I would rather that it staid&mdash;cruel as it is, I would rather
      that it staid,' rejoined the child. 'I am not afraid to have it in my
      sleep, but I am so sad&mdash;so very, very sad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and Kit
      was again alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the child's
      manner than by anything he had said, as his meaning was hidden from him.
      They took the path indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived before the
      parsonage wall. Turning round to look about them when they had got thus
      far, they saw, among some ruined buildings at a distance, one single
      solitary light.
    </p>
    <p>
      It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being
      surrounded by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like a star.
      Bright and glimmering as the stars above their heads, lonely and
      motionless as they, it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal lamps
      of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What light is that!' said the younger brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is surely,' said Mr Garland, 'in the ruin where they live. I see no
      other ruin hereabouts.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They cannot,' returned the brother hastily, 'be waking at this late hour&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and waited at
      the gate, they would let him make his way to where this light was shining,
      and try to ascertain if any people were about. Obtaining the permission he
      desired, he darted off with breathless eagerness, and, still carrying the
      birdcage in his hand, made straight towards the spot.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0512m.jpg" alt="0512m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0512.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another time he
      might have gone more slowly, or round by the path. Unmindful of all
      obstacles, however, he pressed forward without slackening his speed, and
      soon arrived within a few yards of the window. He approached as softly as
      he could, and advancing so near the wall as to brush the whitened ivy with
      his dress, listened. There was no sound inside. The church itself was not
      more quiet. Touching the glass with his cheek, he listened again. No. And
      yet there was such a silence all around, that he felt sure he could have
      heard even the breathing of a sleeper, if there had been one there.
    </p>
    <p>
      A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of night,
      with no one near it.
    </p>
    <p>
      A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he could
      not see into the room. But there was no shadow thrown upon it from within.
      To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in from above,
      would have been attended with some danger&mdash;certainly with some noise,
      and the chance of terrifying the child, if that really were her
      habitation. Again and again he listened; again and again the same
      wearisome blank.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and skirting the ruin for a
      few paces, he came at length to a door. He knocked. No answer. But there
      was a curious noise inside. It was difficult to determine what it was. It
      bore a resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain, but it was not that,
      being far too regular and constant. Now it seemed a kind of song, now a
      wail&mdash;seemed, that is, to his changing fancy, for the sound itself
      was never changed or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever heard;
      and in its tone there was something fearful, chilling, and unearthly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost and
      snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound went on
      without any interruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and put
      his knee against the door. It was secured on the inside, but yielded to
      the pressure, and turned upon its hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire
      upon the old walls, and entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap71"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 71
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he dull, red glow of a wood fire&mdash;for no lamp or candle burnt within
      the room&mdash;showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back
      towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of one
      who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture and the
      cowering form were there, but no hands were stretched out to meet the
      grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury with the piercing
      cold outside. With limbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed
      upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked to and fro upon
      its seat without a moment's pause, accompanying the action with the
      mournful sound he had heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that
      made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave in
      any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was
      that of an old man, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering embers
      upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the
      time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in
      fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin!
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were he
      scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on&mdash;still the
      same rocking in the chair&mdash;the same stricken figure was there,
      unchanged and heedless of his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form&mdash;distinctly
      seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up&mdash;arrested
      it. He returned to where he had stood before&mdash;advanced a pace&mdash;another&mdash;another
      still. Another, and he saw the face. Yes! Changed as it was, he knew it
      well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Master!' he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand. 'Dear
      master. Speak to me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered in a hollow voice,
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is another!&mdash;How many of these spirits there have been
      to-night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now, I am
      sure? Miss Nell&mdash;where is she&mdash;where is she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They all say that!' cried the old man. 'They all ask the same question. A
      spirit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where is she?' demanded Kit. 'Oh tell me but that,&mdash;but that, dear
      master!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is asleep&mdash;yonder&mdash;in there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank God!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye! Thank God!' returned the old man. 'I have prayed to Him, many, and
      many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark!
      Did she call?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I heard no voice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear <i>that</i>?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He started up, and listened again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor that?' he cried, with a triumphant smile, 'Can any body know that
      voice so well as I? Hush! Hush!'
