"The Old Curiosity Shop\n\nBy Charles Dickens\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\nNight is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave\nhome early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or\neven escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the country, I\nseldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its\nlight and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any\ncreature living.\n\nI have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my\ninfirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating\non the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The\nglare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like\nmine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp\nor a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full\nrevelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is\nkinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built\ncastle at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or\nremorse.\n\nThat constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that\nincessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy--is\nit not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear it!\nThink of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court, listening\nto the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness obliged,\ndespite himself (as though it were a task he must perform) to detect\nthe child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from the booted\nexquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel of the sauntering\noutcast from the quick tread of an expectant pleasure-seeker--think of\nthe hum and noise always being present to his sense, and of the stream\nof life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on, through all his\nrestless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie, dead but conscious, in\na noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest for centuries to come.\n\nThen, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (on\nthose which are free of toll at last), where many stop on fine evenings\nlooking listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea that by and\nby it runs between green banks which grow wider and wider until at last\nit joins the broad vast sea--where some halt to rest from heavy loads\nand think as they look over the parapet that to smoke and lounge away\none's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin, in a\ndull, slow, sluggish barge, must be happiness unalloyed--and where\nsome, and a very different class, pause with heavier loads than they,\nremembering to have heard or read in old time that drowning was not a\nhard death, but of all means of suicide the easiest and best.\n\nCovent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when the\nfragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even the\nunwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky\nthrush, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night long,\nhalf mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at all akin\nto the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from the hot\nhands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already, while\nothers, soddened by close contact, await the time when they shall be\nwatered and freshened up to please more sober company, and make old\nclerks who pass them on their road to business, wonder what has filled\ntheir breasts with visions of the country.\n\nBut my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The story I\nam about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals,  arose out\nof one of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak of them by\nway of preface.\n\nOne night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on in my\nusual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an\ninquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be\naddressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that\nstruck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and found at my elbow\na pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at\na considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the\ntown.\n\n'It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'\n\n'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very long\nway, for I came from there to-night.'\n\n'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.\n\n'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I\nhad lost my road.'\n\n'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?'\n\n'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are\nsuch a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'\n\nI cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the\nenergy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's\nclear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my\nface.\n\n'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'\n\nShe put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had known me from her\ncradle, and we trudged away together; the little creature accommodating\nher pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I\nto be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a\ncurious look at my face, as if to make quite sure that I was not\ndeceiving her, and that these glances (very sharp and keen they were\ntoo) seemed to increase her confidence at every repetition.\n\nFor my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the\nchild's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probably\nfrom what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame\nimparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more\nscantily attired than she might have been she was dressed with perfect\nneatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect.\n\n'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I.\n\n'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.'\n\n'And what have you been doing?'\n\n'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly.\n\nThere was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to look\nat the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise; for\nI wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be\nprepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, for\nas it met mine she added that there was no harm in what she had been\ndoing, but it was a great secret--a secret which she did not even know\nherself.\n\nThis was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an\nunsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as\nbefore, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and talking\ncheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home, beyond\nremarking that we were going quite a new road and asking if it were a\nshort one.\n\nWhile we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred different\nexplanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I really felt\nashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of\nthe child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these\nlittle people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh\nfrom God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by her confidence I\ndetermined to deserve it, and to do credit to the nature which had\nprompted her to repose it in me.\n\nThere was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the\nperson who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night\nand alone, and as it was not improbable that if she found herself near\nhome she might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportunity, I\navoided the most frequented ways and took the most intricate, and thus\nit was not until we arrived in the street itself that she knew where we\nwere. Clapping her hands with pleasure and running on before me for a\nshort distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door and remaining\non the step till I came up knocked at it when I joined her.\n\nA part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which I\ndid not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and\nI was anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to our\nsummons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if\nsome person were moving inside, and at length a faint light appeared\nthrough the glass which, as it approached very slowly, the bearer\nhaving to make his way through a great many scattered articles, enabled\nme to see both what kind of person it was who advanced and what kind of\nplace it was through which he came.\n\nIt was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he held\nthe light above his head and looked before him as he approached, I\ncould plainly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could\nrecognize in his spare and slender form something of that delicate\nmould which I had noticed in the child. Their bright blue eyes were\ncertainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed and so very full\nof care, that here all resemblance ceased.\n\nThe place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those\nreceptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd\ncorners of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public\neye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing like\nghosts in armour here and there, fantastic carvings brought from\nmonkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures in\nchina and wood and iron and ivory: tapestry and strange furniture that\nmight have been designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little\nold man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among\nold churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils\nwith his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was\nin keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he.\n\nAs he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment\nwhich was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The\ndoor being opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told him\nthe little story of our companionship.\n\n'Why, bless thee, child,' said the old man, patting her on the head,\n'how couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell!'\n\n'I would have found my way back to YOU, grandfather,' said the child\nboldly; 'never fear.'\n\nThe old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to walk in, I\ndid so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the light, he\nled me through the place I had already seen from without, into a small\nsitting-room behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of\ncloset, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it\nlooked so very small and was so prettily arranged. The child took a\ncandle and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me\ntogether.\n\n'You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the fire,\n'how can I thank you?'\n\n'By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend,'\nI replied.\n\n'More care!' said the old man in a shrill voice, 'more care of Nelly!\nWhy, who ever loved a child as I love Nell?'\n\nHe said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what\nanswer to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble\nand wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and\nanxious thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been\nat first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility.\n\n'I don't think you consider--' I began.\n\n'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't\nconsider her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly,\nlittle Nelly!'\n\nIt would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech\nmight be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did,\nin these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his\nchin upon his hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes\nupon the fire.\n\nWhile we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened,\nand the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her\nneck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us.\nShe busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was\nthus engaged I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of\nobserving me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to see\nthat all this time everything was done by the child, and that there\nappeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took\nadvantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this\npoint, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons\nas trustworthy or as careful as she.\n\n'It always grieves me,' I observed, roused by what I took to be his\nselfishness, 'it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of\nchildren into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than\ninfants. It checks their confidence and simplicity--two of the best\nqualities that Heaven gives them--and demands that they share our\nsorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.'\n\n'It will never check hers,' said the old man looking steadily at me,\n'the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but\nfew pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and\npaid for.'\n\n'But--forgive me for saying this--you are surely not so very\npoor'--said I.\n\n'She is not my child, sir,' returned the old man. 'Her mother was, and\nshe was poor. I save nothing--not a penny--though I live as you see,\nbut'--he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to whisper--'she\nshall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think ill\nof me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as you see, and\nit would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do\nfor me what her little hands could undertake. I don't consider!'--he\ncried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God knows that this one child is\nthe thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me--no,\nnever!'\n\nAt this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and\nthe old man motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said\nno more.\n\nWe had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by\nwhich I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was\nrejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it\nwas no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.\n\n'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She always\nlaughs at poor Kit.'\n\nThe child laughed again more heartily than before, and I could not help\nsmiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and\nwent to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.\n\nKit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide\nmouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most\ncomical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on\nseeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat\nwithout any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and\nnow on the other and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway,\nlooking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever\nbeheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that\nminute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life.\n\n'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man.\n\n'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit.\n\n'Of course you have come back hungry?'\n\n'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the answer.\n\nThe lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and\nthrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at\nhis voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have\namused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity,\nand the relief it was to find that there was something she associated\nwith merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite\nirresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered\nby the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his\ngravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open\nand his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.\n\nThe old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no\nnotice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the\nchild's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the\nfullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after\nthe little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had\nbeen all the time one of that sort which very little would change into\na cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer\ninto a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great\nvoracity.\n\n'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to\nhim but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you tell me that\nI don't consider her.'\n\n'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first\nappearances, my friend,' said I.\n\n'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither, Nell.'\n\nThe little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck.\n\n'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say--do I love thee, Nell, or no?'\n\nThe child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his\nbreast.\n\n'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him\nand glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and\ndost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well,\nwell--then let us say I love thee dearly.'\n\n'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great earnestness, 'Kit\nknows you do.'\n\nKit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing\ntwo-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a\njuggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and\nbawled 'Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after which he\nincapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most\nprodigious sandwich at one bite.\n\n'She is poor now'--said the old man, patting the child's cheek, 'but I\nsay again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a\nlong time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it\nsurely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and\nriot. When WILL it come to me!'\n\n'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child.\n\n'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know--how should'st\nthou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time must come, I\nam very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late'; and\nthen he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding\nthe child between his knees appeared to be insensible to everything\naround him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I\nrose to go, which recalled him to himself.\n\n'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit--near midnight, boy, and you\nstill here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the\nmorning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night,\nNell, and let him be gone!'\n\n'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment\nand kindness.'\n\n'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.\n\n'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose care\nI might have lost my little girl to-night.'\n\n'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'\n\n'What do you mean?' cried the old man.\n\n'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet\nthat I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as\nanybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!'\n\nOnce more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a\nstentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out.\n\nFree of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he\nhad gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man\nsaid:\n\n'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night,\nbut I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks\nare better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and\nthought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her--I am not\nindeed.'\n\nI was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may\nI ask you a question?'\n\n'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'\n\n'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and\nintelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other\ncompanion or advisor?'\n\n'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants no\nother.'\n\n'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a charge\nso tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you\nknow how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you,\nand I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and\npromising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this\nlittle creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from\npain?'\n\n'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence.' I have no right\nto feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the\nchild, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But waking\nor sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one\nobject of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on\nme with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a weary life for an\nold man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great end to gain and that\nI keep before me.'\n\nSeeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to\nput on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room,\npurposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing\npatiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and\nstick.\n\n'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I.\n\n'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.'\n\n'But he is not going out to-night.'\n\n'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile.\n\n'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?'\n\n'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'\n\nI looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to\nbe, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to\nthe slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all\nthe long, dreary night.\n\nShe evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the\nold man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to light us\nout. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back\nwith a smile and waited for us.  The old man showed by his face that he\nplainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he merely signed to\nme with an inclination of the head to pass out of the room before him,\nand remained silent. I had no resource but to comply.\n\nWhen we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned to\nsay good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old\nman, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.\n\n'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard thy\nbed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.'\n\n'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel so\nhappy!'\n\n'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man. 'Bless\nthee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.'\n\n'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me, even\nin the middle of a dream.'\n\nWith this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded by a\nshutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house) and\nwith another farewell whose clear and tender note I have recalled a\nthousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a\nmoment while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and\nsatisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At the\nstreet-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a troubled countenance\nsaid that our ways were widely different and that he must take his\nleave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than might\nhave been expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away. I could\nsee that twice or thrice he looked back as if to ascertain if I were\nstill watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that I was not\nfollowing at a distance. The obscurity of the night favoured his\ndisappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my sight.\n\nI remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to\ndepart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully\ninto the street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my\nsteps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and\nlistened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the grave.\n\nYet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all\npossible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and robberies\nand even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensue if I turned my\nback upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street\nbrought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed the road\nand looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise had not come\nfrom there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as before.\n\nThere were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and\npretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and\nnow and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled\nhomewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and soon ceased.\nThe clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that\nevery time should be the last, and breaking faith with myself on some\nnew plea as often as I did so.\n\nThe more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and\nbearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had\na strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I\nhad only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and\nthough the old man was by at the time, and saw my undisguised surprise,\nhe had preserved a strange mystery upon the subject and offered no word\nof explanation. These reflections naturally recalled again more\nstrongly than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his\nrestless anxious looks. His affection for the child might not be\ninconsistent with villany of the worst kind; even that very affection\nwas in itself an extraordinary contradiction, or how could he leave her\nthus? Disposed as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his\nlove for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remembering what\nhad passed between us, and the tone of voice in which he had called her\nby her name.\n\n'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my question, 'I\nalways do!' What could take him from home by night, and every night! I\ncalled up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret\ndeeds committed in great towns and escaping detection for a long series\nof years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not find one\nadapted to this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable, in\nproportion as I sought to solve it.\n\nOccupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all tending\nto the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long hours;\nat length the rain began to descend heavily, and then over-powered by\nfatigue though no less interested than I had been at first, I engaged\nthe nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was blazing on the\nhearth, the lamp burnt brightly, my clock received me with its old\nfamiliar welcome; everything was quiet, warm and cheering, and in happy\ncontrast to the gloom and darkness I had quitted.\n\nBut all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred\nand the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever before\nme the old dark murky rooms--the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly\nsilent air--the faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone--the dust\nand rust and worm that lives in wood--and alone in the midst of all\nthis lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle\nslumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\nAfter combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which impelled me to\nrevisit the place I had quitted under the circumstances already\ndetailed, I yielded to it at length; and determining that this time I\nwould present myself by the light of day, bent my steps thither early\nin the morning.\n\nI walked past the house, and took several turns in the street, with\nthat kind of hesitation which is natural to a man who is conscious that\nthe visit he is about to pay is unexpected, and may not be very\nacceptable. However, as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not\nappear likely that I should be recognized by those within, if I\ncontinued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon conquered this\nirresolution, and found myself in the Curiosity Dealer's warehouse.\n\nThe old man and another person were together in the back part, and\nthere seemed to have been high words between them, for their voices\nwhich were raised to a very high pitch suddenly stopped on my entering,\nand the old man advancing hastily towards me, said in a tremulous tone\nthat he was very glad I had come.\n\n'You interrupted us at a critical moment,' said he, pointing to the man\nwhom I had found in company with him; 'this fellow will murder me one\nof these days. He would have done so, long ago, if he had dared.'\n\n'Bah! You would swear away my life if you could,' returned the other,\nafter bestowing a stare and a frown on me; 'we all know that!'\n\n'I almost think I could,' cried the old man, turning feebly upon him.\n'If oaths, or prayers, or words, could rid me of you, they should. I\nwould be quit of you, and would be relieved if you were dead.'\n\n'I know it,' returned the other. 'I said so, didn't I? But neither\noaths, or prayers, nor words, WILL kill me, and therefore I live, and\nmean to live.'\n\n'And his mother died!' cried the old man, passionately clasping his\nhands and looking upward; 'and this is Heaven's justice!'\n\nThe other stood lunging with his foot upon a chair, and regarded him\nwith a contemptuous sneer. He was a young man of one-and-twenty or\nthereabouts; well made, and certainly handsome, though the expression\nof his face was far from prepossessing, having in common with his\nmanner and even his dress, a dissipated, insolent air which repelled\none.\n\n'Justice or no justice,' said the young fellow, 'here I am and here I\nshall stop till such time as I think fit to go, unless you send for\nassistance to put me out--which you won't do, I know. I tell you again\nthat I want to see my sister.'\n\n'YOUR sister!' said the old man bitterly.\n\n'Ah! You can't change the relationship,' returned the other. 'If you\ncould, you'd have done it long ago. I want to see my sister, that you\nkeep cooped up here, poisoning her mind with your sly secrets and\npretending an affection for her that you may work her to death, and add\na few scraped shillings every week to the money you can hardly count. I\nwant to see her; and I will.'\n\n'Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds! Here's a generous spirit\nto scorn scraped-up shillings!' cried the old man, turning from him to\nme. 'A profligate, sir, who has forfeited every claim not only upon\nthose who have the misfortune to be of his blood, but upon society\nwhich knows nothing of him but his misdeeds. A liar too,' he added, in\na lower voice as he drew closer to me, 'who knows how dear she is to\nme, and seeks to wound me even there, because there is a stranger\nnearby.'\n\n'Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather,' said the young fellow\ncatching at the word, 'nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do, is\nto keep an eye to their business and leave me to mine. There's a friend\nof mine waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to wait some\ntime, I'll call him in, with your leave.'\n\nSaying this, he stepped to the door, and looking down the street\nbeckoned several times to some unseen person, who, to judge from the\nair of impatience with which these signals were accompanied, required a\ngreat quantity of persuasion to induce him to advance. At length there\nsauntered up, on the opposite side of the way--with a bad pretense of\npassing by accident--a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness,\nwhich after a great many frowns and jerks of the head, in resistance of\nthe invitation, ultimately crossed the road and was brought into the\nshop.\n\n'There. It's Dick Swiveller,' said the young fellow, pushing him in.\n'Sit down, Swiveller.'\n\n'But is the old min agreeable?' said Mr Swiveller in an undertone.\n\nMr Swiveller complied, and looking about him with a propitiatory smile,\nobserved that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and this week\nwas a fine week for the dust; he also observed that whilst standing by\nthe post at the street-corner, he had observed a pig with a straw in\nhis mouth issuing out of the tobacco-shop, from which appearance he\naugured that another fine week for the ducks was approaching, and that\nrain would certainly ensue. He furthermore took occasion to apologize\nfor any negligence that might be perceptible in his dress, on the\nground that last night he had had 'the sun very strong in his eyes'; by\nwhich expression he was understood to convey to his hearers in the most\ndelicate manner possible, the information that he had been extremely\ndrunk.\n\n'But what,' said Mr Swiveller with a sigh, 'what is the odds so long as\nthe fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the wing\nof friendship never moults a feather! What is the odds so long as the\nspirit is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present moment is the\nleast happiest of our existence!'\n\n'You needn't act the chairman here,' said his friend, half aside.\n\n'Fred!' cried Mr Swiveller, tapping his nose, 'a word to the wise is\nsufficient for them--we may be good and happy without riches, Fred.\nSay not another syllable. I know my cue; smart is the word. Only one\nlittle whisper, Fred--is the old min friendly?'\n\n'Never you mind,' replied his friend.\n\n'Right again, quite right,' said Mr Swiveller, 'caution is the word,\nand caution is the act.' with that, he winked as if in preservation of\nsome deep secret, and folding his arms and leaning back in his chair,\nlooked up at the ceiling with profound gravity.\n\nIt was perhaps not very unreasonable to suspect from what had already\npassed, that Mr Swiveller was not quite recovered from the effects of\nthe powerful sunlight to which he had made allusion; but if no such\nsuspicion had been awakened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull eyes,\nand sallow face would still have been strong witnesses against him. His\nattire was not, as he had himself hinted, remarkable for the  nicest\narrangement, but was in a state of disorder which strongly induced the\nidea that he had gone to bed in it. It consisted of a brown body-coat\nwith a great many brass buttons up the front and only one behind, a\nbright check neckerchief, a plaid waistcoat, soiled white trousers, and\na very limp hat, worn with the wrong side foremost, to hide a hole in\nthe brim. The breast of his coat was ornamented with an outside pocket\nfrom which there peeped forth the cleanest end of a very large and very\nill-favoured handkerchief; his dirty wristbands were pulled on as far\nas possible and ostentatiously folded back over his cuffs; he displayed\nno gloves, and carried a yellow cane having at the top a bone hand with\nthe semblance of a ring on its little finger and a black ball in its\ngrasp. With all these personal advantages (to which may be added a\nstrong savour of tobacco-smoke, and a prevailing greasiness of\nappearance) Mr Swiveller leant back in his chair with his eyes fixed on\nthe ceiling, and occasionally pitching his voice to the needful key,\nobliged the company with a few bars of an intensely dismal air, and\nthen, in the middle of a note, relapsed into his former silence.\n\nThe old man sat himself down in a chair, and with folded hands, looked\nsometimes at his grandson and sometimes at his strange companion, as if\nhe were utterly powerless and had no resource but to leave them to do\nas they pleased. The young man reclined against a table at no great\ndistance from his friend, in apparent indifference to everything that\nhad passed; and I--who felt the difficulty of any interference,\nnotwithstanding that the old man had appealed to me, both by words and\nlooks--made the best feint I could of being occupied in examining some\nof the goods that were disposed for sale, and paying very little\nattention to a person before me.\n\nThe silence was not of long duration, for Mr Swiveller, after favouring\nus with several melodious assurances that his heart was in the\nHighlands, and that he wanted but his Arab steed as a preliminary to\nthe achievement of great feats of valour and loyalty, removed his eyes\nfrom the ceiling and subsided into prose again.\n\n'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller stopping short, as if the idea had suddenly\noccurred to him, and speaking in the same audible whisper as before,\n'is the old min friendly?'\n\n'What does it matter?' returned his friend peevishly.\n\n'No, but IS he?' said Dick.\n\n'Yes, of course. What do I care whether he is or not?'\n\nEmboldened as it seemed by this reply to enter into a more general\nconversation, Mr Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate our\nattention.\n\nHe began by remarking that soda-water, though a good thing in the\nabstract, was apt to lie cold upon the stomach unless qualified with\nginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which latter article he held to\nbe preferable in all cases, saving for the one consideration of\nexpense. Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he proceeded to\nobserve that the human hair was a great retainer of tobacco-smoke, and\nthat the young gentlemen of Westminster and Eton, after eating vast\nquantities of apples to conceal any scent of cigars from their anxious\nfriends, were usually detected in consequence of their heads possessing\nthis remarkable property; when he concluded that if the Royal Society\nwould turn their attention to the circumstance, and endeavour to find\nin the resources of science a means of preventing such untoward\nrevelations, they might indeed be looked upon as benefactors to\nmankind. These opinions being equally incontrovertible with those he\nhad already pronounced, he went on to inform us that Jamaica rum,\nthough unquestionably an agreeable spirit of great richness and\nflavour, had the drawback of remaining constantly present to the taste\nnext day; and nobody being venturous enough to argue this point either,\nhe increased in confidence and became yet more companionable and\ncommunicative.\n\n'It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen,' said Mr Swiveller, 'when\nrelations fall out and disagree. If the wing of friendship should never\nmoult a feather, the wing of relationship should never be clipped, but\nbe always expanded and serene. Why should a grandson and grandfather\npeg away at each other with mutual wiolence when all might be bliss and\nconcord. Why not jine hands and forgit it?'\n\n'Hold your tongue,' said his friend.\n\n'Sir,' replied Mr Swiveller, 'don't you interrupt the chair.\nGentlemen, how does the case stand, upon the present occasion?  Here is\na jolly old grandfather--I say it with the utmost respect--and here is\na wild, young grandson. The jolly old grandfather says to the wild\nyoung grandson, \"I have brought you up and educated you, Fred; I have\nput you in the way of getting on in life; you have bolted a little out\nof course, as young fellows often do; and you shall never have another\nchance, nor the ghost of half a one.\"  The wild young grandson makes\nanswer to this and says, \"You're as rich as rich can be; you have been\nat no uncommon expense on my account, you're saving up piles of money\nfor my little sister that lives with you in a secret, stealthy,\nhugger-muggering kind of way and with no manner of enjoyment--why can't\nyou stand a trifle for your grown-up relation?\" The jolly old\ngrandfather unto this, retorts, not only that he declines to fork out\nwith that cheerful readiness which is always so agreeable and pleasant\nin a gentleman of his time of life, but that he will bow up, and call\nnames, and make reflections whenever they meet. Then the plain question\nis, an't it a pity that this state of things should continue, and how\nmuch better would it be for the gentleman to hand over a reasonable\namount of tin, and make it all right and comfortable?'\n\nHaving delivered this oration with a great many waves and flourishes of\nthe hand, Mr Swiveller abruptly thrust the head of his cane into his\nmouth as if to prevent himself from impairing the effect of his speech\nby adding one other word.\n\n'Why do you hunt and persecute me, God help me!' said the old man\nturning to his grandson. 'Why do you bring your prolifigate companions\nhere? How often am I to tell you that my life is one of care and\nself-denial, and that I am poor?'\n\n'How often am I to tell you,' returned the other, looking coldly at\nhim, 'that I know better?'\n\n'You have chosen your own path,' said the old man. 'Follow it.  Leave\nNell and me to toil and work.'\n\n'Nell will be a woman soon,' returned the other, 'and, bred in your\nfaith, she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes.'\n\n'Take care,' said the old man with sparkling eyes, 'that she does not\nforget you when you would have her memory keenest. Take care that the\nday don't come when you walk barefoot in the streets, and she rides by\nin a gay carriage of her own.'\n\n'You mean when she has your money?' retorted the other. 'How like a\npoor man he talks!'\n\n'And yet,' said the old man dropping his voice and speaking like one\nwho thinks aloud, 'how poor we are, and what a life it is! The cause is\na young child's guiltless of all harm or wrong, but nothing goes well\nwith it! Hope and patience, hope and patience!'\n\nThese words were uttered in too low a tone to reach the ears of the\nyoung men.  Mr Swiveller appeared to think that they implied some mental\nstruggle consequent upon the powerful effect of his address, for he\npoked his friend with his cane and whispered his conviction that he had\nadministered 'a clincher,' and that he expected a commission on the\nprofits. Discovering his mistake after a while, he appeared to grow\nrather sleepy and discontented, and had more than once suggested the\npropriety of an immediate departure, when the door opened, and the\nchild herself appeared.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\nThe child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard\nfeatures and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be quite a\ndwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a\ngiant. His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his mouth and\nchin, bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard; and his\ncomplexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or wholesome.\nBut what added most to the grotesque expression of his face was a\nghastly smile, which, appearing to be the mere result of habit and to\nhave no connection with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly\nrevealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his\nmouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. His dress consisted of\na large high-crowned hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes,\nand a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to\ndisclose the greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had\nwas of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his temples, and\nhanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears. His hands, which were of a\nrough, coarse grain, were very dirty; his fingernails were crooked,\nlong, and yellow.\n\nThere was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they\nwere sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some moments\nelapsed before any one broke silence. The child advanced timidly\ntowards her brother and put her hand in his, the dwarf (if we may call\nhim so) glanced keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer, who\nplainly had not expected his uncouth visitor, seemed disconcerted and\nembarrassed.\n\n'Ah!' said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes\nhad been surveying the young man attentively, 'that should be your\ngrandson, neighbour!'\n\n'Say rather that he should not be,' replied the old man. 'But he is.'\n\n'And that?' said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller.\n\n'Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,' said the old man.\n\n'And that?' inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight at\nme.\n\n'A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night when\nshe lost her way, coming from your house.'\n\nThe little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his\nwonder, but as she was talking to the young man, held his peace, and\nbent his head to listen.\n\n'Well, Nelly,' said the young fellow aloud. 'Do they teach you to hate\nme, eh?'\n\n'No, no. For shame. Oh, no!' cried the child.\n\n'To love me, perhaps?' pursued her brother with a sneer.\n\n'To do neither,' she returned. 'They never speak to me about you.\nIndeed they never do.'\n\n'I dare be bound for that,' he said, darting a bitter look at the\ngrandfather. 'I dare be bound for that Nell. Oh! I believe you there!'\n\n'But I love you dearly, Fred,' said the child.\n\n'No doubt!'\n\n'I do indeed, and always will,' the child repeated with great emotion,\n'but oh! If you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy, then\nI could love you more.'\n\n'I see!' said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child,\nand having kissed her, pushed her from him: 'There--get you away now\nyou have said your lesson. You needn't whimper. We part good friends\nenough, if that's the matter.'\n\nHe remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained\nher little room and closed the door; and then turning to the dwarf,\nsaid abruptly,\n\n'Harkee, Mr--'\n\n'Meaning me?' returned the dwarf. 'Quilp is my name. You might\nremember. It's not a long one--Daniel Quilp.'\n\n'Harkee, Mr Quilp, then,' pursued the other, 'You have some influence\nwith my grandfather there.'\n\n'Some,' said Mr Quilp emphatically.\n\n'And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets.'\n\n'A few,' replied Quilp, with equal dryness.\n\n'Then let me tell him once for all, through you, that I will come into\nand go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps Nell\nhere; and that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of\nher. What have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned and\ndreaded as if I brought the plague? He'll tell you that I have no\nnatural affection; and that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake,\nthan I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the whim, then, of coming\nto and fro and reminding her of my existence. I WILL see her when I\nplease. That's my point. I came here to-day to maintain it, and I'll\ncome here again fifty times with the same object and always with the\nsame success. I said I would stop till I had gained it.  I have done\nso, and now my visit's ended. Come Dick.'\n\n'Stop!' cried Mr Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the door.\n'Sir!'\n\n'Sir, I am your humble servant,' said Mr Quilp, to whom the\nmonosyllable was addressed.\n\n'Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and halls of dazzling light,\nsir,' said Mr Swiveller, 'I will with your permission, attempt a slight\nremark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old\nmin was friendly.'\n\n'Proceed, sir,' said Daniel Quilp; for the orator had made a sudden\nstop.\n\n'Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling\nas a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying, was not the\nsort of thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social\nharmony of the contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a\ncourse which is THE course to be adopted to the present occasion.  Will\nyou allow me to whisper half a syllable, sir?'\n\nWithout waiting for the permission he sought, Mr Swiveller stepped up\nto the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to get at\nhis ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all present,\n\n'The watch-word to the old min is--fork.'\n\n'Is what?' demanded Quilp.\n\n'Is fork, sir, fork,' replied Mr Swiveller slapping his pocket. 'You\nare awake, sir?'\n\nThe dwarf nodded. Mr Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise, then drew\na little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these means he in\ntime reached the door, where he gave a great cough to attract the\ndwarf's attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in dumb show,\nthe closest confidence and most inviolable secrecy.  Having performed\nthe serious pantomime that was necessary for the due conveyance of\nthese idea, he cast himself upon his friend's track, and vanished.\n\n'Humph!' said the dwarf with a sour look and a shrug of his shoulders,\n'so much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge none! Nor need you\neither,' he added, turning to the old man, 'if you were not as weak as\na reed, and nearly as senseless.'\n\n'What would you have me do?' he retorted in a kind of helpless\ndesperation. 'It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?'\n\n'What would I do if I was in your case?' said the dwarf.\n\n'Something violent, no doubt.'\n\n'You're right there,' returned the little man, highly gratified by the\ncompliment, for such he evidently considered it; and grinning like a\ndevil as he rubbed his dirty hands together. 'Ask Mrs Quilp, pretty Mrs\nQuilp, obedient, timid, loving Mrs Quilp. But that reminds me--I have\nleft her all alone, and she will be anxious and know not a moment's\npeace till I return. I know she's always in that condition when I'm\naway, thought she doesn't dare to say so, unless I lead her on and tell\nher she may speak freely and I won't be angry with her.  Oh!\nwell-trained Mrs Quilp.'\n\nThe creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and little\nbody, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, and round, and round\nagain--with something fantastic even in his manner of performing this\nslight action--and, dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in\nthe air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation that an imp\nmight have copied and appropriated to himself.\n\n'Here,' he said, putting his hand into his breast and sidling up to the\nold man as he spoke; 'I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as,\nbeing in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in\nher bag. She need be accustomed to such loads betimes though,\nneighbor, for she will carry weight when you are dead.'\n\n'Heaven send she may! I hope so,' said the old man with something like\na groan.\n\n'Hope so!' echoed the dwarf, approaching close to his ear; 'neighbour,\nI would I knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk. But\nyou are a deep man, and keep your secret close.'\n\n'My secret!' said the other with a haggard look. 'Yes, you're\nright--I--I--keep it close--very close.'\n\nHe said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow,\nuncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and\ndejected man. The dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into the\nlittle sitting-room and locked it in an iron safe above the\nchimney-piece; and after musing for a short space, prepared to take his\nleave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs Quilp would\ncertainly be in fits on his return.\n\n'And so, neighbour,' he added, 'I'll turn my face homewards, leaving my\nlove for Nelly and hoping she may never lose her way again, though her\ndoing so HAS procured me an honour I didn't expect.' With that he bowed\nand leered at me, and with a keen glance around which seemed to\ncomprehend every object within his range of vision, however, small or\ntrivial, went his way.\n\nI had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always\nopposed it and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on\nour being left along, and adverted with many thanks to the former\noccasion of our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions,\nand sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures and a few\nold medals which he placed before me. It needed no great pressing to\ninduce me to stay, for if my curiosity has been excited on the occasion\nof my first visit, it certainly was not diminished now.\n\nNell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-work to the table,\nsat by the old man's side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh flowers\nin the room, the pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage,\nthe breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle through the\nold dull house and hover round the child. It was curious, but not so\npleasant, to turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to the\nstooping figure, care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man.  As\nhe grew weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely little\ncreature; poor protector as he was, say that he died--what would be her\nfate, then?\n\nThe old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers,\nand spoke aloud.\n\n'I'll be of better cheer, Nell,' he said; 'there must be good fortune\nin store for thee--I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries\nmust fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but\nthat, being tempted, it will come at last!'\n\nShe looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer.\n\n'When I think,' said he, 'of the many years--many in thy short\nlife--that thou has lived with me; of my monotonous existence, knowing\nno companions of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the\nsolitude in which thou has grown to be what thou art, and in which thou\nhast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old man; I sometimes\nfear I have dealt hardly by thee, Nell.'