</p>
    <p>
Motioning to him to be silent, he stole
      away into another chamber. After a short absence (during which he could be
      heard to speak in a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his
      hand a lamp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is still asleep,' he whispered. 'You were right. She did not call&mdash;unless
      she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her sleep before now,
      sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have seen her lips move, and have
      known, though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the
      light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so I brought it here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put the
      lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary
      recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face. Then, as if
      forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned away and put it down
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is sleeping soundly,' he said; 'but no wonder. Angel hands have
      strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be
      lighter yet; and the very birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She
      used to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and hungry, the timid things
      would fly from us. They never flew from her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened for a
      long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out some
      clothes as fondly as if they had been living things, and began to smooth
      and brush them with his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,' he murmured, 'when there are
      bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them! Why dost
      thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the door,
      crying "where is Nell&mdash;sweet Nell?"&mdash;and sob, and weep, because
      they do not see thee. She was always gentle with children. The wildest
      would do her bidding&mdash;she had a tender way with them, indeed she
      had!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her little homely dress,&mdash;her favourite!' cried the old man,
      pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand. 'She
      will miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport, but she shall
      have it&mdash;she shall have it. I would not vex my darling, for the wide
      world's riches. See here&mdash;these shoes&mdash;how worn they are&mdash;she
      kept them to remind her of our last long journey. You see where the little
      feet went bare upon the ground. They told me, afterwards, that the stones
      had cut and bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her!
      and, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, that I might not
      see how lame she was&mdash;but yet she had my hand in hers, and seemed to
      lead me still.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back again,
      went on communing with himself&mdash;looking wistfully from time to time
      towards the chamber he had lately visited.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must have
      patience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she used to do,
      and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often tried to track the
      way she had gone, but her small footstep left no print upon the dewy
      ground, to guide me. Who is that? Shut the door. Quick!&mdash;Have we not
      enough to do to drive away that marble cold, and keep her warm!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his friend,
      accompanied by two other persons. These were the schoolmaster, and the
      bachelor. The former held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone
      to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit
      came up and found the old man alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside the
      angry manner&mdash;if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can be
      applied&mdash;in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed his
      former seat, and subsided, by little and little into the old action, and
      the old, dull, wandering sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the strangers, he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but appeared
      quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger brother stood apart.
      The bachelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close beside
      him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Another night, and not in bed!' he said softly; 'I hoped you would be
      more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some rest?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sleep has left me,' returned the old man. 'It is all with her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus,' said
      the bachelor. 'You would not give her pain?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has slept so
      very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and happy sleep&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed it is,' returned the bachelor. 'Indeed, indeed, it is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's well!&mdash;and the waking&mdash;' faltered the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber where
      the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he spoke again within its
      silent walls. They looked into the faces of each other, and no man's cheek
      was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she was still asleep,
      but that he thought she had moved. It was her hand, he said&mdash;a little&mdash;a
      very, very little&mdash;but he was pretty sure she had moved it&mdash;perhaps
      in seeking his. He had known her do that, before now, though in the
      deepest sleep the while. And when he had said this, he dropped into his
      chair again, and clasping his hands above his head, uttered a cry never to
      be forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on the
      other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers, which he
      had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He will hear me,' said the schoolmaster, 'I am sure. He will hear either
      me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will hear any voice she liked to hear,' cried the old man. 'I love all
      she loved!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know you do,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I am certain of it. Think of
      her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared together; of
      all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have jointly known.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do. I do. I think of nothing else.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would have you think of nothing else to-night&mdash;of nothing but
      those things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old
      affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to you herself,
      and in her name it is that I speak now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man. 'We will not wake her. I
      should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile. There is a
      smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and changeless. I would
      have it come and go. That shall be in Heaven's good time. We will not wake
      her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you were
      journeying together, far away&mdash;as she was at home, in the old house
      from which you fled together&mdash;as she was, in the old cheerful time,'
      said the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She was always cheerful&mdash;very cheerful,' cried the old man, looking
      steadfastly at him. 'There was ever something mild and quiet about her, I
      remember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this and in
      all goodness, she was like her mother. You can think of, and remember
      her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor. 'It is many years ago, and
      affliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her whose
      death contributed to make this child so dear to you, even before you knew
      her worth or could read her heart? Say, that you could carry back your
      thoughts to very distant days&mdash;to the time of your early life&mdash;when,
      unlike this fair flower, you did not pass your youth alone. Say, that you
      could remember, long ago, another child who loved you dearly, you being
      but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother, long forgotten, long
      unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last, in your utmost need
      came back to comfort and console you&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger, falling on
      his knee before him; 'to repay your old affection, brother dear, by
      constant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he
      has never ceased to be when oceans rolled between us; to call to witness
      his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days, whole years of
      desolation. Give me but one word of recognition, brother&mdash;and never&mdash;no
      never, in the brightest moment of our youngest days, when, poor silly
      boys, we thought to pass our lives together&mdash;have we been half as
      dear and precious to each other as we shall be from this time hence!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound
      came from them in reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If we were knit together then,' pursued the younger brother, 'what will
      be the bond between us now! Our love and fellowship began in childhood,
      when life was all before us, and will be resumed when we have proved it,
      and are but children at the last. As many restless spirits, who have
      hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the world, retire in their
      decline to where they first drew breath, vainly seeking to be children
      once again before they die, so we, less fortunate than they in early life,
      but happier in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again among our
      boyish haunts, and going home with no hope realised, that had its growth
      in manhood&mdash;carrying back nothing that we brought away, but our old
      yearnings to each other&mdash;saving no fragment from the wreck of life,
      but that which first endeared it&mdash;may be, indeed, but children as at
      first. And even,' he added in an altered voice, 'even if what I dread to
      name has come to pass&mdash;even if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven
      forbid and spare us!)&mdash;still, dear brother, we are not apart, and
      have that comfort in our great affliction.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner
      chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied,
      with trembling lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You never will do that&mdash;never
      while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her&mdash;I never had&mdash;I
      never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he
      stole into the room. They who were left behind, drew close together, and
      after a few whispered words&mdash;not unbroken by emotion, or easily
      uttered&mdash;followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps
      made no noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of
      grief and mourning.
    </p>
    <p>
      For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn
      stillness was no marvel now.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0520m.jpg" alt="0520m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0520.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain,
      so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God,
      and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green
      leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. 'When I die, put
      near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it
      always.' Those were her words.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird&mdash;a
      poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed&mdash;was
      stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child mistress
      was mute and motionless for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues?
      All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness
      were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The
      old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed, like a
      dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor
      schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold
      wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same
      mild lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight
      folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to
      him with her last smile&mdash;the hand that had led him on, through all
      their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it
      to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, as he said it,
      he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to
      help her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had
      seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast&mdash;the
      garden she had tended&mdash;the eyes she had gladdened&mdash;the noiseless
      haunts of many a thoughtful hour&mdash;the paths she had trodden as it
      were but yesterday&mdash;could know her never more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the
      cheek, and gave his tears free vent, 'it is not on earth that Heaven's
      justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the World to which her
      young spirit has winged its early flight; and say, if one deliberate wish
      expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life,
      which of us would utter it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap72"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 72
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of
      their grief, they heard how her life had closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing
      that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read
      and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night, but as the hours
      crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered
      in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they
      were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped and used them
      kindly, for she often said 'God bless you!' with great fervour. Waking,
      she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music
      which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been.
    </p>
    <p>
      Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they
      would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a
      lovely smile upon her face&mdash;such, they said, as they had never seen,
      and never could forget&mdash;and clung with both her arms about his neck.
      They did not know that she was dead, at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like
      dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much she thought
      about them, and how she had watched them as they walked together, by the
      river side at night. She would like to see poor Kit, she had often said of
      late. She wished there was somebody to take her love to Kit. And, even
      then, she never thought or spoke about him, but with something of her old,
      clear, merry laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet mind,
      and manner quite unaltered&mdash;save that she every day became more
      earnest and more grateful to them&mdash;faded like the light upon a
      summer's evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon as it
      was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to lay
      upon her breast. It was he who had come to the window overnight and spoken
      to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small feet, where he had
      been lingering near the room in which she lay, before he went to bed. He
      had a fancy, it seemed, that they had left her there alone; and could not
      bear the thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to
      them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying that he
      would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he
      had sat alone by his young brother all day long when he was dead, and had
      felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish; and indeed he
      kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once&mdash;except to her&mdash;or
      stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favourite, he was
      moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him
      come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first
      time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done
      him good, left them alone together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take
      some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And when the
      day came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from earthly eyes
      for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was Sunday&mdash;a
      bright, clear, wintry afternoon&mdash;and as they traversed the village
      street, those who were walking in their path drew back to make way for
      them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some shook the old man kindly by
      the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and many cried 'God
      help him!' as he passed along.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young
      guide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are nearly all in black
      to-day? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a piece of crape on almost every
      one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not tell, the woman said.
</p>
    <p>
'Why, you yourself&mdash;you wear the
      colour too?' he said. 'Windows are closed that never used to be by day.