\n\n'Grandfather!' cried the child in unfeigned surprise.\n\n'Not in intention--no no,' said he. 'I have ever looked forward to the\ntime that should enable thee to mix among the gayest and prettiest, and\ntake thy station with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I still\nlook forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, meanwhile, how\nhave I fitted thee for struggles with the world? The poor bird yonder\nis as well qualified to encounter it, and be turned adrift upon its\nmercies--Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him.'\n\nShe rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and put her arms\nabout the old man's neck, then left him and hurried away again--but\nfaster this time, to hide her falling tears.\n\n'A word in your ear, sir,' said the old man in a hurried whisper. 'I\nhave been rendered uneasy by what you said the other night, and can\nonly plead that I have done all for the best--that it is too late to\nretract, if I could (though I cannot)--and that I hope to triumph yet.\nAll is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, and would spare\nher the sufferings that poverty carries with it. I would spare her the\nmiseries that brought her mother, my own dear child, to an early grave.\nI would leave her--not with resources which could be easily spent or\nsquandered away, but with what would place her beyond the reach of want\nfor ever. You mark me sir? She shall have no pittance, but a\nfortune--Hush! I can say no more than that, now or at any other time,\nand she is here again!'\n\nThe eagerness with which all this was poured into my ear, the trembling\nof the hand with which he clasped my arm, the strained and starting\neyes he fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and agitation of his manner,\nfilled me with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a great\npart of what he had said himself, led me to suppose that he was a\nwealthy man. I could form no comprehension of his character, unless he\nwere one of those miserable wretches who, having made gain the sole end\nand object of their lives and having succeeded in amassing great\nriches, are constantly tortured by the dread of poverty, and best by\nfears of loss and ruin. Many things he had said which I had been at a\nloss to understand, were quite reconcilable with the idea thus\npresented to me, and at length I concluded that beyond all doubt he was\none of this unhappy race.\n\nThe opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, for which indeed\nthere was no opportunity at that time, as the child came directly, and\nsoon occupied herself in preparations for giving Kit a writing lesson,\nof which it seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on\nthat evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both of himself and his\ninstructress. To relate how it was a long time before his modesty could\nbe so far prevailed upon as it admit of his sitting down in the\nparlour, in the presence of an unknown gentleman--how, when he did set\ndown, he tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his face\nclose to the copy-book and squinted horribly at the lines--how, from\nthe very first moment of having the pen in his hand, he began to wallow\nin blots, and to daub himself with ink up to the very roots of his\nhair--how, if he did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately\nsmeared it out again with his arm in his preparations to make\nanother--how, at every fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst of\nmerriment from the child and louder and not less hearty laugh from poor\nKit himself--and how there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a\ngentle wish on her part to teach, and an anxious desire on his to\nlearn--to relate all these particulars would no doubt occupy more space\nand time than they deserve. It will be sufficient to say that the\nlesson was given--that evening passed and night came on--that the old\nman again grew restless and impatient--that he quitted the house\nsecretly at the same hour as before--and that the child was once more\nleft alone within its gloomy walls.\n\nAnd now that I have carried this history so far in my own character and\nintroduced these personages to the reader, I shall for the convenience\nof the narrative detach myself from its further course, and leave those\nwho have prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for\nthemselves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\nMr and Mrs Quilp resided on Tower Hill; and in her bower on Tower Hill\nMrs Quilp was left to pine the absence of her lord, when he quitted her\non the business which he had already seen to transact.\n\nMr Quilp could scarcely be said to be of any particular trade or\ncalling, though his pursuits were diversified and his occupations\nnumerous. He collected the rents of whole colonies of filthy streets\nand alleys by the waterside, advanced money to the seamen and petty\nofficers of merchant vessels, had a share in the ventures of divers\nmates of East Indiamen, smoked his smuggled cigars under the very nose\nof the Custom House, and made appointments on 'Change with men in\nglazed hats and round jackets pretty well every day. On the Surrey side\nof the river was a small rat-infested dreary yard called 'Quilp's\nWharf,' in which were a little wooden counting-house burrowing all awry\nin the dust as if it had fallen from the clouds and ploughed into the\nground; a few fragments of rusty anchors; several large iron rings;\nsome piles of rotten wood; and two or three heaps of old sheet copper,\ncrumpled, cracked, and battered. On Quilp's Wharf, Daniel Quilp was a\nship-breaker, yet to judge from these appearances he must either have\nbeen a ship-breaker on a very small scale, or have broken his ships up\nvery small indeed. Neither did the place present any extraordinary\naspect of life or activity, as its only human occupant was an\namphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of occupation was\nfrom sitting on the head of a pile and throwing stones into the mud\nwhen the tide was out, to standing with his hands in his pockets gazing\nlistlessly on the motion and on the bustle of the river at high-water.\n\nThe dwarf's lodging on Tower hill comprised, besides the needful\naccommodation for himself and Mrs Quilp, a small sleeping-closet for\nthat lady's mother, who resided with the couple and waged perpetual war\nwith Daniel; of whom, notwithstanding, she stood in no slight dread.\nIndeed, the ugly creature contrived by some means or other--whether by\nhis ugliness or his ferocity or his natural cunning is no great\nmatter--to impress with a wholesome fear of his anger, most of those\nwith whom he was brought into daily contact and communication. Over\nnobody had he such complete ascendance as Mrs Quilp herself--a pretty\nlittle, mild-spoken, blue-eyed woman, who having allied herself in\nwedlock to the dwarf in one of those strange infatuations of which\nexamples are by no means scarce, performed a sound practical penance\nfor her folly, every day of her life.\n\nIt has been said that Mrs Quilp was pining in her bower. In her bower\nshe was, but not alone, for besides the old lady her mother of whom\nmention has recently been made, there were present some half-dozen\nladies of the neighborhood who had happened by a strange accident (and\nalso by a little understanding among themselves) to drop in one after\nanother, just about tea-time. This being a season favourable to\nconversation, and the room being a cool, shady, lazy kind of place,\nwith some plants at the open window shutting out the dust, and\ninterposing pleasantly enough between the tea table within and the old\nTower without, it is no wonder that the ladies felt an inclination to\ntalk and linger, especially when there are taken into account the\nadditional inducements of fresh butter, new bread, shrimps, and\nwatercresses.\n\nNow, the ladies being together under these circumstances, it was\nextremely natural that the discourse should turn upon the propensity of\nmankind to tyrannize over the weaker sex, and the duty that developed\nupon the weaker sex to resist that tyranny and assert their rights and\ndignity. It was natural for four reasons: firstly, because Mrs Quilp\nbeing a young woman and notoriously under the dominion of her husband\nought to be excited to rebel; secondly, because Mrs Quilp's parent was\nknown to be laudably shrewish in her disposition and inclined to resist\nmale authority; thirdly, because each visitor wished to show for\nherself how superior she was in this respect to the generality of her\nsex; and fourthly, because the company being accustomed to scandalise\neach other in pairs, were deprived of their usual subject of\nconversation now that they were all assembled in close friendship, and\nhad consequently no better employment than to attack the common enemy.\n\nMoved by these considerations, a stout lady opened the proceedings by\ninquiring, with an air of great concern and sympathy, how Mr Quilp was;\nwhereunto Mr Quilp's wife's mother replied sharply, 'Oh! He was well\nenough--nothing much was every the matter with him--and ill weeds were\nsure to thrive.' All the ladies then sighed in concert, shook their\nheads gravely, and looked at Mrs Quilp as a martyr.\n\n'Ah!' said the spokeswoman, 'I wish you'd give her a little of your\nadvice, Mrs Jiniwin'--Mrs Quilp had been a Miss Jiniwin it should be\nobserved--'nobody knows better than you, ma'am, what us women owe to\nourselves.'\n\n'Owe indeed, ma'am!' replied Mrs Jiniwin. 'When my poor husband, her\ndear father, was alive, if he had ever ventured a cross word to me, I'd\nhave--' The good old lady did not finish the sentence, but she twisted\noff the head of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed to imply\nthat the action was in some degree a substitute for words. In this\nlight it was clearly understood by the other party, who immediately\nreplied with great approbation, 'You quite enter into my feelings,\nma'am, and it's jist what I'd do myself.'\n\n'But you have no call to do it,' said Mrs Jiniwin. 'Luckily for you,\nyou have no more occasion to do it than I had.'\n\n'No woman need have, if she was true to herself,' rejoined the stout\nlady.\n\n'Do you hear that, Betsy?' said Mrs Jiniwin, in a warning voice.  'How\noften have I said the same words to you, and almost gone down my knees\nwhen I spoke 'em!'\n\nPoor Mrs Quilp, who had looked in a state of helplessness from one face\nof condolence to another, coloured, smiled, and shook her head\ndoubtfully. This was the signal for a general clamour, which beginning\nin a low murmur gradually swelled into a great noise in which everybody\nspoke at once, and all said that she being a young woman had no right\nto set up her opinions against the experiences of those who knew so\nmuch better; that it was very wrong of her not to take the advice of\npeople who had nothing at heart but her good; that it was next door to\nbeing downright ungrateful to conduct herself in that manner; that if\nshe had no respect for herself she ought to have some for other women,\nall of whom she compromised by her meekness; and that if she had no\nrespect for other women, the time would come when other women would\nhave no respect for her; and she would be very sorry for that, they\ncould tell her. Having dealt out these admonitions, the ladies fell to\na more powerful assault than they had yet made upon the  mixed tea, new\nbread, fresh butter, shrimps, and watercresses, and said that their\nvexation was so great to see her going on like that, that they could\nhardly bring themselves to eat a single morsel.\n\nIt's all very fine to talk,' said Mrs Quilp with much simplicity, 'but\nI know that if I was to die to-morrow, Quilp could marry anybody he\npleased--now that he could, I know!'\n\nThere was quite a scream of indignation at this idea. Marry whom he\npleased! They would like to see him dare to think of marrying any of\nthem; they would like to see the faintest approach to such a thing.\nOne lady (a widow) was quite certain she should stab him if he hinted\nat it.\n\n'Very well,' said Mrs Quilp, nodding her head, 'as I said just now,\nit's very easy to talk, but I say again that I know--that I'm\nsure--Quilp has such a way with him when he likes, that the best\nlooking woman here couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free,\nand he chose to make love to her. Come!'\n\nEverybody bridled up at this remark, as much as to say, 'I know you\nmean me. Let him try--that's all.' and yet for some hidden reason they\nwere all angry with the widow, and each lady whispered in her\nneighbour's ear that it was very plain that said widow thought herself\nthe person referred to, and what a puss she was!\n\n'Mother knows,' said Mrs Quilp, 'that what I say is quite correct, for\nshe often said so before we were married. Didn't you say so, mother?'\n\nThis inquiry involved the respected lady in rather a delicate position,\nfor she certainly had been an active party in making her daughter Mrs\nQuilp, and, besides, it was not supporting the family credit to\nencourage the idea that she had married a man whom nobody else would\nhave. On the other hand, to exaggerate the captivating qualities of her\nson-in-law would be to weaken the cause of revolt, in which all her\nenergies were deeply engaged. Beset by these opposing considerations,\nMrs Jiniwin admitted the powers of insinuation, but denied the right to\ngovern, and with a timely compliment to the stout lady brought back the\ndiscussion to the point from which it had strayed.\n\n'Oh! It's a sensible and proper thing indeed, what Mrs George has\nsaid!' exclaimed the old lady. 'If women are only true to\nthemselves!--But Betsy isn't, and more's the shame and pity.'\n\n'Before I'd let a man order me about as Quilp orders her,' said Mrs\nGeorge, 'before I'd consent to stand in awe of a man as she does of\nhim, I'd--I'd kill myself, and write a letter first to say he did it!'\n\nThis remark being loudly commended and approved of, another lady (from\nthe Minories) put in her word:\n\n'Mr Quilp may be a very nice man,' said this lady, 'and I supposed\nthere's no doubt he is, because Mrs Quilp says he is, and Mrs Jiniwin\nsays he is, and they ought to know, or nobody does. But still he is not\nquite a--what one calls a handsome man, nor quite a young man neither,\nwhich might be a little excuse for him if anything could be; whereas\nhis wife is young, and is good-looking, and is a woman--which is the\ngreatest thing after all.'\n\nThis last clause being delivered with extraordinary pathos, elicited a\ncorresponding murmer from the hearers, stimulated by which the lady\nwent on to remark that if such a husband was cross and unreasonable\nwith such a wife, then--\n\n'If he is!' interposed the mother, putting down her tea-cup and\nbrushing the crumbs out of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn\ndeclaration. 'If he is! He is the greatest tyrant that every lived, she\ndaren't call her soul her own, he makes her tremble with a word and\neven with a look, he frightens her to death, and she hasn't the spirit\nto give him a word back, no, not a single word.'\n\nNotwithstanding that the fact had been notorious beforehand to all the\ntea-drinkers, and had been discussed and expatiated on at every\ntea-drinking in the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, this\nofficial communication was no sooner made than they all began to talk\nat once and to vie with each other in vehemence and volubility.  Mrs\nGeorge remarked that people would talk, that people had often said this\nto her before, that Mrs Simmons then and there present had told her so\ntwenty times, that she had always said, 'No, Henrietta Simmons, unless\nI see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears, I never will\nbelieve it.' Mrs Simmons corroborated this testimony and added strong\nevidence of her own. The lady from the Minories recounted a successful\ncourse of treatment under which she had placed her own husband, who,\nfrom manifesting one month after marriage unequivocal symptoms of the\ntiger, had by this means become subdued into a perfect lamb. Another\nlady recounted her own personal struggle and final triumph, in the\ncourse whereof she had found it necessary to call in her mother and two\naunts, and to weep incessantly night and day for six weeks. A third,\nwho in the general confusion could secure no other listener, fastened\nherself upon a young woman still unmarried who happened to be amongst\nthem, and conjured her, as she valued her own peace of mind and\nhappiness to profit by this solemn occasion, to take example from the\nweakness of Mrs Quilp, and from that time forth to direct her whole\nthoughts to taming and subduing the rebellious spirit of man. The noise\nwas at its height, and half the company had elevated their voices into\na perfect shriek in order to drown the voices of the other half, when\nMrs Jiniwin was seen to change colour and shake her forefinger\nstealthily, as if exhorting them to silence. Then, and not until then,\nDaniel Quilp himself, the cause and occasion of all this clamour, was\nobserved to be in the room, looking on and listening with profound\nattention.\n\n'Go on, ladies, go on,' said Daniel. 'Mrs Quilp, pray ask the ladies to\nstop to supper, and have a couple of lobsters and something light and\npalatable.'\n\n'I--I--didn't ask them to tea, Quilp,' stammered his wife. 'It's quite\nan accident.'\n\n'So much the better, Mrs Quilp; these accidental parties are always the\npleasantest,' said the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he seemed\nto be engaged in manufacturing, of the dirt with which they were\nencrusted, little charges for popguns. 'What! Not going, ladies, you\nare not going, surely!'\n\nHis fair enemies tossed their heads slightly as they sought their\nrespective bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal contention to Mrs\nJiniwin, who finding herself in the position of champion, made a faint\nstruggle to sustain the character.\n\n'And why not stop to supper, Quilp,' said the old lady, 'if my daughter\nhad a mind?'\n\n'To be sure,' rejoined Daniel. 'Why not?'\n\n'There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a supper, I hope?' said Mrs\nJiniwin.\n\n'Surely not,' returned the dwarf. 'Why should there be? Nor anything\nunwholesome, either, unless there's lobster-salad or prawns, which I'm\ntold are not good for digestion.'\n\n'And you wouldn't like your wife to be attacked with that, or anything\nelse that would make her uneasy would you?' said Mrs Jiniwin.\n\n'Not for a score of worlds,' replied the dwarf with a grin. 'Not even\nto have a score of mothers-in-law at the same time--and what a blessing\nthat would be!'\n\n'My daughter's your wife, Mr Quilp, certainly,' said the old lady with\na giggle, meant for satirical and to imply that he needed to be\nreminded of the fact; 'your wedded wife.'\n\n'So she is, certainly. So she is,' observed the dwarf.\n\n'And she has a right to do as she likes, I hope, Quilp,' said the\nold lady trembling, partly with anger and partly with a secret fear of\nher impish son-in-law.\n\n'Hope she has!' he replied. 'Oh! Don't you know she has? Don't you know\nshe has, Mrs Jiniwin?\n\n'I know she ought to have, Quilp, and would have, if she was of my way\nof thinking.'\n\n'Why an't you of your mother's way of thinking, my dear?' said the\ndwarf, turing round and addressing his wife, 'why don't you always\nimitate your mother, my dear? She's the ornament of her sex--your\nfather said so every day of his life. I am sure he did.'\n\n'Her father was a blessed creetur, Quilp, and worthy twenty thousand of\nsome people,' said Mrs Jiniwin; 'twenty hundred million thousand.'\n\n'I should like to have known him,' remarked the dwarf. 'I dare say he\nwas a blessed creature then; but I'm sure he is now. It was a happy\nrelease. I believe he had suffered a long time?'\n\nThe old lady gave a gasp, but nothing came of it; Quilp resumed, with\nthe same malice in his eye and the same sarcastic politeness on his\ntongue.\n\n'You look ill, Mrs Jiniwin; I know you have been exciting yourself too\nmuch--talking perhaps, for it is your weakness. Go to bed. Do go to\nbed.'\n\n'I shall go when I please, Quilp, and not before.'\n\n'But please to do now. Do please to go now,' said the dwarf.\n\nThe old woman looked angrily at him, but retreated as he advanced, and\nfalling back before him, suffered him to shut the door upon her and\nbolt her out among the guests, who were by this time crowding\ndownstairs. Being left along with his wife, who sat trembling in a\ncorner with her eyes fixed upon the ground, the little man planted\nhimself before her, and folding his arms looked steadily at her for a\nlong time without speaking.\n\n'Mrs Quilp,' he said at last.\n\n'Yes, Quilp,' she replead meekly.\n\nInstead of pursing the theme he had in his mind, Quilp folded his arms\nagain, and looked at her more sternly than before, while she averted\nher eyes and kept them on the ground.\n\n'Mrs Quilp.'\n\n'Yes, Quilp.'\n\n'If ever you listen to these beldames again, I'll bite you.'\n\nWith this laconic threat, which he accompanied with a snarl that gave\nhim the appearance of being particularly in earnest, Mr Quilp bade her\nclear the teaboard away, and bring the rum. The spirit being set before\nhim in a huge case-bottle, which had originally come out of some ship's\nlocker, he settled himself in an arm-chair with his large head and face\nsqueezed up against the back, and his little legs planted on the table.\n\n'Now, Mrs Quilp,' he said; 'I feel in a smoking humour, and shall\nprobably blaze away all night. But sit where you are, if you please, in\ncase I want you.'\n\nHis wife returned no other reply than the necessary 'Yes, Quilp,' and\nthe small lord of the creation took his first cigar and mixed his first\nglass of grog. The sun went down and the stars peeped out, the Tower\nturned from its own proper colours to grey and from grey to black, the\nroom became perfectly dark and the end of the cigar a deep fiery red,\nbut still Mr Quilp went on smoking and drinking in the same position,\nand staring listlessly out of window with the doglike smile always on\nhis face, save when Mrs Quilp made some involuntary movement of\nrestlessness or fatigue; and then it expanded into a grin of delight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nWhether Mr Quilp took any sleep by snatches of a few winks at a time,\nor whether he sat with his eyes wide open all night long, certain it is\nthat he kept his cigar alight, and kindled every fresh one from the\nashes of that which was nearly consumed, without requiring the\nassistance of a candle. Nor did the striking of the clocks, hour after\nhour, appear to inspire him with any sense of drowsiness or any natural\ndesire to go to rest, but rather to increase his wakefulness, which he\nshowed, at every such indication of the progress of the night, by a\nsuppressed cackling in his throat, and a motion of his shoulders, like\none who laughs heartily but the same time slyly and by stealth.\n\nAt length the day broke, and poor Mrs Quilp, shivering with cold of\nearly morning and harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was discovered\nsitting patiently on her chair, raising her eyes at intervals in mute\nappeal to the compassion and clemency of her lord, and gently reminding\nhim by an occasion cough that she was still unpardoned and that her\npenance had been of long duration. But her dwarfish spouse still smoked\nhis cigar and drank his rum without heeding her; and it was not until\nthe sun had some time risen, and the activity and noise of city day\nwere rife in the street, that he deigned to recognize her presence by\nany word or sign. He might not have done so even then, but for certain\nimpatient tapping at the door he seemed to denote that some pretty hard\nknuckles were actively engaged upon the other side.\n\n'Why dear me!' he said looking round with a malicious grin, 'it's day.\nOpen the door, sweet Mrs Quilp!'\n\nHis obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her lady mother entered.\n\nNow, Mrs Jiniwin bounced into the room with great impetuosity; for,\nsupposing her son-in-law to be still a-bed, she had come to relieve her\nfeelings by pronouncing a strong opinion upon his general conduct and\ncharacter. Seeing that he was up and dressed, and that the room\nappeared to have been occupied ever since she quitted it on the\nprevious evening, she stopped short, in some embarrassment.\n\nNothing escaped the hawk's eye of the ugly little man, who, perfectly\nunderstanding what passed in the old lady's mind, turned uglier still\nin the fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her good morning, with a\nleer or triumph.\n\n'Why, Betsy,' said the old woman, 'you haven't been--you don't mean to\nsay you've been a--'\n\n'Sitting up all night?' said Quilp, supplying the conclusion of the\nsentence. 'Yes she has!'\n\n'All night?' cried Mrs Jiniwin.\n\n'Ay, all night. Is the dear old lady deaf?' said Quilp, with a smile of\nwhich a frown was part. 'Who says man and wife are bad company?  Ha ha!\nThe time has flown.'\n\n'You're a brute!' exclaimed Mrs Jiniwin.\n\n'Come come,' said Quilp, wilfully misunderstanding her, of course, 'you\nmustn't call her names. She's married now, you know. And though she did\nbeguile the time and keep me from my bed, you must not be so tenderly\ncareful of me as to be out of humour with her.  Bless you for a dear\nold lady. Here's to your health!'\n\n'I am much obliged to you,' returned the old woman, testifying by a\ncertain restlessness in her hands a vehement desire to shake her\nmatronly fist at her son-in-law. 'Oh! I'm very much obliged to you!'\n\n'Grateful soul!' cried the dwarf. 'Mrs Quilp.'\n\n'Yes, Quilp,' said the timid sufferer.\n\n'Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs Quilp. I am going to the wharf\nthis morning--the earlier the better, so be quick.'\n\nMrs Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of rebellion by sitting down in\na chair near the door and folding her arms as if in a resolute\ndetermination to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her\ndaughter, and a kind inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt\nfaint, with a hint that there was abundance of cold water in the next\napartment, routed these symptoms effectually, and she applied herself\nto the prescribed preparations with sullen diligence.\n\nWhile they were in progress, Mr Quilp withdrew to the adjoining room,\nand, turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his countenance\nwith a damp towel of very unwholesome appearance, which made his\ncomplexion rather more cloudy than it was before.  But, while he was\nthus engaged, his caution and inquisitiveness did not forsake him, for\nwith a face as sharp and cunning as ever, he often stopped, even in\nthis short process, and stood listening for any conversation in the\nnext room, of which he might be the theme.\n\n'Ah!' he said after a short effort of attention, 'it was not the towel\nover my ears, I thought it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a\nmonster, am I, Mrs Jiniwin? Oh!'\n\nThe pleasure of this discovery called up the old doglike smile in full\nforce. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very\ndoglike manner, and rejoined the ladies.\n\nMr Quilp now walked up to front of a looking-glass, and was standing\nthere putting on his neckerchief, when Mrs Jiniwin happening to be\nbehind him, could not resist the inclination she felt to shake her fist\nat her tyrant son-in-law. It was the gesture of an instant, but as she\ndid so and accompanied the action with a menacing look, she met his eye\nin the glass, catching her in the very act. The same glance at the\nmirror conveyed to her the reflection of a horribly grotesque and\ndistorted face with the tongue lolling out; and the next instant the\ndwarf, turning about with a perfectly bland and placid look, inquired\nin a tone of great affection.\n\n'How are you now, my dear old darling?'\n\nSlight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a\nlittle fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old\nwoman felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered\nherself to be led with extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table.\nHere he by no means diminished the impression he had just produced, for\nhe ate hard eggs, shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the\nheads and tails on, chewed tobacco and water-cresses at the same time\nand with extraordinary greediness, drank boiling tea without winking,\nbit his fork and spoon till they bent again, and in short performed so\nmany horrifying and uncommon acts that the women were nearly frightened\nout of their wits, and began to doubt if he were really a human\ncreature. At last, having gone through these proceedings and many\nothers which were equally a part of his system, Mr Quilp left them,\nreduced to a very obedient and humbled state, and betook himself to the\nriver-side, where he took boat for the wharf on which he had bestowed\nhis name.\n\nIt was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the ferry to\ncross to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on,\nsome sideways, some head first, some stern first; all in a\nwrong-headed, dogged, obstinate way, bumping up against the larger\ncraft, running under the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of\nnook and corner where they had no business, and being crunched on all\nsides like so many walnut-shells; while each with its pair of long\nsweeps struggling and splashing in the water looked like some lumbering\nfish in pain. In some of the vessels at anchor all hands were busily\nengaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, taking in or\ndischarging their cargoes; in others no life was visible but two or\nthree tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running to and fro upon the\ndeck or scrambling up to look over the side and bark the louder for the\nview. Coming slowly on through the forests of masts was a great\nsteamship, beating the water in short impatient strokes with her heavy\npaddles as though she wanted room to breathe, and advancing in her huge\nbulk like a sea monster among the minnows of the Thames. On either hand\nwere long black tiers of colliers; between them vessels slowly working\nout of harbour with sails glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on\nboard, re-echoed from a hundred quarters. The water and all upon it was\nin active motion, dancing and buoyant and bubbling up; while the old\ngrey Tower and piles of building on the shore, with many a church-spire\nshooting up between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their\nchafing, restless neighbour.\n\nDaniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright morning save in so\nfar as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused\nhimself to be put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither\nthrough a narrow lane which, partaking of the amphibious character of\nits frequenters, had as much water as mud in its composition, and a\nvery liberal supply of both. Arrived at his destination, the first\nobject that presented itself to his view was a pair of very imperfectly\nshod feet elevated in the air with the soles upwards, which remarkable\nappearance was referable to the boy, who being of an eccentric spirit\nand having a natural taste for tumbling, was now standing on his head\nand contemplating the aspect of the river under these uncommon\ncircumstances. He was speedily brought on his heels by the sound of his\nmaster's voice, and as soon as his head was in its right position, Mr\nQuilp, to speak expressively in the absence of a better verb, 'punched\nit' for him.\n\n'Come, you let me alone,' said the boy, parrying Quilp's hand with both\nhis elbows alternatively. 'You'll get something you won't like if you\ndon't and so I tell you.'\n\n'You dog,' snarled Quilp, 'I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch\nyou with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me--I will.'\n\nWith these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously diving\nin between the elbows and catching the boy's head as it dodged from\nside to side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having now\ncarried his point and insisted on it, he left off.\n\n'You won't do it agin,' said the boy, nodding his head and drawing\nback, with the elbows ready in case of the worst; 'now--'\n\n'Stand still, you dog,' said Quilp. 'I won't do it again, because I've\ndone it as often as I want. Here. Take the key.'\n\n'Why don't you hit one of your size?' said the boy approaching very\nslowly.\n\n'Where is there one of my size, you dog?' returned Quilp. 'Take the\nkey, or I'll brain you with it'--indeed he gave him a smart tap with\nthe handle as he spoke. 'Now, open the counting-house.'\n\nThe boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he\nlooked round and saw that Quilp was following him with a steady look.\nAnd here it may be remarked, that between this boy and the dwarf there\nexisted a strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, and or\nnourished upon blows and threats on one side, and retorts and defiances\non the other, is not to the purpose. Quilp would certainly suffer\nnobody to contract him but the boy, and the boy would assuredly not\nhave submitted to be so knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had\nthe power to run away at any time he chose.\n\n'Now,' said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting-house, 'you mind\nthe wharf. Stand upon your head agin, and I'll cut one of your feet\noff.'\n\nThe boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut himself in, stood\non his head before the door, then walked on his hands to the back and\nstood on his head there, and then to the opposite side and repeated the\nperformance. There were indeed four sides to the counting-house, but he\navoided that one where the window was, deeming it probable that Quilp\nwould be looking out of it. This was prudent, for in point of fact, the\ndwarf, knowing his disposition, was lying in wait at a little distance\nfrom the sash armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough and\njagged and studded in many parts with broken nails, might possibly have\nhurt him.\n\nIt was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but\nan old ricketty desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanack, an\ninkstand with no ink, and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock\nwhich hadn't gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the\nminute-hand had been twisted off for a tooth-pick. Daniel Quilp pulled\nhis hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk (which had a flat top)\nand stretching his short length upon it went to sleep with ease of an\nold practitioner; intending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the\ndeprivation of last night's rest, by a long and sound nap.\n\nSound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been\nasleep a quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust in\nhis head, which was like a bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a\nlight sleeper and started up directly.\n\n'Here's somebody for you,' said the boy.\n\n'Who?'\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'Ask!' said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and\nthrowing it at him with such dexterity that it was well the boy\ndisappeared before it reached the spot on which he had stood. 'Ask, you\ndog.'\n\nNot caring to venture within range of such missles again, the boy\ndiscreetly sent in his stead the first cause of the interruption, who\nnow presented herself at the door.\n\n'What, Nelly!' cried Quilp.\n\n'Yes,' said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the\ndwarf just roused, with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him and\na yellow handkerchief over his head, was something fearful to behold;\nit's only me, sir.'\n\n'Come in,' said Quilp, without getting off the desk. 'Come in. Stay.\nJust look out into the yard, and see whether there's a boy standing on\nhis head.'\n\n'No, sir,' replied Nell. 'He's on his feet.'\n\n'You're sure he is?' said Quilp. 'Well. Now, come in and shut the door.\nWhat's your message, Nelly?'\n\nThe child handed him a letter. Mr Quilp, without changing his position\nfurther than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his chin\non his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\nLittle Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to the countenance\nof Mr Quilp as he read the letter, plainly showing by her looks that\nwhile she entertained some fear and distrust of the little man, she was\nmuch inclined to laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque\nattitude. And yet there was visible on the part of the child a painful\nanxiety for his reply, and consciousness of his power to render it\ndisagreeable or distressing, which was strongly at variance with this\nimpulse and restrained it more effectually than she could possibly have\ndone by any efforts of her own.\n\nThat Mr Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no small degree, by\nthe contents of the letter, was sufficiently obvious. Before he had got\nthrough the first two or three lines he began to open his eyes very\nwide and to frown most horribly, the next two or three caused him to\nscratch his head in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when he came to\nthe conclusion he gave a long dismal whistle indicative of surprise and\ndismay. After folding and laying it down beside him, he bit the nails\nof all of his ten fingers with extreme voracity; and taking it up\nsharply, read it again. The second perusal was to all appearance as\nunsatisfactory as the first, and plunged him into a profound reverie\nfrom which he awakened to another assault upon his nails and a long\nstare at the child, who with her eyes turned towards the ground awaited\nhis further pleasure.\n\n'Halloa here!' he said at length, in a voice, and with a suddenness,\nwhich made the child start as though a gun had been fired off at her\near. 'Nelly!'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell?'\n\n'No, sir!'\n\n'Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your soul?'\n\n'Quite sure, sir.'\n\n'Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey?' said the dwarf.\n\n'Indeed I don't know,' returned the child.\n\n'Well!' muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look. 'I believe you.\nHumph! Gone already? Gone in four-and-twenty hours! What the devil has\nhe done with it, that's the mystery!'\n\nThis reflection set him scratching his head and biting his nails once\nmore. While he was thus employed his features gradually relaxed into\nwhat was with him a cheerful smile, but which in any other man would\nhave been a ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked up again\nshe found that he was regarding her with extraordinary favour and\ncomplacency.\n\n'You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charmingly pretty. Are you tired,\nNelly?'\n\n'No, sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be anxious while I am\naway.'\n\n'There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all,' said Quilp. 'How\nshould you like to be my number two, Nelly?'\n\n'To be what, sir?'\n\n'My number two, Nelly, my second, my Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf.\n\nThe child looked frightened, but seemed not to understand him, which Mr\nQuilp observing, hastened to make his meaning more distinctly.\n\n'To be Mrs Quilp the second, when Mrs Quilp the first is dead, sweet\nNell,' said Quilp, wrinkling up his eyes and luring her towards him\nwith his bent forefinger, 'to be my wife, my little cherry-cheeked,\nred-lipped wife. Say that Mrs Quilp lives five year, or only four,\nyou'll be just the proper age for me. Ha ha! Be a good girl, Nelly, a\nvery good girl, and see if one of these days you don't come to be Mrs\nQuilp of Tower Hill.'\n\nSo far from being sustained and stimulated by this delightful prospect,\nthe child shrank from him in great agitation, and trembled violently.\nMr Quilp, either because frightening anybody afforded him a\nconstitutional delight, or because it was pleasant to contemplate the\ndeath of Mrs Quilp number one, and the elevation of Mrs Quilp number\ntwo to her post and title, or because he was determined from purposes\nof his own to be agreeable and good-humoured at that particular time,\nonly laughed and feigned to take no heed of her alarm.\n\n'You shall come with me to Tower Hill and see Mrs Quilp that is,\ndirectly,' said the dwarf. 'She's very fond of you, Nell, though not so\nfond as I am. You shall come home with me.'\n\n'I must go back indeed,' said the child. 'He told me to return directly\nI had the answer.'\n\n'But you haven't it, Nelly,' retorted the dwarf, 'and won't have it,\nand can't have it, until I have been home, so you see that to do your\nerrand, you must go with me. Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go\ndirectly.' With that, Mr Quilp suffered himself to roll gradually off\nthe desk until his short legs touched the ground, when he got upon them\nand led the way from the counting-house to the wharf outside, when the\nfirst objects that presented themselves were the boy who had stood on\nhis head and another young gentleman of about his own stature, rolling\nin the mud together, locked in a tight embrace, and cuffing each other\nwith mutual heartiness.\n\n'It's Kit!' cried Nelly, clasping her hand, 'poor Kit who came with me!\nOh, pray stop them, Mr Quilp!'\n\n'I'll stop 'em,' cried Quilp, diving into the little counting-house and\nreturning with a thick stick, 'I'll stop 'em. Now, my boys, fight away.\nI'll fight you both. I'll take both of you, both together, both\ntogether!'\n\nWith which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel, and dancing round\nthe combatants and treading upon them and skipping over them, in a kind\nof frenzy, laid about him, now on one and now on the other, in a most\ndesperate manner, always aiming at their heads and dealing such blows\nas none but the veriest little savage would have inflicted. This being\nwarmer work than they had calculated upon, speedily cooled the courage\nof the belligerents, who scrambled to their feet and called for quarter.\n\n'I'll beat you to a pulp, you dogs,' said Quilp, vainly endeavoring to\nget near either of them for a parting blow. 'I'll bruise you until\nyou're copper-coloured, I'll break your faces till you haven't a\nprofile between you, I will.'\n\n'Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you,' said his boy,\ndodging round him and watching an opportunity to rush in; 'you drop\nthat stick.'\n\n'Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull, you dog,' said\nQuilp, with gleaming eyes; 'a little nearer--nearer yet.'\n\nBut the boy declined the invitation until his master was apparently a\nlittle off his guard, when he darted in and seizing the weapon tried to\nwrest it from his grasp. Quilp, who was as strong as a lion, easily\nkept his hold until the boy was tugging at it with his utmost power,\nwhen he suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that he\nfell violently upon his head. The success of this manoeuvre tickled Mr\nQuilp beyond description, and he laughed and stamped upon the ground as\nat a most irresistible jest.\n\n'Never mind,' said the boy, nodding his head and rubbing it at the same\ntime; 'you see if ever I offer to strike anybody again because they say\nyou're an uglier dwarf than can be seen anywheres for a penny, that's\nall.'\n\n'Do you mean to say, I'm not, you dog?' returned Quilp.\n\n'No!' retorted the boy.\n\n'Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain?' said Quilp.\n\n'Because he said so,' replied to boy, pointing to Kit, 'not because you\nan't.'\n\n'Then why did he say,' bawled Kit, 'that Miss Nelly was ugly, and that\nshe and my master was obliged to do whatever his master liked?  Why did\nhe say that?'\n\n'He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said what you did\nbecause you're very wise and clever--almost too clever to live, unless\nyou're very careful of yourself, Kit.' said Quilp, with great suavity\nin his manner, but still more of quiet malice about his eyes and mouth.\n'Here's sixpence for you, Kit. Always speak the truth.  At all times,\nKit, speak the truth. Lock the counting-house, you dog, and bring me\nthe key.'\n\nThe other boy, to whom this order was addressed, did as he was told,\nand was rewarded for his partizanship in behalf of his master, by a\ndexterous rap on the nose with the key, which brought the water into\nhis eyes. Then Mr Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat, and\nthe boy revenged himself by dancing on his head at intervals on the\nextreme verge of the wharf, during the whole time they crossed the\nriver.\n\nThere was only Mrs Quilp at home, and she, little expecting the return\nof her lord, was just composing herself for a refreshing slumber when\nthe sound of his footsteps roused her. She had barely time to seem to\nbe occupied in some needle-work, when he entered, accompanied by the\nchild; having left Kit downstairs.\n\n'Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs Quilp,' said her husband. 'A glass of\nwine, my dear, and a biscuit, for she has had a long walk. She'll sit\nwith you, my soul, while I write a letter.'\n\nMrs Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to know what this\nunusual courtesy might portend, and obedient to the summons she saw in\nhis gesture, followed him into the next room.\n\n'Mind what I say to you,' whispered Quilp. 'See if you can get out of\nher anything about her grandfather, or what they do, or how they live,\nor what he tells her. I've my reasons for knowing, if I can. You women\ntalk more freely to one another than you do to us, and you have a soft,\nmild way with you that'll win upon her. Do you hear?'\n\n'Yes, Quilp.'\n\n'Go then. What's the matter now?'\n\n'Dear Quilp,' faltered his wife. 'I love the child--if you could do\nwithout making me deceive her--'\n\nThe dwarf muttering a terrible oath looked round as if for some weapon\nwith which to inflict condign punishment upon his disobedient wife. The\nsubmissive little woman hurriedly entreated him not to be angry, and\npromised to do as he bade her.\n\n'Do you hear me,' whispered Quilp, nipping and pinching her arm; 'worm\nyourself into her secrets; I know you can. I'm listening, recollect. If\nyou're not sharp enough, I'll creak the door, and woe betide you if I\nhave to creak it much. Go!'\n\nMrs Quilp departed according to order, and her amiable husband,\nensconcing himself behind the partly opened door, and applying his ear\nclose to it, began to listen with a face of great craftiness and\nattention.\n\nPoor Mrs Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner to begin or what\nkind of inquiries she could make; and it was not until the door,\ncreaking in a very urgent manner, warned her to proceed without further\nconsideration, that the sound of her voice was heard.\n\n'How very often you have come backwards and forwards lately to Mr\nQuilp, my dear.'\n\n'I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times,' returned Nell\ninnocently.\n\n'And what has he said to that?'\n\n'Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so sad and wretched that\nif you could have seen him I am sure you must have cried; you could not\nhave helped it more than I, I know. How that door creaks!'\n\n'It often does.' returned Mrs Quilp, with an uneasy glance towards it.\n'But your grandfather--he used not to be so wretched?'\n\n'Oh, no!' said the child eagerly, 'so different! We were once so happy\nand he so cheerful and contented! You cannot think what a sad change\nhas fallen on us since.'\n\n'I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my dear!' said Mrs\nQuilp. And she spoke the truth.\n\n'Thank you,' returned the child, kissing her cheek, 'you are always\nkind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one\nelse about him, but poor Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel\nhappier perhaps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me\nsometimes to see him alter so.'\n\n'He'll alter again, Nelly,' said Mrs Quilp, 'and be what he was before.'\n\n'Oh, if God would only let that come about!' said the child with\nstreaming eyes; 'but it is a long time now, since he first began to--I\nthought I saw that door moving!'\n\n'It's the wind,' said Mrs Quilp, faintly. 'Began to--'\n\n'To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way of\nspending the time in the long evenings,' said the child. 'I used to\nread to him by the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped\nand we began to talk, he told me about my mother, and how she once\nlooked and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then he used\nto take me on his knee, and try to make me understand that she was not\nlying in her grave, but had flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky\nwhere nothing died or ever grew old--we were very happy once!'\n\n'Nelly, Nelly!' said the poor woman, 'I can't bear to see one as young\nas you so sorrowful. Pray don't cry.'\n\n'I do so very seldom,' said Nell, 'but I have kept this to myself a\nlong time, and I am not quite well, I think, for the tears come into my\neyes and I cannot keep them back. I don't mind telling you my grief,\nfor I know you will not tell it to any one again.'\n\nMrs Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.\n\n'Then,' said the child, 'we often walked in the fields and among the\ngreen trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for\nbeing tired, and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark and\nrather dull, we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made\nus remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look forward to\nour next one. But now we never have these walks, and though it is the\nsame house it is darker and much more gloomy than it used to be,\nindeed!'\n\nShe paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs Quilp\nsaid nothing.\n\n'Mind you don't suppose,' said the child earnestly, 'that grandfather\nis less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day,\nand is kinder and more affectionate than he was the day before. You do\nnot know how fond he is of me!'\n\n'I am sure he loves you dearly,' said Mrs Quilp.\n\n'Indeed, indeed he does!' cried Nell, 'as dearly as I love him. But I\nhave not told you the greatest change of all, and this you must never\nbreathe again to any one. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he\ntakes by day in his easy chair; for every night and nearly all night\nlong he is away from home.'\n\n'Nelly!'\n\n'Hush!' said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking round.\n'When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just before day,\nI let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I\nsaw that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were bloodshot, and\nthat his legs trembled as he walked. When I had gone to bed again, I\nheard him groan. I got up and ran back to him, and heard him say,\nbefore he knew that I was there, that he could not bear his life much\nlonger, and if it was not for the child, would wish to die. What shall\nI do! Oh! What shall I do!'\n\nThe fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by the\nweight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she had\never shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been\nreceived, hid her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst\ninto a passion of tears.\n\nIn a few minutes Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost surprise\nto find her in this condition, which he did very naturally and with\nadmirable effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered familiar to\nhim by long practice, and he was quite at home in it.\n\n'She's tired you see, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf, squinting in a\nhideous manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead. 'It's a\nlong way from her home to the wharf, and then she was alarmed to see a\ncouple of young scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the water\nbesides. All this together has been too much for her. Poor Nell!'\n\nMr Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means he could have\ndevised for the recovery of his young visitor, by patting her on the\nhead. Such an application from any other hand might not have produced a\nremarkable effect, but the child shrank so quickly from his touch and\nfelt such an instinctive desire to get out of his reach, that she rose\ndirectly and declared herself ready to return.\n\n'But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs Quilp and me.' said the dwarf.\n\n'I have been away too long, sir, already,' returned Nell, drying her\neyes.\n\n'Well,' said Mr Quilp, 'if you will go, you will, Nelly. Here's the\nnote. It's only to say that I shall see him to-morrow or maybe next\nday, and that I couldn't do that little business for him this morning.\nGood-bye, Nelly. Here, you sir; take care of her, d'ye hear?'\n\nKit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make no reply to so\nneedless an injunction, and after staring at Quilp in a threatening\nmanner, as if he doubted whether he might not have been the cause of\nNelly shedding tears, and felt more than half disposed to revenge the\nfact upon him on the mere suspicion, turned about and followed his\nyoung mistress, who had by this time taken her leave of Mrs Quilp and\ndeparted.\n\n'You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs Quilp?' said the dwarf,\nturning upon her as soon as they were left alone.\n\n'What more could I do?' returned his wife mildly?\n\n'What more could you do!' sneered Quilp, 'couldn't you have done\nsomething less? Couldn't you have done what you had to do, without\nappearing in your favourite part of the crocodile, you minx?'