      What does this mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the woman said she could not tell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what this
      is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you promised. Our
      way is to the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and where you
      found us, more than once, making those garlands for her garden. Do not
      turn back!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but just
      now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True. True. It was her we left&mdash;was it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if
      impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the sexton's
      house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the fire. Both rose
      up, on seeing who it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the action of an
      instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you&mdash;do you bury any one to-day?' he said, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly. 'We have
      no work to do to-day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to the
      child. 'You're sure of what you tell me? You would not deceive me? I am
      changed, even in the little time since you last saw me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with ye
      both!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly. 'Come, boy, come&mdash;' and
      so submitted to be led away.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the bell&mdash;the bell she had so often heard, by night and day,
      and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice&mdash;rung
      its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit
      age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured
      forth&mdash;on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full
      blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life&mdash;to gather round her tomb.
      Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing&mdash;grandmothers,
      who might have died ten years ago, and still been old&mdash;the deaf, the
      blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, to
      see the closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in,
      to that which still could crawl and creep above it!
    </p>
    <p>
      Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen snow
      that covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under the porch,
      where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful
      spot, she passed again; and the old church received her in its quiet
      shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat
      musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed
      on it through the coloured window&mdash;a window, where the boughs of
      trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly
      all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches
      in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light, would fall upon her
      grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Many a young hand dropped in
      its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some&mdash;and they were
      not a few&mdash;knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round
      to look into the grave before the pavement-stone should be replaced. One
      called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her
      book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon
      the sky. Another told, how he had wondered much that one so delicate as
      she, should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone
      at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to
      climb the tower stair, with no more light than that of the moon rays
      stealing through the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about
      among the oldest, that she had seen and talked with angels; and when they
      called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death, some
      thought it might be so, indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots,
      and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in
      whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time, of all
      but the sexton and the mourning friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk
      of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of
      the place&mdash;when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and
      monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to them)
      upon her quiet grave&mdash;in that calm time, when outward things and
      inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and
      fears are humbled in the dust before them&mdash;then, with tranquil and
      submissive hearts they turned away, and left the child with God.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach,
      but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a
      mighty, universal Truth. When Death strikes down the innocent and young,
      for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a
      hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the
      world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such
      green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the
      Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power,
      and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own
      dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered drowsy by
      his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by
      the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they were careful not to
      rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length awoke
      the moon was shining.
    </p>
    <p>
      The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at the
      door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his little
      guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean
      upon his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps towards the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding what he had left there,
      he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were
      assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling
      her name. They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly searched
      it, brought him home.
    </p>
    <p>
      With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they
      prevailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should tell him.
      Then endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare his mind for what
      must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy lot to
      which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. The moment
      it had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a murdered man.
    </p>
    <p>
      For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving; but grief is
      strong, and he recovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death&mdash;the
      weary void&mdash;the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest
      minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn&mdash;the
      connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of
      recollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every room a
      grave&mdash;if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by
      their own experience, they can never faintly guess how, for many days, the
      old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there as
      seeking something, and had no comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up in her.
      He never understood, or seemed to care to understand, about his brother.
      To every endearment and attention he continued listless. If they spoke to
      him on this, or any other theme&mdash;save one&mdash;he would hear them
      patiently for awhile, then turn away, and go on seeking as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      On that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was impossible
      to touch. Dead! He could not hear or bear the word. The slightest hint of
      it would throw him into a paroxysm, like that he had had when it was first
      spoken. In what hope he lived, no man could tell; but that he had some
      hope of finding her again&mdash;some faint and shadowy hope, deferred from
      day to day, and making him from day to day more sick and sore at heart&mdash;was
      plain to all.