\n\n'I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,' said his wife. 'Surely I've\ndone enough. I've led her on to tell her secret she supposed we were\nalone; and you were by, God forgive me.'\n\n'You led her on! You did a great deal truly!' said Quilp. 'What did I\ntell you about making me creak the door? It's lucky for you that from\nwhat she let fall, I've got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have\nvisited the failure upon you, I can tell you.'\n\nMrs Quilp being fully persuaded of this, made no reply. Her husband\nadded with some exultation,\n\n'But you may thank your fortunate stars--the same stars that made you\nMrs Quilp--you may thank them that I'm upon the old gentleman's track,\nand have got a new light. So let me hear no more about this matter now\nor at any other time, and don't get anything too nice for dinner, for I\nshan't be home to it.'\n\nSo saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs Quilp,\nwho was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the part she\nhad just acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and smothering her head\nin the bed-clothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many less\ntender-hearted persons would have mourned a much greater offence; for,\nin the majority of cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible\narticle, which will bear a deal of stretching and adapt itself to a\ngreat variety of circumstances. Some people by prudent management and\nleaving it off piece by piece like a flannel waistcoat in warm weather,\neven contrive, in time, to dispense with it altogether; but there be\nothers who can assume the garment and throw it off at pleasure; and\nthis, being the greatest and most convenient improvement, is the one\nmost in vogue.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller, 'remember the once popular melody of Begone\ndull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of\nfriendship; and pass the rosy wine.'\n\nMr Richard Swiveller's apartments were in the neighbourhood of Drury\nLane, and in addition to this convenience of situation had the\nadvantage of being over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled to\nprocure a refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out upon the\nstaircase, and was saved the trouble and expense of maintaining a\nsnuff-box. It was in these apartments that Mr Swiveller made use of the\nexpressions above recorded for the consolation and encouragement of his\ndesponding friend; and it may not be uninteresting or improper to\nremark that even these brief observations partook in a double sense of\nthe figurative and poetical character of Mr Swiveller's mind, as the\nrosy wine was in fact represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water,\nwhich was replenished as occasion required from a bottle and jug upon\nthe table, and was passed from one to another, in a scarcity of\ntumblers which, as Mr Swiveller's was a bachelor's establishment, may\nbe acknowledged without a blush. By a like pleasant fiction his single\nchamber was always mentioned in a plural number. In its disengaged\ntimes, the tobacconist had announced it in his window as 'apartments'\nfor a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following up the hint, never\nfailed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his chambers,\nconveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and leaving\ntheir imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty halls, at\npleasure.\n\nIn this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive piece\nof furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase, which\noccupied a prominent situation in his chamber and seemed to defy\nsuspicion and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that by day Mr\nSwiveller firmly believed this secret convenience to be a bookcase and\nnothing more; that he closed his eyes to the bed, resolutely denied the\nexistence of the blankets, and spurned the bolster from his thoughts.\nNo word of its real use, no hint of its nightly service, no allusion to\nits peculiar properties, had ever passed between him and his most\nintimate friends. Implicit faith in the deception was the first article\nof his creed. To be the friend of Swiveller you must reject all\ncircumstantial evidence, all reason, observation, and experience, and\nrepose a blind belief in the bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he\ncherished it.\n\n'Fred!' said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had been\nproductive of no effect. 'Pass the rosy.'\n\nYoung Trent with an impatient gesture pushed the glass towards him, and\nfell again in the moody attitude from which he had been unwillingly\nroused.\n\n'I'll give you, Fred,' said his friend, stirring the mixture, 'a little\nsentiment appropriate to the occasion. Here's May the--'\n\n'Pshaw!' interposed the other. 'You worry me to death with your\nchattering. You can be merry under any circumstances.'\n\n'Why, Mr Trent,' returned Dick, 'there is a proverb which talks about\nbeing merry and wise. There are some people who can be merry and can't\nbe wise, and some who can be wise (or think they can) and can't be\nmerry. I'm one of the first sort. If the proverb's a good 'un, I\nsuppose it's better to keep to half of it than none; at all events, I'd\nrather be merry and not wise, than like you, neither one nor t'other.'\n\n'Bah!' muttered his friend, peevishly.\n\n'With all my heart,' said Mr Swiveller. 'In the polite circles I\nbelieve this sort of thing isn't usually said to a gentleman in his own\napartments, but never mind that. Make yourself at home,' adding to this\nretort an observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be\nrather 'cranky' in point of temper, Richard Swiveller finished the\nrosy and applied himself to the composition of another glassful, in\nwhich, after tasting it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an\nimaginary company.\n\n'Gentlemen, I'll give you, if you please, Success to the ancient family\nof the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr Richard in particular--Mr\nRichard, gentlemen,' said Dick with great emphasis, 'who spends all his\nmoney on his friends and is Bah!'d for his pains. Hear, hear!'\n\n'Dick!' said the other, returning to his seat after having paced the\nroom twice or thrice, 'will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I\nshow you a way to make your fortune with very little trouble?'\n\n'You've shown me so many,' returned Dick; 'and nothing has come of any\none of 'em but empty pockets--'\n\n'You'll tell a different story of this one, before a very long time is\nover,' said his companion, drawing his chair to the table. 'You saw my\nsister Nell?'\n\n'What about her?' returned Dick.\n\n'She has a pretty face, has she not?'\n\n'Why, certainly,' replied Dick. 'I must say for her that there's not\nany very strong family likeness between her and you.'\n\n'Has she a pretty face,' repeated his friend impatiently.\n\n'Yes,' said Dick, 'she has a pretty face, a very pretty face. What of\nthat?'\n\n'I'll tell you,' returned his friend. 'It's very plain that the old man\nand I will remain at daggers drawn to the end of our lives, and that I\nhave nothing to expect from him. You see that, I suppose?'\n\n'A bat might see that, with the sun shining,' said Dick.\n\n'It's equally plain that the money which the old flint--rot him--first\ntaught me to expect that I should share with her at his death, will all\nbe hers, is it not?'\n\n'I should said it was,' replied Dick; 'unless the way in which I put\nthe case to him, made an impression. It may have done so. It was\npowerful, Fred. 'Here is a jolly old grandfather'--that was strong, I\nthought--very friendly and natural. Did it strike you in that way?'\n\n'It didn't strike him,' returned the other, 'so we needn't discuss it.\nNow look here. Nell is nearly fourteen.'\n\n'Fine girl of her age, but small,' observed Richard Swiveller\nparenthetically.\n\n'If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute,' returned Trent, fretting\nat the slight interest the other appeared to take in the conversation.\n'Now I'm coming to the point.'\n\n'That's right,' said Dick.\n\n'The girl has strong affections, and brought up as she has been, may,\nat her age, be easily influenced and persuaded. If I take her in hand,\nI will be bound by a very little coaxing and threatening to bend her to\nmy will. Not to beat about the bush (for the advantages of the scheme\nwould take a week to tell) what's to prevent your marrying her?'\n\nRichard Swiveller, who had been looking over the rim of the tumbler\nwhile his companion addressed the foregoing remarks to him with great\nenergy and earnestness of manner, no sooner heard these words than he\nevinced the utmost consternation, and with difficulty ejaculated the\nmonosyllable:\n\n'What!'\n\n'I say, what's to prevent,' repeated the other with a steadiness of\nmanner, of the effect of which upon his companion he was well assured\nby long experience, 'what's to prevent your marrying her?'\n\n'And she \"nearly fourteen\"!' cried Dick.\n\n'I don't mean marrying her now'--returned the brother angrily; 'say in\ntwo year's time, in three, in four. Does the old man look like a\nlong-liver?'\n\n'He don't look like it,' said Dick shaking his head, 'but these old\npeople--there's no trusting them, Fred. There's an aunt of mine down in\nDorsetshire that was going to die when I was eight years old, and\nhasn't kept her word yet. They're so aggravating, so unprincipled, so\nspiteful--unless there's apoplexy in the family, Fred, you can't\ncalculate upon 'em, and even then they deceive you just as often as\nnot.'\n\n'Look at the worst side of the question then,' said Trent as steadily\nas before, and keeping his eyes upon his friend. 'Suppose he lives.'\n\n'To be sure,' said Dick. 'There's the rub.'\n\n'I say,' resumed his friend, 'suppose he lives, and I persuaded, or if\nthe word sounds more feasible, forced Nell to a secret marriage with\nyou. What do you think would come of that?'\n\n'A family and an annual income of nothing, to keep 'em on,' said\nRichard Swiveller after some reflection.\n\n'I tell you,' returned the other with an increased earnestness, which,\nwhether it were real or assumed, had the same effect on his companion,\n'that he lives for her, that his whole energies and thoughts are bound\nup in her, that he would no more disinherit her for an act of\ndisobedience than he would take me into his favour again for any act of\nobedience or virtue that I could possibly be guilty of. He could not do\nit. You or any other man with eyes in his head may see that, if he\nchooses.'\n\n'It seems improbable certainly,' said Dick, musing.\n\n'It seems improbable because it is improbable,' his friend returned.\n'If you would furnish him with an additional inducement to forgive you,\nlet there be an irreconcilable breach, a most deadly quarrel, between\nyou and me--let there be a pretense of such a thing, I mean, of\ncourse--and he'll do fast enough. As to Nell, constant dropping will\nwear away a stone; you know you may trust to me as far as she is\nconcerned. So, whether he lives or dies, what does it come to?  That\nyou become the sole inheritor of the wealth of this rich old hunks,\nthat you and I spend it together, and that you get into the bargain a\nbeautiful young wife.'\n\n'I suppose there's no doubt about his being rich'--said Dick.\n\n'Doubt! Did you hear what he left fall the other day when we were\nthere? Doubt! What will you doubt next, Dick?'\n\nIt would be tedious to pursue the conversation through all its artful\nwindings, or to develope the gradual approaches by which the heart of\nRichard Swiveller was gained. It is sufficient to know that vanity,\ninterest, poverty, and every spendthrift consideration urged him to\nlook upon the proposal with favour, and that where all other\ninducements were wanting, the habitual carelessness of his disposition\nstepped in and still weighed down the scale on the same side. To these\nimpulses must be added the complete ascendancy which his friend had\nlong been accustomed to exercise over him--an ascendancy exerted in the\nbeginning sorely at the expense of his friend's vices, and was in nine\ncases out of ten looked upon as his designing tempter when he was\nindeed nothing but his thoughtless, light-headed tool.\n\nThe motives on the other side were something deeper than any which\nRichard Swiveller entertained or understood, but these being left to\ntheir own development, require no present elucidation. The negotiation\nwas concluded very pleasantly, and Mr Swiveller was in the act of\nstating in flowery terms that he had no insurmountable objection to\nmarrying anybody plentifully endowed with money or moveables, who could\nbe induced to take him, when he was interrupted in his observations by\na knock at the door, and the consequent necessity of crying 'Come in.'\n\nThe door was opened, but nothing came in except a soapy arm and a\nstrong gush of tobacco. The gush of tobacco came from the shop\ndownstairs, and the soapy arm proceeded from the body of a\nservant-girl, who being then and there engaged in cleaning the stairs\nhad just drawn it out of a warm pail to take in a letter, which letter\nshe now held in her hand, proclaiming aloud with that quick perception\nof surnames peculiar to her class that it was for Mister Snivelling.\n\nDick looked rather pale and foolish when he glanced at the direction,\nand still more so when he came to look at the inside, observing that it\nwas one of the inconveniences of being a lady's man, and that it was\nvery easy to talk as they had been talking, but he had quite forgotten\nher.\n\n'Her. Who?' demanded Trent.\n\n'Sophy Wackles,' said Dick.\n\n'Who's she?'\n\n'She's all my fancy painted her, sir, that's what she is,' said Mr\nSwiveller, taking a long pull at 'the rosy' and looking gravely at his\nfriend. 'She's lovely, she's divine. You know her.'\n\n'I remember,' said his companion carelessly. 'What of her?'\n\n'Why, sir,' returned Dick, 'between Miss Sophia Wackles and the humble\nindividual who has now the honor to address you, warm and tender\nsentiments have been engendered, sentiments of the most honourable and\ninspiring kind. The Goddess Diana, sir, that calls aloud for the chase,\nis not more particular in her behavior than Sophia Wackles; I can tell\nyou that.'\n\n'Am I to believe there's anything real in what you say?' demanded his\nfriend; 'you don't mean to say that any love-making has been going on?'\n\n'Love-making, yes. Promising, no,' said Dick. 'There can be no action\nfor breach, that's one comfort. I've never committed myself in writing,\nFred.'\n\n'And what's in the letter, pray?'\n\n'A reminder, Fred, for to-night--a small party of twenty, making two\nhundred light fantastic toes in all, supposing every lady and gentleman\nto have the proper complement. I must go, if it's only to begin\nbreaking off the affair--I'll do it, don't you be afraid. I should like\nto know whether she left this herself. If she did, unconscious of any\nbar to her happiness, it's affecting, Fred.'\n\nTo solve this question, Mr Swiveller summoned the handmaid and\nascertained that Miss Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with her\nown hands; and that she had come accompanied, for decorum's sake no\ndoubt, by a younger Miss Wackles; and that on learning that Mr\nSwiveller was at home and being requested to walk upstairs, she was\nextremely shocked and professed that she would rather die. Mr Swiveller\nheard this account with a degree of admiration not altogether\nconsistent with the project in which he had just concurred, but his\nfriend attached very little importance to his behavior in this respect,\nprobably because he knew that he had influence sufficient to control\nRichard Swiveller's proceedings in this or any other matter, whenever\nhe deemed it necessary, for the advancement of his own purposes, to\nexert it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\nBusiness disposed of, Mr Swiveller was inwardly reminded of its being\nnigh dinner-time, and to the intent that his health might not be\nendangered by longer abstinence, dispatched a message to the nearest\neating-house requiring an immediate supply of boiled beef and greens\nfor two. With this demand, however, the eating-house (having experience\nof its customer) declined to comply, churlishly sending back for answer\nthat if Mr Swiveller stood in need of beef perhaps he would be so\nobliging as to come there and eat it, bringing with him, as grace\nbefore meat, the amount of a certain small account which had long been\noutstanding. Not at all intimidated by this rebuff, but rather\nsharpened in wits and appetite, Mr Swiveller forwarded the same message\nto another and more distant eating-house, adding to it by way of rider\nthat the gentleman was induced to send so far, not only by the great\nfame and popularity its beef had acquired, but in consequence of the\nextreme toughness of the beef retailed at the obdurant cook's shop,\nwhich rendered it quite unfit not merely for gentlemanly food, but for\nany human consumption. The good effect of this politic course was\ndemonstrated by the speedy arrival of a small pewter pyramid, curiously\nconstructed of platters and covers, whereof the boiled-beef-plates\nformed the base, and a foaming quart-pot the apex; the structure being\nresolved into its component parts afforded all things requisite and\nnecessary for a hearty meal, to which Mr Swiveller and his friend\napplied themselves with great keenness and enjoyment.\n\n'May the present moment,' said Dick, sticking his fork into a large\ncarbuncular potato, 'be the worst of our lives! I like the plan of\nsending 'em with the peel on; there's a charm in drawing a potato from\nits native element (if I may so express it) to which the rich and\npowerful are strangers. Ah! \"Man wants but little here below, nor wants\nthat little long!\" How true that is!--after dinner.'\n\n'I hope the eating-house keeper will want but little and that he may\nnot want that little long,' returned his companion; but I suspect\nyou've no means of paying for this!'\n\n'I shall be passing present, and I'll call,' said Dick, winking his eye\nsignificantly. 'The waiter's quite helpless. The goods are gone, Fred,\nand there's an end of it.'\n\nIn point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome\ntruth, for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was\ninformed by Mr Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would call\nand settle when he should be passing presently, he displayed some\nperturbation of spirit and muttered a few remarks about 'payment on\ndelivery' and 'no trust,' and other unpleasant subjects, but was fain\nto content himself with inquiring at what hour it was likely that the\ngentleman would call, in order that being presently responsible for the\nbeef, greens, and sundries, he might take to be in the way at the time.\nMr Swiveller, after mentally calculating his engagements to a nicety,\nreplied that he should look in at from two minutes before six and seven\nminutes past; and the man disappearing with this feeble consolation,\nRichard Swiveller took a greasy memorandum-book from his pocket and\nmade an entry therein.\n\n'Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call?' said Trent\nwith a sneer.\n\n'Not exactly, Fred,' replied the imperturbable Richard, continuing to\nwrite with a businesslike air. 'I enter in this little book the names\nof the streets that I can't go down while the shops are open. This\ndinner today closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen\nStreet last week, and made that no throughfare too. There's only one\navenue to the Strand left often now, and I shall have to stop up that\nto-night with a pair of gloves. The roads are closing so fast in every\ndirection, that in a month's time, unless my aunt sends me a\nremittance, I shall have to go three or four miles out of town to get\nover the way.'\n\n'There's no fear of failing, in the end?' said Trent.\n\n'Why, I hope not,' returned Mr Swiveller, 'but the average number of\nletters it take to soften her is six, and this time we have got as far\nas eight without any effect at all. I'll write another to-morrow\nmorning. I mean to blot it a good deal and shake some water over it out\nof the pepper-castor to make it look penitent. \"I'm in such a state of\nmind that I hardly know what I write\"--blot--\"if you could see me at\nthis minute shedding tears for my past misconduct\"--pepper-castor--\"my\nhand trembles when I think\"--blot again--if that don't produce the\neffect, it's all over.'\n\nBy this time, Mr Swiveller had finished his entry, and he now replaced\nhis pencil in its little sheath and closed the book, in a perfectly\ngrave and serious frame of mind. His friend discovered that it was time\nfor him to fulfil some other engagement, and Richard Swiveller was\naccordingly left alone, in company with the rosy wine and his own\nmeditations touching Miss Sophy Wackles.\n\n'It's rather sudden,' said Dick shaking his head with a look of\ninfinite wisdom, and running on (as he was accustomed to do) with\nscraps of verse as if they were only prose in a hurry; 'when the heart\nof a man is depressed with fears, the mist is dispelled when Miss\nWackles appears; she's a very nice girl. She's like the red red rose\nthat's newly sprung in June--there's no denying that--she's also like a\nmelody that's sweetly played in tune. It's really very sudden. Not that\nthere's any need, on account of Fred's little sister, to turn cool\ndirectly, but its better not to go too far. If I begin to cool at all I\nmust begin at once, I see that. There's the chance of an action for\nbreach, that's another. There's the chance of--no, there's no chance of\nthat, but it's as well to be on the safe side.'\n\nThis undeveloped was the possibility, which Richard Swiveller sought to\nconceal even from himself, of his not being proof against the charms of\nMiss Wackles, and in some unguarded moment, by linking his fortunes to\nhers forever, of putting it out of his own power to further their\nnotable scheme to which he had so readily become a party. For all these\nreasons, he decided to pick a quarrel with Miss Wackles without delay,\nand casting about for a pretext determined in favour of groundless\njealousy.  Having made up his mind on this important point, he\ncirculated the glass (from his right hand to left, and back again)\npretty freely, to enable him to act his part with the greater\ndiscretion, and then, after making some slight improvements in his\ntoilet, bent his steps towards the spot hallowed by the fair object of\nhis meditations.\n\nThe spot was at Chelsea, for there Miss Sophia Wackles resided with her\nwidowed mother and two sisters, in conjunction with whom she maintained\na very small day-school for young ladies of proportionate dimensions; a\ncircumstance which was made known to the neighbourhood by an oval board\nover the front first-floor windows, whereupon appeared in circumambient\nflourishes the words 'Ladies' Seminary'; and which was further\npublished and proclaimed at intervals between the hours of half-past\nnine and ten in the morning, by a straggling and solitary young lady of\ntender years standing on the scraper on the tips of her toes and making\nfutile attempts to reach the knocker with a spelling-book. The several\nduties of instruction in this establishment were thus discharged.\nEnglish grammar, composition, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells,\nby Miss Melissa Wackles; writing, arithmetic, dancing, music, and\ngeneral fascination, by Miss Sophia Wackles; the art of needle-work,\nmarking, and samplery, by Miss Jane Wackles; corporal punishment,\nfasting, and other tortures and terrors, by Mrs Wackles. Miss Melissa\nWackles was the eldest daughter, Miss Sophy the next, and Miss Jane the\nyoungest. Miss Melissa might have seen five-and-thirty summers or\nthereabouts, and verged on the autumnal; Miss Sophy was a fresh, good\nhumoured, buxom girl of twenty; and Miss Jane numbered scarcely sixteen\nyears. Mrs Wackles was an excellent but rather venomous old lady of\nthree-score.\n\nTo this Ladies' Seminary, then, Richard Swiveller hied, with designs\nobnoxious to the peace of the fair Sophia, who, arrayed in virgin\nwhite, embellished by no ornament but one blushing rose, received him\non his arrival, in the midst of very elegant not to say brilliant\npreparations; such as the embellishment of the room with the little\nflower-pots which always stood on the window-sill outside, save in\nwindy weather when they blew into the area; the choice attire of the\nday-scholars who were allowed to grace the festival; the unwonted curls\nof Miss Jane Wackles who had kept her head during the whole of the\npreceding day screwed up tight in a yellow play-bill; and the solemn\ngentility and stately bearing of the old lady and her eldest daughter,\nwhich struck Mr Swiveller as being uncommon but made no further\nimpression upon him.\n\nThe truth is--and, as there is no accounting for tastes, even a taste\nso strange as this may be recorded without being looked upon as a\nwilful and malicious invention--the truth is that neither Mrs Wackles\nnor her eldest daughter had at any time greatly favoured the\npretensions of Mr Swiveller, being accustomed to make slight mention of\nhim as 'a gay young man' and to sigh and shake their heads ominously\nwhenever his name was mentioned. Mr Swiveller's conduct in respect to\nMiss Sophy having been of that vague and dilatory kind which is usually\nlooked upon as betokening no fixed matrimonial intentions, the young\nlady herself began in course of time to deem it highly desirable, that\nit should be brought to an issue one way or other. Hence she had at\nlast consented to play off against Richard Swiveller a stricken\nmarket-gardner known to be ready with his offer on the smallest\nencouragement, and hence--as this occasion had been specially assigned\nfor the purpose--that great anxiety on her part for Richard Swiveller's\npresence which had occasioned her to leave the note he has been seen to\nreceive. 'If he has any expectations at all or any means of keeping a\nwife well,' said Mrs Wackles to her eldest daughter, 'he'll state 'em\nto us now or never.'--'If he really cares about me,' thought Miss\nSophy, 'he must tell me so, to-night.'\n\nBut all these sayings and doings and thinkings being unknown to Mr\nSwiveller, affected him not in the least; he was debating in his mind\nhow he could best turn jealous, and wishing that Sophy were for that\noccasion only far less pretty than she was, or that she were her own\nsister, which would have served his turn as well, when the company\ncame, and among them the market-gardener, whose name was Cheggs. But Mr\nCheggs came not alone or unsupported, for he prudently brought along\nwith him his sister, Miss Cheggs, who making straight to Miss Sophy and\ntaking her by both hands, and kissing her on both cheeks, hoped in an\naudible whisper that they had not come too early.