    </p>
    <p>
      They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow; of
      trying whether change of place would rouse or cheer him. His brother
      sought the advice of those who were accounted skilful in such matters, and
      they came and saw him. Some of the number staid upon the spot, conversed
      with him when he would converse, and watched him as he wandered up and
      down, alone and silent. Move him where they might, they said, he would
      ever seek to get back there. His mind would run upon that spot. If they
      confined him closely, and kept a strict guard upon him, they might hold
      him prisoner, but if he could by any means escape, he would surely wander
      back to that place, or die upon the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence
      with him. At times he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or would
      even take such notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or would
      stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other times, he would
      entreat him&mdash;not unkindly&mdash;to be gone, and would not brook him
      near. But, whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with those who
      would have given him, at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or some
      peace of mind, if happily the means could have been devised; he was at all
      times the same&mdash;with no love or care for anything in life&mdash;a
      broken-hearted man.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his
      knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little
      basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As
      they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened schoolboy
      came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the church&mdash;upon
      her grave, he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in the
      attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but
      kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he rose and
      returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, 'She will come
      to-morrow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still at
      night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, 'She will come to-morrow!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0528m.jpg" alt="0528m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0528.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave, for
      her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of
      resting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and
      woods, and paths not often trodden&mdash;how many tones of that one
      well-remembered voice, how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering
      dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind&mdash;how many visions of
      what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be&mdash;rose up before him,
      in the old, dull, silent church! He never told them what he thought, or
      where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a secret
      satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she would take
      before night came again; and still they would hear him whisper in his
      prayers, 'Lord! Let her come to-morrow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the
      usual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in the
      church where they had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in hand,
      the child and the old man slept together.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap73"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER 73
    </h3>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he magic reel, which, rolling on before, has led the chronicler thus far,
      now slackens in its pace, and stops. It lies before the goal; the pursuit
      is at an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      It remains but to dismiss the leaders of the little crowd who have borne
      us company upon the road, and so to close the journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      Foremost among them, smooth Sampson Brass and Sally, arm in arm, claim our
      polite attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Sampson, then, being detained, as already has been shown, by the
      justice upon whom he called, and being so strongly pressed to protract his
      stay that he could by no means refuse, remained under his protection for a
      considerable time, during which the great attention of his entertainer
      kept him so extremely close, that he was quite lost to society, and never
      even went abroad for exercise saving into a small paved yard. So well,
      indeed, was his modest and retiring temper understood by those with whom
      he had to deal, and so jealous were they of his absence, that they
      required a kind of friendly bond to be entered into by two substantial
      housekeepers, in the sum of fifteen hundred pounds a-piece, before they
      would suffer him to quit their hospitable roof&mdash;doubting, it
      appeared, that he would return, if once let loose, on any other terms. Mr
      Brass, struck with the humour of this jest, and carrying out its spirit to
      the utmost, sought from his wide connection a pair of friends whose joint
      possessions fell some halfpence short of fifteen pence, and proffered them
      as bail&mdash;for that was the merry word agreed upon both sides. These
      gentlemen being rejected after twenty-four hours' pleasantry, Mr Brass
      consented to remain, and did remain, until a club of choice spirits called
      a Grand Jury (who were in the joke) summoned him to a trial before twelve
      other wags for perjury and fraud, who in their turn found him guilty with
      a most facetious joy,&mdash;nay, the very populace entered into the whim,
      and when Mr Brass was moving in a hackney-coach towards the building where
      these wags assembled, saluted him with rotten eggs and carcases of
      kittens, and feigned to wish to tear him into shreds, which greatly
      increased the comicality of the thing, and made him relish it the more, no
      doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      To work this sportive vein still further, Mr Brass, by his counsel, moved
      in arrest of judgment that he had been led to criminate himself, by
      assurances of safety and promises of pardon, and claimed the leniency
      which the law extends to such confiding natures as are thus deluded. After
      solemn argument, this point (with others of a technical nature, whose
      humorous extravagance it would be difficult to exaggerate) was referred to
      the judges for their decision, Sampson being meantime removed to his
      former quarters. Finally, some of the points were given in Sampson's
      favour, and some against him; and the upshot was, that, instead of being
      desired to travel for a time in foreign parts, he was permitted to grace
      the mother country under certain insignificant restrictions.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were, that he should, for a term of years, reside in a spacious
      mansion where several other gentlemen were lodged and boarded at the
      public charge, who went clad in a sober uniform of grey turned up with
      yellow, had their hair cut extremely short, and chiefly lived on gruel and
      light soup. It was also required of him that he should partake of their
      exercise of constantly ascending an endless flight of stairs; and, lest
      his legs, unused to such exertion, should be weakened by it, that he
      should wear upon one ankle an amulet or charm of iron. These conditions
      being arranged, he was removed one evening to his new abode, and enjoyed,
      in common with nine other gentlemen, and two ladies, the privilege of
      being taken to his place of retirement in one of Royalty's own carriages.