\n\n'Too early, no!' replied Miss Sophy.\n\n'Oh, my dear,' rejoined Miss Cheggs in the same whisper as before,\n'I've been so tormented, so worried, that it's a mercy we were not here\nat four o'clock in the afternoon. Alick has been in such a state of\nimpatience to come! You'd hardly believe that he was dressed before\ndinner-time and has been looking at the clock and teasing me ever\nsince. It's all your fault, you naughty thing.'\n\nHereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and Mr Cheggs (who was bashful before\nladies) blushed too, and Miss Sophy's mother and sisters, to prevent Mr\nCheggs from blushing more, lavished civilities and attentions upon him,\nand left Richard Swiveller to take care of himself. Here was the very\nthing he wanted, here was good cause reason and foundation for\npretending to be angry; but having this cause reason and foundation\nwhich he had come expressly to seek, not expecting to find, Richard\nSwiveller was angry in sound earnest, and wondered what the devil\nCheggs meant by his impudence.\n\nHowever, Mr Swiveller had Miss Sophy's hand for the first quadrille\n(country-dances being low, were utterly proscribed) and so gained an\nadvantage over his rival, who sat despondingly in a corner and\ncontemplated the glorious figure of the young lady as she moved through\nthe mazy dance. Nor was this the only start Mr Swiveller had of the\nmarket-gardener, for determining to show the family what quality of man\nthey trifled with, and influenced perhaps by his late libations, he\nperformed such feats of agility and such spins and twirls as filled the\ncompany with astonishment, and in particular caused a very long\ngentleman who was dancing with a very short scholar, to stand quite\ntransfixed by wonder and admiration. Even Mrs Wackles forgot for the\nmoment to snub three small young ladies who were inclined to be happy,\nand could not repress a rising thought that to have such a dancer as\nthat in the family would be a pride indeed.\n\nAt this momentous crisis, Miss Cheggs proved herself a vigourous and\nuseful ally, for not confining herself to expressing by scornful smiles\na contempt for Mr Swiveller's accomplishments, she took every\nopportunity of whispering into Miss Sophy's ear expressions of\ncondolence and sympathy on her being worried by such a ridiculous\ncreature, declaring that she was frightened to death lest Alick should\nfall upon, and beat him, in the fulness of his wrath, and entreating\nMiss Sophy to observe how the eyes of the said Alick gleamed with love\nand fury; passions, it may be observed, which being too much for his\neyes rushed into his nose also, and suffused it with a crimson glow.\n\n'You must dance with Miss Cheggs,' said Miss Sophy to Dick Swiviller,\nafter she had herself danced twice with Mr Cheggs and made great show\nof encouraging his advances. 'She's a nice girl--and her brother's\nquite delightful.'\n\n'Quite delightful, is he?' muttered Dick. 'Quite delighted too, I\nshould say, from the manner in which he's looking this way.'\n\nHere Miss Jane (previously instructed for the purpose) interposed her\nmany curls and whispered her sister to observe how jealous Mr Cheggs\nwas.\n\n'Jealous! Like his impudence!' said Richard Swiviller.\n\n'His impudence, Mr Swiviller!' said Miss Jane, tossing her head.  'Take\ncare he don't hear you, sir, or you may be sorry for it.'\n\n'Oh, pray, Jane--' said Miss Sophy.\n\n'Nonsense!' replied her sister. 'Why shouldn't Mr Cheggs be jealous if\nhe likes? I like that, certainly. Mr Cheggs has a good a right to be\njealous as anyone else has, and perhaps he may have a better right soon\nif he hasn't already. You know best about that, Sophy!'\n\nThough this was a concerted plot between Miss Sophy and her sister,\noriginating in humane intentions and having for its object the inducing\nMr Swiviller to declare himself in time, it failed in its effect; for\nMiss Jane being one of those young ladies who are prematurely shrill\nand shrewish, gave such undue importance to her part that Mr Swiviller\nretired in dudgeon, resigning his mistress to Mr Cheggs and conveying a\ndefiance into his looks which that gentleman indignantly returned.\n\n'Did you speak to me, sir?' said Mr Cheggs, following him into a\ncorner. 'Have the kindness to smile, sir, in order that we may not be\nsuspected. Did you speak to me, sir'?\n\nMr Swiviller looked with a supercilious smile at Mr Chegg's toes, then\nraised his eyes from them to his ankles, from that to his shin, from\nthat to his knee, and so on very gradually, keeping up his right leg,\nuntil he reached his waistcoat, when he raised his eyes from button to\nbutton until he reached his chin, and travelling straight up the middle\nof his nose came at last to his eyes, when he said abruptly,\n\n'No, sir, I didn't.'\n\n`'Hem!' said Mr Cheggs, glancing over his shoulder, 'have the goodness\nto smile again, sir. Perhaps you wished to speak to me, sir.'\n\n'No, sir, I didn't do that, either.'\n\n'Perhaps you may have nothing to say to me now, sir,' said Mr Cheggs\nfiercely.\n\nAt these words Richard Swiviller withdrew his eyes from Mr Chegg's\nface, and travelling down the middle of his nose and down his waistcoat\nand down his right leg, reached his toes again, and carefully surveyed\nhim; this done, he crossed over, and coming up the other leg, and\nthence approaching by the waistcoat as before, said when had got to his\neyes, 'No sir, I haven't.'\n\n'Oh, indeed, sir!' said Mr Cheggs. 'I'm glad to hear it. You know where\nI'm to be found, I suppose, sir, in case you should have anything to\nsay to me?'\n\n'I can easily inquire, sir, when I want to know.'\n\n'There's nothing more we need say, I believe, sir?'\n\n'Nothing more, sir'--With that they closed the tremendous dialog by\nfrowning mutually. Mr Cheggs hastened to tender his hand to Miss Sophy,\nand Mr Swiviller sat himself down in a corner in a very moody state.\n\nHard by this corner, Mrs Wackles and Miss Wackles were seated, looking\non at the dance; and unto Mrs and Miss Wackles, Miss Cheggs\noccasionally darted when her partner was occupied with his share of the\nfigure, and made some remark or other which was gall and wormwood to\nRichard Swiviller's soul. Looking into the eyes of Mrs and Miss Wackles\nfor encouragement, and sitting very upright and uncomfortable on a\ncouple of hard stools, were two of the day-scholars; and when Miss\nWackles smiled, and Mrs Wackles smiled, the two little girls on the\nstools sought to curry favour by smiling likewise, in gracious\nacknowledgement of which attention the old lady frowned them down\ninstantly, and said that if they dared to be guilty of such an\nimpertinence again, they should be sent under convoy to their\nrespective homes. This threat caused one of the young ladies, she being\nof a weak and trembling temperament, to shed tears, and for this\noffense they were both filed off immediately, with a dreadful\npromptitude that struck terror into the souls of all the pupils.\n\n'I've got such news for you,' said Miss Cheggs approaching once more,\n'Alick has been saying such things to Sophy. Upon my word, you know,\nit's quite serious and in earnest, that's clear.'\n\n'What's he been saying, my dear?' demanded Mrs Wackles.\n\n'All manner of things,' replied Miss Cheggs, 'you can't think how out\nhe has been speaking!'\n\nRichard Swiviller considered it advisable to hear no more, but taking\nadvantage of a pause in the dancing, and the approach of Mr Cheggs to\npay his court to the old lady, swaggered with an extremely careful\nassumption of extreme carelessness toward the door, passing on the way\nMiss Jane Wackles, who in all the glory of her curls was holding a\nflirtation, (as good practice when no better was to be had) with a\nfeeble old gentleman who lodged in the parlour. Near the door sat Miss\nSophy, still fluttered and confused by the attentions of Mr Cheggs, and\nby her side Richard Swiveller lingered for a moment to exchange a few\nparting words.\n\n'My boat is on the shore and my bark is on the sea, but before I pass\nthis door I will say farewell to thee,' murmured Dick, looking gloomily\nupon her.\n\n'Are you going?' said Miss Sophy, whose heart sank within her at the\nresult of her stratagem, but who affected a light indifference\nnotwithstanding.\n\n'Am I going!' echoed Dick bitterly. 'Yes, I am. What then?'\n\n'Nothing, except that it's very early,' said Miss Sophy; 'but you are\nyour own master, of course.'\n\n'I would that I had been my own mistress too,' said Dick, 'before I had\never entertained a thought of you. Miss Wackles, I believed you true,\nand I was blest in so believing, but now I mourn that e'er I knew, a\ngirl so fair yet so deceiving.'\n\nMiss Sophy bit her lip and affected to look with great interest after\nMr Cheggs, who was quaffing lemonade in the distance.\n\n'I came here,' said Dick, rather oblivious of the purpose with which he\nhad really come, 'with my bosom expanded, my heart dilated, and my\nsentiments of a corresponding description. I go away with feelings that\nmay be conceived but cannot be described, feeling within myself that\ndesolating truth that my best affections have experienced this night a\nstifler!'\n\n'I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Swiviller,' said Miss Sophy\nwith downcast eyes. 'I'm very sorry if--'\n\n'Sorry, Ma'am!' said Dick, 'sorry in the possession of a Cheggs! But I\nwish you a very good night, concluding with this slight remark, that\nthere is a young lady growing up at this present moment for me, who has\nnot only great personal attractions but great wealth, and who has\nrequested her next of kin to propose for my hand, which, having a\nregard for some members of her family, I have consented to promise.\nIt's a gratifying circumstance which you'll be glad to hear, that a\nyoung and lovely girl is growing into a woman expressly on my account,\nand is now saving up for me. I thought I'd mention it. I have now\nmerely to apologize for trespassing so long upon your attention. Good\nnight.'\n\n'There's one good thing springs out of all this,' said Richard\nSwiviller to himself when he had reached home and was hanging over the\ncandle with the extinguisher in his hand, 'which is, that I now go\nheart and soul, neck and heels, with Fred in all his scheme about\nlittle Nelly, and right glad he'll be to find me so strong upon it. He\nshall know all about that to-morrow, and in the meantime, as it's\nrather late, I'll try and get a wink of the balmy.'\n\n'The balmy' came almost as soon as it was courted. In a very few\nminutes Mr Swiviller was fast asleep, dreaming that he had married\nNelly Trent and come into the property, and that his first act of power\nwas to lay waste the market-garden of Mr Cheggs and turn it into a\nbrick-field.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\nThe child, in her confidence with Mrs Quilp, had but feebly described\nthe sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness of the cloud\nwhich overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its hearth.  Besides\nthat it was very difficult to impart to any person not intimately\nacquainted with the life she led, an adequate sense of its gloom and\nloneliness, a constant fear of in some way committing or injuring the\nold man to whom she was so tenderly attached, had restrained her, even\nin the midst of her heart's overflowing, and made her timid of allusion\nto the main cause of her anxiety and distress.\n\nFor, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by variety and\nuncheered by pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary\nevenings or the long solitary nights, it was not the absence of every\nslight and easy pleasure for which young hearts beat high, or the\nknowing nothing of childhood but its weakness and its easily wounded\nspirit, that had wrung such tears from Nell.  To see the old man struck\ndown beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, to mark his wavering\nand unsettled state, to be agitated at times with a dreadful fear that\nhis mind was wandering, and to trace in his words and looks the dawning\nof despondent madness; to watch and wait and listen for confirmation of\nthese things day after day, and to feel and know that, come what might,\nthey were alone in the world with no one to help or advise or care\nabout them--these were causes of depression and anxiety that might have\nsat heavily on an older breast with many influences at work to cheer\nand gladden it, but how heavily on the mind of a young child to whom\nthey were ever present, and who was constantly surrounded by all that\ncould keep such thoughts in restless action!\n\nAnd yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same.  When he\ncould, for a moment, disengage his mind from the phantom that haunted\nand brooded on it always, there was his young companion with the same\nsmile for him, the same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same\nlove and care that, sinking deep into his soul, seemed to have been\npresent to him through his whole life.  And so he went on, content to\nread the book of her heart from the page first presented to him, little\ndreaming of the story that lay hidden in its other leaves, and\nmurmuring within himself that at least the child was happy.\n\nShe had been once.  She had gone singing through the dim rooms, and\nmoving with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures, making\nthem older by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and\ncheerful presence.  But, now, the chambers were cold and gloomy, and\nwhen she left her own little room to while away the tedious hours, and\nsat in one of them, she was still and motionless as their inanimate\noccupants, and had no heart to startle the echoes--hoarse from their\nlong silence--with her voice.\n\nIn one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street, where the\nchild sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night,\nalone and thoughtful.  None are so anxious as those who watch and wait;\nat these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her mind, in crowds.\n\nShe would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as they\npassed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the\nopposite houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that\nin which she sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her\nsitting there, as she did only to see them look out and draw in their\nheads again.  There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the\nroofs, in which, by often looking at them, she had fancied ugly faces\nthat were frowning over at her and trying to peer into the room; and\nshe felt glad when it grew too dark to make them out, though she was\nsorry too, when the man came to light the lamps in the street--for it\nmade it late, and very dull inside.  Then, she would draw in her head\nto look round the room and see that everything was in its place and\nhadn't moved; and looking out into the street again, would perhaps see\na man passing with a coffin on his back, and two or three others\nsilently following him to a house where somebody lay dead; which made\nher shudder and think of such things until they suggested afresh the\nold man's altered face and manner, and a new train of fears and\nspeculations.  If he were to die--if sudden illness had happened to\nhim, and he were never to come home again, alive--if, one night, he\nshould come home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and after she had\ngone to bed and had fallen asleep and was perhaps dreaming pleasantly,\nand smiling in her sleep, he should kill himself and his blood come\ncreeping, creeping, on the ground to her own bed-room door!  These\nthoughts were too terrible to dwell upon, and again she would have\nrecourse to the street, now trodden by fewer feet, and darker and more\nsilent than before.  The shops were closing fast, and lights began to\nshine from the upper windows, as the neighbours went to bed.  By\ndegrees, these dwindled away and disappeared or were replaced, here and\nthere, by a feeble rush-candle which was to burn all night.  Still,\nthere was one late shop at no great distance which sent forth a ruddy\nglare upon the pavement even yet, and looked bright and companionable.\nBut, in a little time, this closed, the light was extinguished, and all\nwas gloomy and quiet, except when some stray footsteps sounded on the\npavement, or a neighbour, out later than his wont, knocked lustily at\nhis house-door to rouse the sleeping inmates.\n\nWhen the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it had) the\nchild would close the window, and steal softly down stairs, thinking as\nshe went that if one of those hideous faces below, which often mingled\nwith her dreams, were to meet her by the way, rendering itself visible\nby some strange light of its own, how terrified she would be.  But\nthese fears vanished before a well-trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect\nof her own room.  After praying fervently, and with many bursting\ntears, for the old man, and the restoration of his peace of mind and\nthe happiness they had once enjoyed, she would lay her head upon the\npillow and sob herself to sleep: often starting up again, before the\nday-light came, to listen for the bell and respond to the imaginary\nsummons which had roused her from her slumber.\n\nOne night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs Quilp, the old\nman, who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not leave home.\nThe child's eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her joy subsided\nwhen they reverted to his worn and sickly face.\n\n'Two days,' he said, 'two whole, clear, days have passed, and there is\nno reply.  What did he tell thee, Nell?'\n\n'Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed.'\n\n'True,' said the old man, faintly.  'Yes.  But tell me again, Nell.  My\nhead fails me.  What was it that he told thee?  Nothing more than that\nhe would see me to-morrow or next day?  That was in the note.'\n\n'Nothing more,' said the child.  'Shall I go to him again to-morrow,\ndear grandfather?  Very early?  I will be there and back, before\nbreakfast.'\n\nThe old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her towards\nhim.\n\n''Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use.  But if he deserts me,\nNell, at this moment--if he deserts me now, when I should, with his\nassistance, be recompensed for all the time and money I have lost, and\nall the agony of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, I\nam ruined, and--worse, far worse than that--have ruined thee, for whom\nI ventured all.  If we are beggars--!'\n\n'What if we are?' said the child boldly.  'Let us be beggars, and be\nhappy.'\n\n'Beggars--and happy!' said the old man.  'Poor child!'\n\n'Dear grandfather,' cried the girl with an energy which shone in her\nflushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, 'I am not a\nchild in that I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may\nbeg, or work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather\nthan live as we do now.'\n\n'Nelly!' said the old man.\n\n'Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now,' the child repeated, more\nearnestly than before.  'If you are sorrowful, let me know why and be\nsorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every day,\nlet me be your nurse and try to comfort you.  If you are poor, let us\nbe poor together; but let me be with you, do let me be with you; do not\nlet me see such change and not know why, or I shall break my heart and\ndie.  Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad place to-morrow, and beg\nour way from door to door.'\n\nThe old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the pillow\nof the couch on which he lay.\n\n'Let us be beggars,' said the child passing an arm round his neck, 'I\nhave no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall.  Let us walk\nthrough country places, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never\nthink of money again, or anything that can make you sad, but rest at\nnights, and have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day, and thank\nGod together!  Let us never set foot in dark rooms or melancholy\nhouses, any more, but wander up and down wherever we like to go; and\nwhen you are tired, you shall stop to rest in the pleasantest place\nthat we can find, and I will go and beg for both.'\n\nThe child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old man's\nneck; nor did she weep alone.\n\nThese were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for other eyes.\nAnd yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in all that\npassed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no less a person\nthan Mr Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child first\nplaced herself at the old man's side, refrained--actuated, no doubt, by\nmotives of the purest delicacy--from interrupting the conversation, and\nstood looking on with his accustomed grin.  Standing, however, being a\ntiresome attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the\ndwarf being one of that kind of persons who usually make themselves at\nhome, he soon cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped with\nuncommon agility, and perching himself on the back with his feet upon\nthe seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort\nto himself, besides gratifying at the same time that taste for doing\nsomething fantastic and monkey-like, which on all occasions had strong\npossession of him.  Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over\nthe other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his head turned a\nlittle on one side, and his ugly features twisted into a complacent\ngrimace.  And in this position the old man, happening in course of time\nto look that way, at length chanced to see him: to his unbounded\nastonishment.\n\nThe child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this agreeable\nfigure; in their first surprise both she and the old man, not knowing\nwhat to say, and half doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly at it.\nNot at all disconcerted by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the\nsame attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with great condescension.\nAt length, the old man pronounced his name, and inquired how he came\nthere.\n\n'Through the door,' said Quilp pointing over his shoulder with his\nthumb.  'I'm not quite small enough to get through key-holes.  I wish I\nwas.  I want to have some talk with you, particularly, and in private.\nWith nobody present, neighbour.  Good-bye, little Nelly.'\n\nNell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed her\ncheek.\n\n'Ah!' said the dwarf, smacking his lips, 'what a nice kiss that\nwas--just upon the rosy part.  What a capital kiss!'\n\nNell was none the slower in going away, for this remark.  Quilp looked\nafter her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the door, fell\nto complimenting the old man upon her charms.\n\n'Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbour,' said Quilp,\nnursing his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much; 'such a\nchubby, rosy, cosy, little Nell!'\n\nThe old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly struggling with\na feeling of the keenest and most exquisite impatience.  It was not\nlost upon Quilp, who delighted in torturing him, or indeed anybody\nelse, when he could.\n\n'She's so,' said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be quite\nabsorbed in the subject, 'so small, so compact, so beautifully\nmodelled, so fair, with such blue veins and such a transparent skin,\nand such little feet, and such winning ways--but bless me, you're\nnervous!  Why neighbour, what's the matter?  I swear to you,' continued\nthe dwarf dismounting from the chair and sitting down in it, with a\ncareful slowness of gesture very different from the rapidity with which\nhe had sprung up unheard, 'I swear to you that I had no idea old blood\nran so fast or kept so warm.  I thought it was sluggish in its course,\nand cool, quite cool.  I am pretty sure it ought to be.  Yours must be\nout of order, neighbour.'\n\n'I believe it is,' groaned the old man, clasping his head with both\nhands.  'There's burning fever here, and something now and then to\nwhich I fear to give a name.'\n\nThe dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced\nrestlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his seat.\nHere he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for some time,\nand then suddenly raising it, said,\n\n'Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?'\n\n'No!' returned Quilp.\n\n'Then,' said the old man, clenching his hands desperately, and looking\nupwards, 'the child and I are lost!'\n\n'Neighbour,' said Quilp glancing sternly at him, and beating his hand\ntwice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering attention, 'let\nme be plain with you, and play a fairer game than when you held all the\ncards, and I saw but the backs and nothing more.  You have no secret\nfrom me now.'\n\nThe old man looked up, trembling.\n\n'You are surprised,' said Quilp.  'Well, perhaps that's natural.  You\nhave no secret from me now, I say; no, not one.  For now, I know, that\nall those sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and supplies\nthat you have had from me, have found their way to--shall I say the\nword?'\n\n'Aye!' replied the old man, 'say it, if you will.'\n\n'To the gaming-table,' rejoined Quilp, 'your nightly haunt.  This was\nthe precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the secret\ncertain source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my money (if I had\nbeen the fool you took me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of\ngold, your El Dorado, eh?'\n\n'Yes,' cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes, 'it was.\nIt is.  It will be, till I die.'\n\n'That I should have been blinded,' said Quilp looking contemptuously at\nhim, 'by a mere shallow gambler!'\n\n'I am no gambler,' cried the old man fiercely.  'I call Heaven to\nwitness that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play; that at\nevery piece I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's name and\ncalled on Heaven to bless the venture;--which it never did.  Whom did\nit prosper?  Who were those with whom I played?  Men who lived by\nplunder, profligacy, and riot; squandering their gold in doing ill, and\npropagating vice and evil.  My winnings would have been from them, my\nwinnings would have been bestowed to the last farthing on a young\nsinless child whose life they would have sweetened and made happy.\nWhat would they have contracted?  The means of corruption,\nwretchedness, and misery.  Who would not have hoped in such a cause?\nTell me that!  Who would not have hoped as I did?'\n\n'When did you first begin this mad career?' asked Quilp, his taunting\ninclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief and wildness.\n\n'When did I first begin?' he rejoined, passing his hand across his\nbrow.  'When was it, that I first began?  When should it be, but when I\nbegan to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save\nat all, how short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she\nwould be left to the rough mercies of the world, with barely enough to\nkeep her from the sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was that I\nbegan to think about it.'\n\n'After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed off to\nsea?' said Quilp.\n\n'Shortly after that,' replied the old man.  'I thought of it a long\ntime, and had it in my sleep for months.  Then I began.  I found no\npleasure in it, I expected none.  What has it ever brought me but\nanxious days and sleepless nights; but loss of health and peace of\nmind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow!'\n\n'You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to me.\nWhile I thought you were making your fortune (as you said you were) you\nwere making yourself a beggar, eh?  Dear me!  And so it comes to pass\nthat I hold every security you could scrape together, and a bill of\nsale upon the--upon the stock and property,' said Quilp standing up and\nlooking about him, as if to assure himself that none of it had been\ntaken away.  'But did you never win?'\n\n'Never!' groaned the old man.  'Never won back my loss!'\n\n'I thought,' sneered the dwarf, 'that if a man played long enough he\nwas sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off a loser.'\n\n'And so he is,' cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from his\nstate of despondency, and lashed into the most violent excitement, 'so\nhe is; I have felt that from the first, I have always known it, I've\nseen it, I never felt it half so strongly as I feel it now.  Quilp, I\nhave dreamed, three nights, of winning the same large sum, I never\ncould dream that dream before, though I have often tried.  Do not\ndesert me, now I have this chance.  I have no resource but you, give me\nsome help, let me try this one last hope.'\n\nThe dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.\n\n'See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp,' said the old man, drawing some\nscraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand, and clasping the\ndwarf's arm, 'only see here.  Look at these figures, the result of long\ncalculation, and painful and hard experience.  I MUST win.  I only want\na little help once more, a few pounds, but two score pounds, dear\nQuilp.'\n\n'The last advance was seventy,' said the dwarf; 'and it went in one\nnight.'\n\n'I know it did,' answered the old man, 'but that was the very worst\nfortune of all, and the time had not come then.  Quilp, consider,\nconsider,' the old man cried, trembling so much the while, that the\npapers in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind, 'that\norphan child!  If I were alone, I could die with gladness--perhaps even\nanticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally: coming, as it\ndoes, on the proud and happy in their strength, and shunning the needy\nand afflicted, and all who court it in their despair--but what I have\ndone, has been for her.  Help me for her sake I implore you; not for\nmine; for hers!'\n\n'I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city,' said Quilp, looking at\nhis watch with perfect self-possession, 'or I should have been very\nglad to have spent half an hour with you while you composed yourself,\nvery glad.'\n\n'Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,' gasped the old man, catching at his skirts,\n'you and I have talked together, more than once, of her poor mother's\nstory.  The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been bred in me\nby that.  Do not be hard upon me, but take that into account.  You are\na great gainer by me.  Oh spare me the money for this one last hope!'\n\n'I couldn't do it really,' said Quilp with unusual politeness, 'though\nI tell you what--and this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind as\nshowing how the sharpest among us may be taken in sometimes--I was so\ndeceived by the penurious way in which you lived, alone with Nelly--'\n\n'All done to save money for tempting fortune, and to make her triumph\ngreater,' cried the old man.\n\n'Yes, yes, I understand that now,' said Quilp; 'but I was going to say,\nI was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation you had\namong those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated assurances\nthat you would make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest\nyou paid me, that I'd have advanced you, even now, what you want, on\nyour simple note of hand, if I hadn't unexpectedly become acquainted\nwith your secret way of life.'\n\n'Who is it,' retorted the old man desperately, 'that, notwithstanding\nall my caution, told you?  Come.  Let me know the name--the person.'\n\nThe crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child would\nlead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed, which, as\nnothing was to be gained by it, it was well to conceal, stopped short\nin his answer and said, 'Now, who do you think?'\n\n'It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy, and you\ntampered with him?' said the old man.\n\n'How came you to think of him?' said the dwarf in a tone of great\ncommiseration.  'Yes, it was Kit.  Poor Kit!'\n\nSo saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave: stopping\nwhen he had passed the outer door a little distance, and grinning with\nextraordinary delight.\n\n'Poor Kit!' muttered Quilp.  'I think it was Kit who said I was an\nuglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it.  Ha ha\nha!  Poor Kit!'\n\nAnd with that he went his way, still chuckling as he went.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nDaniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's house, unobserved.\nIn the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to one of the many\npassages which diverged from the main street, there lingered one, who,\nhaving taken up his position when the twilight first came on, still\nmaintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning against the wall\nwith the manner of a person who had a long time to wait, and being well\nused to it was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude for the\nhour together.\n\nThis patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those who\npassed, and bestowed as little upon them.  His eyes were constantly\ndirected towards one object; the window at which the child was\naccustomed to sit.  If he withdrew them for a moment, it was only to\nglance at a clock in some neighbouring shop, and then to strain his\nsight once more in the old quarter with increased earnestness and\nattention.\n\nIt had been remarked that this personage evinced no weariness in his\nplace of concealment; nor did he, long as his waiting was.  But as the\ntime went on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the\nclock more frequently and at the window less hopefully than before.  At\nlength, the clock was hidden from his sight by some envious shutters,\nthen the church steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then the quarter\npast, and then the conviction seemed to obtrude itself on his mind that\nit was no use tarrying there any longer.\n\nThat the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he was by no means\nwilling to yield to it, was apparent from his reluctance to quit the\nspot; from the tardy steps with which he often left it, still looking\nover his shoulder at the same window; and from the precipitation with\nwhich he as often returned, when a fancied noise or the changing and\nimperfect light induced him to suppose it had been softly raised.  At\nlength, he gave the matter up, as hopeless for that night, and suddenly\nbreaking into a run as though to force himself away, scampered off at\nhis utmost speed, nor once ventured to look behind him lest he should\nbe tempted back again.\n\nWithout relaxing his pace, or stopping to take breath, this mysterious\nindividual dashed on through a great many alleys and narrow ways until\nhe at length arrived in a square paved court, when he subsided into a\nwalk, and making for a small house from the window of which a light was\nshining, lifted the latch of the door and passed in.\n\n'Bless us!' cried a woman turning sharply round, 'who's that?  Oh!\nIt's you, Kit!'\n\n'Yes, mother, it's me.'\n\n'Why, how tired you look, my dear!'\n\n'Old master an't gone out to-night,' said Kit; 'and so she hasn't been\nat the window at all.'  With which words, he sat down by the fire and\nlooked very mournful and discontented.\n\nThe room in which Kit sat himself down, in this condition, was an\nextremely poor and homely place, but with that air of comfort about it,\nnevertheless, which--or the spot must be a wretched one\nindeed--cleanliness and order can always impart in some degree.  Late\nas the Dutch clock showed it to be, the poor woman was still hard at\nwork at an ironing-table; a young child lay sleeping in a cradle near\nthe fire; and another, a sturdy boy of two or three years old, very\nwide awake, with a very tight night-cap on his head, and a night-gown\nvery much too small for him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in a\nclothes-basket, staring over the rim with his great round eyes, and\nlooking as if he had thoroughly made up his mind never to go to sleep\nany more; which, as he had already declined to take his natural rest\nand had been brought out of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful\nprospect for his relations and friends.  It was rather a queer-looking\nfamily: Kit, his mother, and the children, being all strongly alike.\n\nKit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us are too\noften--but he looked at the youngest child who was sleeping soundly,\nand from him to his other brother in the clothes-basket, and from him\nto their mother, who had been at work without complaint since morning,\nand thought it would be a better and kinder thing to be good-humoured.\nSo he rocked the cradle with his foot; made a face at the rebel in the\nclothes-basket, which put him in high good-humour directly; and stoutly\ndetermined to be talkative and make himself agreeable.\n\n'Ah, mother!' said Kit, taking out his clasp-knife, and falling upon a\ngreat piece of bread and meat which she had had ready for him, hours\nbefore, 'what a one you are!  There an't many such as you, I know.'\n\n'I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit,' said Mrs Nubbles;\n'and that there are, or ought to be, accordin' to what the parson at\nchapel says.'\n\n'Much he knows about it,' returned Kit contemptuously.  'Wait till he's\na widder and works like you do, and gets as little, and does as much,\nand keeps his spirit up the same, and then I'll ask him what's o'clock\nand trust him for being right to half a second.'\n\n'Well,' said Mrs Nubbles, evading the point, 'your beer's down there by\nthe fender, Kit.'\n\n'I see,' replied her son, taking up the porter pot, 'my love to you,\nmother.  And the parson's health too if you like.  I don't bear him any\nmalice, not I!'\n\n'Did you tell me, just now, that your master hadn't gone out to-night?'\ninquired Mrs Nubbles.\n\n'Yes,' said Kit, 'worse luck!'\n\n'You should say better luck, I think,' returned his mother, 'because\nMiss Nelly won't have been left alone.'\n\n'Ah!' said Kit, 'I forgot that.  I said worse luck, because I've been\nwatching ever since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her.'\n\n'I wonder what she'd say,' cried his mother, stopping in her work and\nlooking round, 'if she knew that every night, when she--poor thing--is\nsitting alone at that window, you are watching in the open street for\nfear any harm should come to her, and that you never leave the place or\ncome home to your bed though you're ever so tired, till such time as\nyou think she's safe in hers.'\n\n'Never mind what she'd say,' replied Kit, with something like a blush\non his uncouth face; 'she'll never know nothing, and consequently,\nshe'll never say nothing.'\n\nMrs Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or two, and coming to\nthe fireplace for another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while she\nrubbed it on a board and dusted it with a duster, but said nothing\nuntil she had returned to her table again: when, holding the iron at an\nalarmingly short distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and\nlooking round with a smile, she observed:\n\n'I know what some people would say, Kit--'\n\n'Nonsense,' interposed Kit with a perfect apprehension of what was to\nfollow.\n\n'No, but they would indeed.  Some people would say that you'd fallen in\nlove with her, I know they would.'\n\nTo this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother 'get out,'\nand forming sundry strange figures with his legs and arms, accompanied\nby sympathetic contortions of his face.  Not deriving from these means\nthe relief which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the\nbread and meat, and took a quick drink of the porter; by which\nartificial aids he choked himself and effected a diversion of the\nsubject.\n\n'Speaking seriously though, Kit,' said his mother, taking up the theme\nafresh, after a time, 'for of course I was only in joke just now, it's\nvery good and thoughtful, and like you, to do this, and never let\nanybody know it, though some day I hope she may come to know it, for\nI'm sure she would be very grateful to you and feel it very much.  It's\na cruel thing to keep the dear child shut up there.  I don't wonder\nthat the old gentleman wants to keep it from you.'\n\n'He don't think it's cruel, bless you,' said Kit, 'and don't mean it to\nbe so, or he wouldn't do it--I do consider, mother, that he wouldn't do\nit for all the gold and silver in the world.  No, no, that he wouldn't.\nI know him better than that.'\n\n'Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it so close from\nyou?' said Mrs Nubbles.\n\n'That I don't know,' returned her son.  'If he hadn't tried to keep it\nso close though, I should never have found it out, for it was his\ngetting me away at night and sending me off so much earlier than he\nused to, that first made me curious to know what was going on.  Hark!\nwhat's that?'\n\n'It's only somebody outside.'\n\n'It's somebody crossing over here,' said Kit, standing up to listen,\n'and coming very fast too.  He can't have gone out after I left, and\nthe house caught fire, mother!'\n\nThe boy stood, for a moment, really bereft, by the apprehension he had\nconjured up, of the power to move.  The footsteps drew nearer, the door\nwas opened with a hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and\nbreathless, and hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried\ninto the room.\n\n'Miss Nelly!  What is the matter!' cried mother and son together.\n\n'I must not stay a moment,' she returned, 'grandfather has been taken\nvery ill.  I found him in a fit upon the floor--'\n\n'I'll run for a doctor'--said Kit, seizing his brimless hat.  'I'll be\nthere directly, I'll--'\n\n'No, no,' cried Nell, 'there is one there, you're not wanted,\nyou--you--must never come near us any more!'\n\n'What!' roared Kit.\n\n'Never again,' said the child.  'Don't ask me why, for I don't know.\nPray don't ask me why, pray don't be sorry, pray don't be vexed with\nme!  I have nothing to do with it indeed!'\n\nKit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide; and opened and shut his\nmouth a great many times; but couldn't get out one word.\n\n'He complains and raves of you,' said the child, 'I don't know what you\nhave done, but I hope it's nothing very bad.'\n\n'I done!' roared Kit.\n\n'He cried that you're the cause of all his misery,' returned the child\nwith tearful eyes; 'he screamed and called for you; they say you must\nnot come near him or he will die.  You must not return to us any more.\nI came to tell you.  I thought it would be better that I should come\nthan somebody quite strange.  Oh, Kit, what have you done?  You, in\nwhom I trusted so much, and who were almost the only friend I had!'\n\nThe unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder and harder, and\nwith eyes growing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless and\nsilent.\n\n'I have brought his money for the week,' said the child, looking to the\nwoman and laying it on the table--'and--and--a little more, for he was\nalways good and kind to me.  I hope he will be sorry and do well\nsomewhere else and not take this to heart too much.  It grieves me very\nmuch to part with him like this, but there is no help.  It must be\ndone.  Good night!'\n\nWith the tears streaming down her face, and her slight figure trembling\nwith the agitation of the scene she had left, the shock she had\nreceived, the errand she had just discharged, and a thousand painful\nand affectionate feelings, the child hastened to the door, and\ndisappeared as rapidly as she had come.\n\nThe poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, but every reason for\nrelying on his honesty and truth, was staggered, notwithstanding, by\nhis not having advanced one word in his defence.  Visions of gallantry,\nknavery, robbery; and of the nightly absences from home for which he\nhad accounted so strangely, having been occasioned by some unlawful\npursuit; flocked into her brain and rendered her afraid to question\nhim.  She rocked herself upon a chair, wringing her hands and weeping\nbitterly, but Kit made no attempt to comfort her and remained quite\nbewildered.  The baby in the cradle woke up and cried; the boy in the\nclothes-basket fell over on his back with the basket upon him, and was\nseen no more; the mother wept louder yet and rocked faster; but Kit,\ninsensible to all the din and tumult, remained in a state of utter\nstupefaction.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\nQuiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted rule no longer,\nbeneath the roof that sheltered the child.  Next morning, the old man\nwas in a raging fever accompanied with delirium; and sinking under the\ninfluence of this disorder he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of\nhis life.  There was watching enough, now, but it was the watching of\nstrangers who made a greedy trade of it, and who, in the intervals in\ntheir attendance upon the sick man huddled together with a ghastly\ngood-fellowship, and ate and drank and made merry; for disease and\ndeath were their ordinary household gods.\n\nYet, in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the child was more\nalone than she had ever been before; alone in spirit, alone in her\ndevotion to him who was wasting away upon his burning bed; alone in her\nunfeigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy.  Day after day, and\nnight after night, found her still by the pillow of the unconscious\nsufferer, still anticipating his every want, still listening to those\nrepetitions of her name and those anxieties and cares for her, which\nwere ever uppermost among his feverish wanderings.\n\nThe house was no longer theirs.  Even the sick chamber seemed to be\nretained, on the uncertain tenure of Mr Quilp's favour.  The old man's\nillness had not lasted many days when he took formal possession of the\npremises and all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that\neffect, which few understood and none presumed to call in question.\nThis important step secured, with the assistance of a man of law whom\nhe brought with him for the purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish\nhimself and his coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim\nagainst all comers; and then set about making his quarters comfortable,\nafter his own fashion.\n\nTo this end, Mr Quilp encamped in the back parlour, having first put an\neffectual stop to any further business by shutting up the shop.  Having\nlooked out, from among the old furniture, the handsomest and most\ncommodious chair he could possibly find (which he reserved for his own\nuse) and an especially hideous and uncomfortable one (which he\nconsiderately appropriated to the accommodation of his friend) he\ncaused them to be carried into this room, and took up his position in\ngreat state.  The apartment was very far removed from the old man's\nchamber, but Mr Quilp deemed it prudent, as a precaution against\ninfection from fever, and a means of wholesome fumigation, not only to\nsmoke, himself, without cessation, but to insist upon it that his legal\nfriend did the like.  Moreover, he sent an express to the wharf for the\ntumbling boy, who arriving with all despatch was enjoined to sit\nhimself down in another chair just inside the door, continually to\nsmoke a great pipe which the dwarf had provided for the purpose, and to\ntake it from his lips under any pretence whatever, were it only for one\nminute at a time, if he dared.  These arrangements completed, Mr Quilp\nlooked round him with chuckling satisfaction, and remarked that he\ncalled that comfort.\n\nThe legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, might have called\nit comfort also but for two drawbacks: one was, that he could by no\nexertion sit easy in his chair, the seat of which was very hard,\nangular, slippery, and sloping; the other, that tobacco-smoke always\ncaused him great internal discomposure and annoyance.  But as he was\nquite a creature of Mr Quilp's and had a thousand reasons for\nconciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile, and nodded his\nacquiescence with the best grace he could assume.\n\nThis Brass was an attorney of no very good repute, from Bevis Marks in\nthe city of London; he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like a wen,\na protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and hair of a deep red.  He\nwore a long black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short black\ntrousers, high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish grey.  He had a\ncringing manner, but a very harsh voice; and his blandest smiles were\nso extremely forbidding, that to have had his company under the least\nrepulsive circumstances, one would have wished him to be out of temper\nthat he might only scowl.\n\nQuilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he was winking very\nmuch in the anguish of his pipe, that he sometimes shuddered when he\nhappened to inhale its full flavour, and that he constantly fanned the\nsmoke from him, was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee.\n\n'Smoke away, you dog,' said Quilp, turning to the boy; 'fill your pipe\nagain and smoke it fast, down to the last whiff, or I'll put the\nsealing-waxed end of it in the fire and rub it red hot upon your\ntongue.'\n\nLuckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have smoked a small\nlime-kiln if anybody had treated him with it.  Wherefore, he only\nmuttered a brief defiance of his master, and did as he was ordered.\n\n'Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do you feel like the\nGrand Turk?' said Quilp.\n\nMr Brass thought that if he did, the Grand Turk's feelings were by no\nmeans to be envied, but he said it was famous, and he had no doubt he\nfelt very like that Potentate.\n\n'This is the way to keep off fever,' said Quilp, 'this is the way to\nkeep off every calamity of life!  We'll never leave off, all the time\nwe stop here--smoke away, you dog, or you shall swallow the pipe!'\n\n'Shall we stop here long, Mr Quilp?' inquired his legal friend, when\nthe dwarf had given his boy this gentle admonition.\n\n'We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentleman up stairs is dead,'\nreturned Quilp.\n\n'He he he!' laughed Mr Brass, 'oh! very good!'\n\n'Smoke away!' cried Quilp.  'Never stop!  You can talk as you smoke.\nDon't lose time.'\n\n'He he he!' cried Brass faintly, as he again applied himself to the\nodious pipe.  'But if he should get better, Mr Quilp?'\n\n'Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer,' returned the dwarf.\n\n'How kind it is of you, Sir, to wait till then!' said Brass.  'Some\npeople, Sir, would have sold or removed the goods--oh dear, the very\ninstant the law allowed 'em.  Some people, Sir, would have been all\nflintiness and granite.  Some people, sir, would have--'\n\n'Some people would have spared themselves the jabbering of such a\nparrot as you,' interposed the dwarf.\n\n'He he he!' cried Brass.  'You have such spirits!'\n\nThe smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this place, and without\ntaking his pipe from his lips, growled,\n\n'Here's the gal a comin' down.'\n\n'The what, you dog?' said Quilp.\n\n'The gal,' returned the boy.  'Are you deaf?'\n\n'Oh!' said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great relish as if he were\ntaking soup, 'you and I will have such a settling presently; there's\nsuch a scratching and bruising in store for you, my dear young friend!\nAha! Nelly!  How is he now, my duck of diamonds?'\n\n'He's very bad,' replied the weeping child.\n\n'What a pretty little Nell!' cried Quilp.\n\n'Oh beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed,' said Brass.  'Quite charming.'\n\n'Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee,' said the dwarf, in what he\nmeant to be a soothing tone, 'or is she going to bed in her own little\nroom inside here?  Which is poor Nelly going to do?'\n\n'What a remarkable pleasant way he has with children!' muttered Brass,\nas if in confidence between himself and the ceiling; 'upon my word it's\nquite a treat to hear him.'\n\n'I'm not going to stay at all,' faltered Nell.  'I want a few things\nout of that room, and then I--I--won't come down here any more.'\n\n'And a very nice little room it is!' said the dwarf looking into it as\nthe child entered.  'Quite a bower!  You're sure you're not going to\nuse it; you're sure you're not coming back, Nelly?'\n\n'No,' replied the child, hurrying away, with the few articles of dress\nshe had come to remove; 'never again!  Never again.'\n\n'She's very sensitive,' said Quilp, looking after her.  'Very\nsensitive; that's a pity.  The bedstead is much about my size.  I think\nI shall make it MY little room.'\n\nMr Brass encouraging this idea, as he would have encouraged any other\nemanating from the same source, the dwarf walked in to try the effect.\nThis he did, by throwing himself on his back upon the bed with his pipe\nin his mouth, and then kicking up his legs and smoking violently.  Mr\nBrass applauding this picture very much, and the bed being soft and\ncomfortable, Mr Quilp determined to use it, both as a sleeping place by\nnight and as a kind of Divan by day; and in order that it might be\nconverted to the latter purpose at once, remained where he was, and\nsmoked his pipe out.  The legal gentleman being by this time rather\ngiddy and perplexed in his ideas (for this was one of the operations of\nthe tobacco on his nervous system), took the opportunity of slinking\naway into the open air, where, in course of time, he recovered\nsufficiently to return with a countenance of tolerable composure.  