    </p>
    <p>
      Over and above these trifling penalties, his name was erased and blotted
      out from the roll of attorneys; which erasure has been always held in
      these latter times to be a great degradation and reproach, and to imply
      the commission of some amazing villany&mdash;as indeed it would seem to be
      the case, when so many worthless names remain among its better records,
      unmolested.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of Sally Brass, conflicting rumours went abroad. Some said with confidence
      that she had gone down to the docks in male attire, and had become a
      female sailor; others darkly whispered that she had enlisted as a private
      in the second regiment of Foot Guards, and had been seen in uniform, and
      on duty, to wit, leaning on her musket and looking out of a sentry-box in
      St James's Park, one evening. There were many such whispers as these in
      circulation; but the truth appears to be that, after the lapse of some
      five years (during which there is no direct evidence of her having been
      seen at all), two wretched people were more than once observed to crawl at
      dusk from the inmost recesses of St Giles's, and to take their way along
      the streets, with shuffling steps and cowering shivering forms, looking
      into the roads and kennels as they went in search of refuse food or
      disregarded offal. These forms were never beheld but in those nights of
      cold and gloom, when the terrible spectres, who lie at all other times in
      the obscene hiding-places of London, in archways, dark vaults and cellars,
      venture to creep into the streets; the embodied spirits of Disease, and
      Vice, and Famine. It was whispered by those who should have known, that
      these were Sampson and his sister Sally; and to this day, it is said, they
      sometimes pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome guise, close at the
      elbow of the shrinking passenger.
    </p>
    <p>
      The body of Quilp being found&mdash;though not until some days had elapsed&mdash;an
      inquest was held on it near the spot where it had been washed ashore. The
      general supposition was that he had committed suicide, and, this appearing
      to be favoured by all the circumstances of his death, the verdict was to
      that effect. He was left to be buried with a stake through his heart in
      the centre of four lonely roads.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was rumoured afterwards that this horrible and barbarous ceremony had
      been dispensed with, and that the remains had been secretly given up to
      Tom Scott. But even here, opinion was divided; for some said Tom dug them
      up at midnight, and carried them to a place indicated to him by the widow.
      It is probable that both these stories may have had their origin in the
      simple fact of Tom's shedding tears upon the inquest&mdash;which he
      certainly did, extraordinary as it may appear. He manifested, besides, a
      strong desire to assault the jury; and being restrained and conducted out
      of court, darkened its only window by standing on his head upon the sill,
      until he was dexterously tilted upon his feet again by a cautious beadle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Being cast upon the world by his master's death, he determined to go
      through it upon his head and hands, and accordingly began to tumble for
      his bread. Finding, however, his English birth an insurmountable obstacle
      to his advancement in this pursuit (notwithstanding that his art was in
      high repute and favour), he assumed the name of an Italian image lad, with
      whom he had become acquainted; and afterwards tumbled with extraordinary
      success, and to overflowing audiences.
</p>
    <p>
Little Mrs Quilp never quite
      forgave herself the one deceit that lay so heavy on her conscience, and
      never spoke or thought of it but with bitter tears. Her husband had no
      relations, and she was rich. He had made no will, or she would probably
      have been poor. Having married the first time at her mother's instigation,
      she consulted in her second choice nobody but herself. It fell upon a
      smart young fellow enough; and as he made it a preliminary condition that
      Mrs Jiniwin should be thenceforth an out-pensioner, they lived together
      after marriage with no more than the average amount of quarrelling, and
      led a merry life upon the dead dwarf's money.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr and Mrs Garland, and Mr Abel, went out as usual (except that there was
      a change in their household, as will be seen presently), and in due time
      the latter went into partnership with his friend the notary, on which
      occasion there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent of dissipation.
      Unto this ball there happened to be invited the most bashful young lady
      that was ever seen, with whom Mr Abel happened to fall in love. HOW it
      happened, or how they found it out, or which of them first communicated
      the discovery to the other, nobody knows. But certain it is that in course
      of time they were married; and equally certain it is that they were the
      happiest of the happy; and no less certain it is that they deserved to be
      so. And it is pleasant to write down that they reared a family; because
      any propagation of goodness and benevolence is no small addition to the
      aristocracy of nature, and no small subject of rejoicing for mankind at
      large.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to
      the last moment of his life; which was an unusually long one, and caused
      him to be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies. He often
      went to and fro with the little phaeton between Mr Garland's and his
      son's, and, as the old people and the young were frequently together, had
      a stable of his own at the new establishment, into which he would walk of
      himself with surprising dignity. He condescended to play with the
      children, as they grew old enough to cultivate his friendship, and would
      run up and down the little paddock with them like a dog; but though he
      relaxed so far, and allowed them such small freedoms as caresses, or even
      to look at his shoes or hang on by his tail, he never permitted any one
      among them to mount his back or drive him; thus showing that even their
      familiarity must have its limits, and that there were points between them
      far too serious for trifling.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not unsusceptible of warm attachments in his later life, for when
      the good bachelor came to live with Mr Garland upon the clergyman's
      decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and amiably submitted to
      be driven by his hands without the least resistance. He did no work for
      two or three years before he died, but lived in clover; and his last act
      (like a choleric old gentleman) was to kick his doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, and entering into
      the receipt of his annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome stock of
      clothes, and put her to school forthwith, in redemption of the vow he had
      made upon his fevered bed. After casting about for some time for a name
      which should be worthy of her, he decided in favour of Sophronia Sphynx,
      as being euphonious and genteel, and furthermore indicative of mystery.
      Under this title the Marchioness repaired, in tears, to the school of his
      selection, from which, as she soon distanced all competitors, she was
      removed before the lapse of many quarters to one of a higher grade. It is
      but bare justice to Mr Swiveller to say, that, although the expenses of
      her education kept him in straitened circumstances for half a dozen years,
      he never slackened in his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently
      repaid by the accounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement,
      on his monthly visits to the governess, who looked upon him as a literary
      gentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in
      quotation.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a word, Mr Swiveller kept the Marchioness at this establishment until
      she was, at a moderate guess, full nineteen years of age&mdash;
      good-looking, clever, and good-humoured; when he began to consider
      seriously what was to be done next. On one of his periodical visits, while
      he was revolving this question in his mind, the Marchioness came down to
      him, alone, looking more smiling and more fresh than ever. Then, it
      occurred to him, but not for the first time, that if she would marry him,
      how comfortable they might be! So Richard asked her; whatever she said, it
      wasn't No; and they were married in good earnest that day week. Which gave
      Mr Swiveller frequent occasion to remark at divers subsequent periods that
      there had been a young lady saving up for him after all.
    </p>
    <p>
      A little cottage at Hampstead being to let, which had in its garden a
      smoking-box, the envy of the civilised world, they agreed to become its
      tenants, and, when the honey-moon was over, entered upon its occupation.
      To this retreat Mr Chuckster repaired regularly every Sunday to spend the
      day&mdash;usually beginning with breakfast&mdash;and here he was the great
      purveyor of general news and fashionable intelligence. For some years he
      continued a deadly foe to Kit, protesting that he had a better opinion of
      him when he was supposed to have stolen the five-pound note, than when he
      was shown to be perfectly free of the crime; inasmuch as his guilt would
      have had in it something daring and bold, whereas his innocence was but
      another proof of a sneaking and crafty disposition. By slow degrees,
      however, he was reconciled to him in the end; and even went so far as to
      honour him with his patronage, as one who had in some measure reformed,
      and was therefore to be forgiven. But he never forgot or pardoned that
      circumstance of the shilling; holding that if he had come back to get
      another he would have done well enough, but that his returning to work out
      the former gift was a stain upon his moral character which no penitence or
      contrition could ever wash away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr Swiveller, having always been in some measure of a philosophic and
      reflective turn, grew immensely contemplative, at times, in the
      smoking-box, and was accustomed at such periods to debate in his own mind
      the mysterious question of Sophronia's parentage. Sophronia herself
      supposed she was an orphan; but Mr Swiveller, putting various slight
      circumstances together, often thought Miss Brass must know better than
      that; and, having heard from his wife of her strange interview with Quilp,
      entertained sundry misgivings whether that person, in his lifetime, might
      not also have been able to solve the riddle, had he chosen. These
      speculations, however, gave him no uneasiness; for Sophronia was ever a
      most cheerful, affectionate, and provident wife to him; and Dick
      (excepting for an occasional outbreak with Mr Chuckster, which she had the
      good sense rather to encourage than oppose) was to her an attached and
      domesticated husband. And they played many hundred thousand games of
      cribbage together. And let it be added, to Dick's honour, that, though we
      have called her Sophronia, he called her the Marchioness from first to
      last; and that upon every anniversary of the day on which he found her in
      his sick room, Mr Chuckster came to dinner, and there was great
      glorification.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their trusty confederate Mr James
      Groves of unimpeachable memory, pursued their course with varying success,
      until the failure of a spirited enterprise in the way of their profession,
      dispersed them in various directions, and caused their career to receive a
      sudden check from the long and strong arm of the law. This defeat had its
      origin in the untoward detection of a new associate&mdash;young Frederick
      Trent&mdash;who thus became the unconscious instrument of their punishment
      and his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by
      his wits&mdash;which means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily
      employed raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far below
      them. It was not long before his body was recognised by a stranger, who
      chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned are laid out to
      be owned; despite the bruises and disfigurements which were said to have
      been occasioned by some previous scuffle. But the stranger kept his own
      counsel until he returned home, and it was never claimed or cared for.
    </p>
    <p>
      The younger brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is more
      familiar, would have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone retreat,
      and made him his companion and friend. But the humble village teacher was
      timid of venturing into the noisy world, and had become fond of his
      dwelling in the old churchyard. Calmly happy in his school, and in the
      spot, and in the attachment of Her little mourner, he pursued his quiet
      course in peace; and was, through the righteous gratitude of his friend&mdash;let
      this brief mention suffice for that&mdash;a POOR school-master no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      That friend&mdash;single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will&mdash;had
      at his heart a heavy sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or monastic
      gloom. He went forth into the world, a lover of his kind. For a long, long
      time, it was his chief delight to travel in the steps of the old man and
      the child (so far as he could trace them from her last narrative), to halt
      where they had halted, sympathise where they had suffered, and rejoice
      where they had been made glad. Those who had been kind to them, did not
      escape his search. The sisters at the school&mdash;they who were her
      friends, because themselves so friendless&mdash;Mrs Jarley of the
      wax-work, Codlin, Short&mdash;he found them all; and trust me, the man who
      fed the furnace fire was not forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kit's story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and many
      offers of provision for his future life. He had no idea at first of ever
      quitting Mr Garland's service; but, after serious remonstrance and advice
      from that gentleman, began to contemplate the possibility of such a change
      being brought about in time. A good post was procured for him, with a
      rapidity which took away his breath, by some of the gentlemen who had
      believed him guilty of the offence laid to his charge, and who had acted
      upon that belief. Through the same kind agency, his mother was secured
      from want, and made quite happy. Thus, as Kit often said, his great
      misfortune turned out to be the source of all his subsequent prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did Kit live a single man all his days, or did he marry? Of course he
      married, and who should be his wife but Barbara? And the best of it was,
      he married so soon that little Jacob was an uncle, before the calves of
      his legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been encased in
      broadcloth pantaloons,&mdash;though that was not quite the best either,
      for of necessity the baby was an uncle too. The delight of Kit's mother
      and of Barbara's mother upon the great occasion is past all telling;
      finding they agreed so well on that, and on all other subjects, they took
      up their abode together, and were a most harmonious pair of friends from
      that time forth. And hadn't Astley's cause to bless itself for their all
      going together once a quarter&mdash;to the pit&mdash;and didn't Kit's
      mother always say, when they painted the outside, that Kit's last treat
      had helped to that, and wonder what the manager would feel if he but knew
      it as they passed his house!
    </p>
    <p>
      When Kit had children six and seven years old, there was a Barbara among
      them, and a pretty Barbara she was. Nor was there wanting an exact
      facsimile and copy of little Jacob, as he appeared in those remote times
      when they taught him what oysters meant. Of course there was an Abel, own
      godson to the Mr Garland of that name; and there was a Dick, whom Mr
      Swiveller did especially favour. The little group would often gather round
      him of a night and beg him to tell again that story of good Miss Nell who
      died. This, Kit would do; and when they cried to hear it, wishing it
      longer too, he would teach them how she had gone to Heaven, as all good
      people did; and how, if they were good, like her, they might hope to be
      there too, one day, and to see and know her as he had done when he was
      quite a boy. Then, he would relate to them how needy he used to be, and
      how she had taught him what he was otherwise too poor to learn, and how
      the old man had been used to say 'she always laughs at Kit;' at which they
      would brush away their tears, and laugh themselves to think that she had
      done so, and be again quite merry.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sometimes took them to the street where she had lived; but new
      improvements had altered it so much, it was not like the same. The old
      house had been long ago pulled down, and a fine broad road was in its
      place. At first he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground to
      show them where it used to stand. But he soon became uncertain of the
      spot, and could only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and these
      alterations were confusing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such are the changes which a few years bring about, and so do things pass
      away, like a tale that is told!
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%">
      <img src="images/0536m.jpg" alt="0536m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0536.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
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