He\nwas soon led on by the malicious dwarf to smoke himself into a relapse,\nand in that state stumbled upon a settee where he slept till morning.\n\nSuch were Mr Quilp's first proceedings on entering upon his new\nproperty.  He was, for some days, restrained by business from\nperforming any particular pranks, as his time was pretty well occupied\nbetween taking, with the assistance of Mr Brass, a minute inventory of\nall the goods in the place, and going abroad upon his other concerns\nwhich happily engaged him for several hours at a time.  His avarice and\ncaution being, now, thoroughly awakened, however, he was never absent\nfrom the house one night; and his eagerness for some termination, good\nor bad, to the old man's disorder, increasing rapidly, as the time\npassed by, soon began to vent itself in open murmurs and exclamations\nof impatience.\n\nNell shrank timidly from all the dwarf's advances towards conversation,\nand fled from the very sound of his voice; nor were the lawyer's smiles\nless terrible to her than Quilp's grimaces.  She lived in such\ncontinual dread and apprehension of meeting one or other of them on the\nstairs or in the passages if she stirred from her grandfather's\nchamber, that she seldom left it, for a moment, until late at night,\nwhen the silence encouraged her to venture forth and breathe the purer\nair of some empty room.\n\nOne night, she had stolen to her usual window, and was sitting there\nvery sorrowfully--for the old man had been worse that day--when she\nthought she heard her name pronounced by a voice in the street.\nLooking down, she recognised Kit, whose endeavours to attract her\nattention had roused her from her sad reflections.\n\n'Miss Nell!' said the boy in a low voice.\n\n'Yes,' replied the child, doubtful whether she ought to hold any\ncommunication with the supposed culprit, but inclining to her old\nfavourite still; 'what do you want?'\n\n'I have wanted to say a word to you, for a long time,' the boy replied,\n'but the people below have driven me away and wouldn't let me see you.\nYou don't believe--I hope you don't really believe--that I deserve to\nbe cast off as I have been; do you, miss?'\n\n'I must believe it,' returned the child.  'Or why would grandfather\nhave been so angry with you?'\n\n'I don't know,' replied Kit.  'I'm sure I never deserved it from him,\nno, nor from you.  I can say that, with a true and honest heart, any\nway.  And then to be driven from the door, when I only came to ask how\nold master was--!'\n\n'They never told me that,' said the child.  'I didn't know it indeed.\nI wouldn't have had them do it for the world.'\n\n'Thank'ee, miss,' returned Kit, 'it's comfortable to hear you say that.\nI said I never would believe that it was your doing.'\n\n'That was right!' said the child eagerly.\n\n'Miss Nell,' cried the boy coming under the window, and speaking in a\nlower tone, 'there are new masters down stairs.  It's a change for you.'\n\n'It is indeed,' replied the child.\n\n'And so it will be for him when he gets better,' said the boy, pointing\ntowards the sick room.\n\n'--If he ever does,' added the child, unable to restrain her tears.\n\n'Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that,' said Kit.  'I'm sure he will.  You\nmustn't be cast down, Miss Nell.  Now don't be, pray!'\n\nThese words of encouragement and consolation were few and roughly said,\nbut they affected the child and made her, for the moment, weep the more.\n\n'He'll be sure to get better now,' said the boy anxiously, 'if you\ndon't give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself, which would make\nhim worse and throw him back, just as he was recovering.  When he does,\nsay a good word--say a kind word for me, Miss Nell!'\n\n'They tell me I must not even mention your name to him for a long, long\ntime,' rejoined the child, 'I dare not; and even if I might, what good\nwould a kind word do you, Kit?  We shall be very poor.  We shall\nscarcely have bread to eat.'\n\n'It's not that I may be taken back,' said the boy, 'that I ask the\nfavour of you.  It isn't for the sake of food and wages that I've been\nwaiting about so long in hopes to see you.  Don't think that I'd come\nin a time of trouble to talk of such things as them.'\n\nThe child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited that he might\nspeak again.\n\n'No, it's not that,' said Kit hesitating, 'it's something very\ndifferent from that.  I haven't got much sense, I know, but if he could\nbe brought to believe that I'd been a faithful servant to him, doing\nthe best I could, and never meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't--'\n\nHere Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him to speak out,\nand quickly, for it was very late, and time to shut the window.\n\n'Perhaps he mightn't think it over venturesome of me to say--well then,\nto say this,' cried Kit with sudden boldness.  'This home is gone from\nyou and him.  Mother and I have got a poor one, but that's better than\nthis with all these people here; and why not come there, till he's had\ntime to look about, and find a better!'\n\nThe child did not speak.  Kit, in the relief of having made his\nproposition, found his tongue loosened, and spoke out in its favour\nwith his utmost eloquence.\n\n'You think,' said the boy, 'that it's very small and inconvenient.  So\nit is, but it's very clean.  Perhaps you think it would be noisy, but\nthere's not a quieter court than ours in all the town.  Don't be afraid\nof the children; the baby hardly ever cries, and the other one is very\ngood--besides, I'd mind 'em.  They wouldn't vex you much, I'm sure.  Do\ntry, Miss Nell, do try.  The little front room up stairs is very\npleasant.  You can see a piece of the church-clock, through the\nchimneys, and almost tell the time; mother says it would be just the\nthing for you, and so it would, and you'd have her to wait upon you\nboth, and me to run of errands.  We don't mean money, bless you; you're\nnot to think of that!  Will you try him, Miss Nell?  Only say you'll\ntry him.  Do try to make old master come, and ask him first what I have\ndone.  Will you only promise that, Miss Nell?'\n\nBefore the child could reply to this earnest solicitation, the\nstreet-door opened, and Mr Brass thrusting out his night-capped head\ncalled in a surly voice, 'Who's there!'  Kit immediately glided away,\nand Nell, closing the window softly, drew back into the room.\n\nBefore Mr Brass had repeated his inquiry many times, Mr Quilp, also\nembellished with a night-cap, emerged from the same door and looked\ncarefully up and down the street, and up at all the windows of the\nhouse, from the opposite side.  Finding that there was nobody in sight,\nhe presently returned into the house with his legal friend, protesting\n(as the child heard from the staircase), that there was a league and\nplot against him; that he was in danger of being robbed and plundered\nby a band of conspirators who prowled about the house at all seasons;\nand that he would delay no longer but take immediate steps for\ndisposing of the property and returning to his own peaceful roof.\nHaving growled forth these, and a great many other threats of the same\nnature, he coiled himself once more in the child's little bed, and Nell\ncrept softly up the stairs.\n\nIt was natural enough that her short and unfinished dialogue with Kit\nshould leave a strong impression on her mind, and influence her dreams\nthat night and her recollections for a long, long time.  Surrounded by\nunfeeling creditors, and mercenary attendants upon the sick, and\nmeeting in the height of her anxiety and sorrow with little regard or\nsympathy even from the women about her, it is not surprising that the\naffectionate heart of the child should have been touched to the quick\nby one kind and generous spirit, however uncouth the temple in which it\ndwelt.  Thank Heaven that the temples of such spirits are not made with\nhands, and that they may be even more worthily hung with poor\npatch-work than with purple and fine linen!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\nAt length, the crisis of the old man's disorder was past, and he began\nto mend.  By very slow and feeble degrees his consciousness came back;\nbut the mind was weakened and its functions were impaired.  He was\npatient, and quiet; often sat brooding, but not despondently, for a\nlong space; was easily amused, even by a sun-beam on the wall or\nceiling; made no complaint that the days were long, or the nights\ntedious; and appeared indeed to have lost all count of time, and every\nsense of care or weariness.  He would sit, for hours together, with\nNell's small hand in his, playing with the fingers and stopping\nsometimes to smooth her hair or kiss her brow; and, when he saw that\ntears were glistening in her eyes, would look, amazed, about him for\nthe cause, and forget his wonder even while he looked.\n\nThe child and he rode out; the old man propped up with pillows, and the\nchild beside him.  They were hand in hand as usual.  The noise and\nmotion in the streets fatigued his brain at first, but he was not\nsurprised, or curious, or pleased, or irritated.  He was asked if he\nremembered this, or that.  'O yes,' he said, 'quite well--why not?'\nSometimes he turned his head, and looked, with earnest gaze and\noutstretched neck, after some stranger in the crowd, until he\ndisappeared from sight; but, to the question why he did this, he\nanswered not a word.\n\nHe was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool beside\nhim, when a man outside the door inquired if he might enter.  'Yes,' he\nsaid without emotion, 'it was Quilp, he knew.  Quilp was master there.\nOf course he might come in.'  And so he did.\n\n'I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbour,' said the dwarf,\nsitting down opposite him.  'You're quite strong now?'\n\n'Yes,' said the old man feebly, 'yes.'\n\n'I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbour,' said the dwarf,\nraising his voice, for the old man's senses were duller than they had\nbeen; 'but, as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings, the\nbetter.'\n\n'Surely,' said the old man.  'The better for all parties.'\n\n'You see,' pursued Quilp after a short pause, 'the goods being once\nremoved, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact.'\n\n'You say true,' returned the old man.  'Poor Nell too, what would she\ndo?'\n\n'Exactly,' bawled the dwarf nodding his head; 'that's very well\nobserved.  Then will you consider about it, neighbour?'\n\n'I will, certainly,' replied the old man.  'We shall not stop here.'\n\n'So I supposed,' said the dwarf.  'I have sold the things.  They have\nnot yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty\nwell--pretty well.  To-day's Tuesday.  When shall they be moved?\nThere's no hurry--shall we say this afternoon?'\n\n'Say Friday morning,' returned the old man.\n\n'Very good,' said the dwarf.  'So be it--with the understanding that I\ncan't go beyond that day, neighbour, on any account.'\n\n'Good,' returned the old man.  'I shall remember it.'\n\nMr Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even spiritless way in\nwhich all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and\nrepeated 'on Friday morning.  I shall remember it,' he had no excuse\nfor dwelling on the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave\nwith many expressions of good-will and many compliments to his friend\non his looking so remarkably well; and went below stairs to report\nprogress to Mr Brass.\n\nAll that day, and all the next, the old man remained in this state.  He\nwandered up and down the house and into and out of the various rooms,\nas if with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred\nneither by direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview of\nthe morning or the necessity of finding some other shelter.  An\nindistinct idea he had, that the child was desolate and in want of\nhelp; for he often drew her to his bosom and bade her be of good cheer,\nsaying that they would not desert each other; but he seemed unable to\ncontemplate their real position more distinctly, and was still the\nlistless, passionless creature that suffering of mind and body had left\nhim.\n\nWe call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor hollow\nmockery of it, that death is of sleep.  Where, in the dull eyes of\ndoating men, are the laughing light and life of childhood, the gaiety\nthat has known no check, the frankness that has felt no chill, the hope\nthat has never withered, the joys that fade in blossoming?  Where, in\nthe sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly death, is the calm beauty\nof slumber, telling of rest for the waking hours that are past, and\ngentle hopes and loves for those which are to come?  Lay death and\nsleep down, side by side, and say who shall find the two akin.  Send\nforth the child and childish man together, and blush for the pride that\nlibels our own old happy state, and gives its title to an ugly and\ndistorted image.\n\nThursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man.  But a\nchange came upon him that evening as he and the child sat silently\ntogether.\n\nIn a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree--green and\nflourishing enough, for such a place--and as the air stirred among its\nleaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall.  The old man sat\nwatching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light, until the\nsun went down; and when it was night, and the moon was slowly rising,\nhe still sat in the same spot.\n\nTo one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these few\ngreen leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished among\nchimneys and house-tops, were pleasant things.  They suggested quiet\nplaces afar off, and rest, and peace.  The child thought, more than\nonce that he was moved: and had forborne to speak.  But now he shed\ntears--tears that it lightened her aching heart to see--and making as\nthough he would fall upon his knees, besought her to forgive him.\n\n'Forgive you--what?' said Nell, interposing to prevent his purpose.\n'Oh grandfather, what should I forgive?'\n\n'All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all that was done\nin that uneasy dream,' returned the old man.\n\n'Do not talk so,' said the child.  'Pray do not.  Let us speak of\nsomething else.'\n\n'Yes, yes, we will,' he rejoined.  'And it shall be of what we talked\nof long ago--many months--months is it, or weeks, or days?  which is it\nNell?'\n\n'I do not understand you,' said the child.\n\n'It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come back since we have\nbeen sitting here.  I bless thee for it, Nell!'\n\n'For what, dear grandfather?'\n\n'For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell.  Let us speak\nsoftly.  Hush!  for if they knew our purpose down stairs, they would\ncry that I was mad and take thee from me.  We will not stop here\nanother day.  We will go far away from here.'\n\n'Yes, let us go,' said the child earnestly.  'Let us begone from this\nplace, and never turn back or think of it again.  Let us wander\nbarefoot through the world, rather than linger here.'\n\n'We will,' answered the old man, 'we will travel afoot through the\nfields and woods, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to God\nin the places where He dwells.  It is far better to lie down at night\nbeneath an open sky like that yonder--see how bright it is--than to\nrest in close rooms which are always full of care and weary dreams.\nThou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to\nforget this time, as if it had never been.'\n\n'We will be happy,' cried the child.  'We never can be here.'\n\n'No, we never can again--never again--that's truly said,' rejoined the\nold man.  'Let us steal away to-morrow morning--early and softly, that\nwe may not be seen or heard--and leave no trace or track for them to\nfollow by.  Poor Nell!  Thy cheek is pale, and thy eyes are heavy with\nwatching and weeping for me--I know--for me; but thou wilt be well\nagain, and merry too, when we are far away.  To-morrow morning, dear,\nwe'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow, and be as free and\nhappy as the birds.'\n\nAnd then the old man clasped his hands above her head, and said, in a\nfew broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up and\ndown together, and never part more until Death took one or other of the\ntwain.\n\nThe child's heart beat high with hope and confidence.  She had no\nthought of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering.  She saw in this,\nbut a return of the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed, a relief\nfrom the gloomy solitude in which she had lived, an escape from the\nheartless people by whom she had been surrounded in her late time of\ntrial, the restoration of the old man's health and peace, and a life of\ntranquil happiness.  Sun, and stream, and meadow, and summer days,\nshone brightly in her view, and there was no dark tint in all the\nsparkling picture.\n\nThe old man had slept, for some hours, soundly in his bed, and she was\nyet busily engaged in preparing for their flight.  There were a few\narticles of clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him; old\ngarments, such as became their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear; and a\nstaff to support his feeble steps, put ready for his use.  But this was\nnot all her task; for now she must visit the old rooms for the last\ntime.\n\nAnd how different the parting with them was, from any she had expected,\nand most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured to herself.\nHow could she ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph,\nwhen the recollection of the many hours she had passed among them rose\nto her swelling heart, and made her feel the wish a cruelty: lonely and\nsad though many of those hours had been!  She sat down at the window\nwhere she had spent so many evenings--darker far than this--and every\nthought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place\ncame vividly upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful\nassociations in an instant.\n\nHer own little room too, where she had so often knelt down and prayed\nat night--prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning now--the\nlittle room where she had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such\npleasant dreams!  It was hard not to be able to glance round it once\nmore, and to be forced to leave it without one kind look or grateful\ntear.  There were some trifles there--poor useless things--that she\nwould have liked to take away; but that was impossible.\n\nThis brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who hung there yet.  She\nwept bitterly for the loss of this little creature--until the idea\noccurred to her--she did not know how, or why, it came into her\nhead--that it might, by some means, fall into the hands of Kit who\nwould keep it for her sake, and think, perhaps, that she had left it\nbehind in the hope that he might have it, and as an assurance that she\nwas grateful to him.  She was calmed and comforted by the thought, and\nwent to rest with a lighter heart.\n\nFrom many dreams of rambling through light and sunny places, but with\nsome vague object unattained which ran indistinctly through them all,\nshe awoke to find that it was yet night, and that the stars were\nshining brightly in the sky.  At length, the day began to glimmer, and\nthe stars to grow pale and dim.  As soon as she was sure of this, she\narose, and dressed herself for the journey.\n\nThe old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb him,\nshe left him to slumber on, until the sun rose.  He was anxious that\nthey should leave the house without a minute's loss of time, and was\nsoon ready.\n\nThe child then took him by the hand, and they trod lightly and\ncautiously down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and\noften stopping to listen.  The old man had forgotten a kind of wallet\nwhich contained the light burden he had to carry; and the going back a\nfew steps to fetch it seemed an interminable delay.\n\nAt last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the snoring\nof Mr Quilp and his legal friend sounded more terrible in their ears\nthan the roars of lions.  The bolts of the door were rusty, and\ndifficult to unfasten without noise.  When they were all drawn back, it\nwas found to be locked, and worst of all, the key was gone.  Then the\nchild remembered, for the first time, one of the nurses having told her\nthat Quilp always locked both the house-doors at night, and kept the\nkeys on the table in his bedroom.\n\nIt was not without great fear and trepidation that little Nell slipped\noff her shoes and gliding through the store-room of old curiosities,\nwhere Mr Brass--the ugliest piece of goods in all the stock--lay\nsleeping on a mattress, passed into her own little chamber.\n\nHere she stood, for a few moments, quite transfixed with terror at the\nsight of Mr Quilp, who was hanging so far out of bed that he almost\nseemed to be standing on his head, and who, either from the uneasiness\nof this posture, or in one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and\ngrowling with his mouth wide open, and the whites (or rather the dirty\nyellows) of his eyes distinctly visible.  It was no time, however, to\nask whether anything ailed him; so, possessing herself of the key after\none hasty glance about the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr Brass,\nshe rejoined the old man in safety.  They got the door open without\nnoise, and passing into the street, stood still.\n\n'Which way?' said the child.\n\nThe old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then to\nthe right and left, then at her again, and shook his head.  It was\nplain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader.  The child felt\nit, but had no doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led\nhim gently away.\n\nIt was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a\ncloud, and teeming with brilliant light.  The streets were, as yet,\nnearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the\nhealthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping\ntown.\n\nThe old man and the child passed on through the glad silence, elate\nwith hope and pleasure.  They were alone together, once again; every\nobject was bright and fresh; nothing reminded them, otherwise than by\ncontrast, of the monotony and constraint they had left behind; church\ntowers and steeples, frowning and dark at other times, now shone in the\nsun; each humble nook and corner rejoiced in light; and the sky, dimmed\nonly by excessive distance, shed its placid smile on everything beneath.\n\nForth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the two poor\nadventurers, wandering they knew not whither.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\nDaniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks in the\ncity of London, Gentleman, one of her Majesty's attornies of the Courts\nof the King's Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster and a solicitor of\nthe High Court of Chancery, slumbered on, unconscious and unsuspicious\nof any mischance, until a knocking on the street door, often repeated\nand gradually mounting up from a modest single rap to a perfect battery\nof knocks, fired in long discharges with a very short interval between,\ncaused the said Daniel Quilp to struggle into a horizontal position,\nand to stare at the ceiling with a drowsy indifference, betokening that\nhe heard the noise and rather wondered at the same, and couldn't be at\nthe trouble of bestowing any further thought upon the subject.\n\nAs the knocking, however, instead of accommodating itself to his lazy\nstate, increased in vigour and became more importunate, as if in\nearnest remonstrance against his falling asleep again, now that he had\nonce opened his eyes, Daniel Quilp began by degrees to comprehend the\npossibility of there being somebody at the door; and thus he gradually\ncame to recollect that it was Friday morning, and he had ordered Mrs\nQuilp to be in waiting upon him at an early hour.\n\nMr Brass, after writhing about, in a great many strange attitudes, and\noften twisting his face and eyes into an expression like that which is\nusually produced by eating gooseberries very early in the season, was\nby this time awake also.  Seeing that Mr Quilp invested himself in his\nevery-day garments, he hastened to do the like, putting on his shoes\nbefore his stockings, and thrusting his legs into his coat sleeves, and\nmaking such other small mistakes in his toilet as are not uncommon to\nthose who dress in a hurry, and labour under the agitation of having\nbeen suddenly roused.\n\nWhile the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was groping under the\ntable, muttering desperate imprecations on himself, and mankind in\ngeneral, and all inanimate objects to boot, which suggested to Mr Brass\nthe question, 'what's the matter?'\n\n'The key,' said the dwarf, looking viciously about him, 'the\ndoor-key--that's the matter.  D'ye know anything of it?'\n\n'How should I know anything of it, sir?' returned Mr Brass.\n\n'How should you?' repeated Quilp with a sneer.  'You're a nice lawyer,\nan't you?  Ugh, you idiot!'\n\nNot caring to represent to the dwarf in his present humour, that the\nloss of a key by another person could scarcely be said to affect his\n(Brass's) legal knowledge in any material degree, Mr Brass humbly\nsuggested that it must have been forgotten over night, and was,\ndoubtless, at that moment in its native key-hole.  Notwithstanding that\nMr Quilp had a strong conviction to the contrary, founded on his\nrecollection of having carefully taken it out, he was fain to admit\nthat this was possible, and therefore went grumbling to the door where,\nsure enough, he found it.\n\nNow, just as Mr Quilp laid his hand upon the lock, and saw with great\nastonishment that the fastenings were undone, the knocking came again\nwith the most irritating violence, and the daylight which had been\nshining through the key-hole was intercepted on the outside by a human\neye.  The dwarf was very much exasperated, and wanting somebody to\nwreak his ill-humour upon, determined to dart out suddenly, and favour\nMrs Quilp with a gentle acknowledgment of her attention in making that\nhideous uproar.\n\nWith this view, he drew back the lock very silently and softly, and\nopening the door all at once, pounced out upon the person on the other\nside, who had at that moment raised the knocker for another\napplication, and at whom the dwarf ran head first: throwing out his\nhands and feet together, and biting the air in the fulness of his\nmalice.\n\nSo far, however, from rushing upon somebody who offered no resistance\nand implored his mercy, Mr Quilp was no sooner in the arms of the\nindividual whom he had taken for his wife than he found himself\ncomplimented with two staggering blows on the head, and two more, of\nthe same quality, in the chest; and closing with his assailant, such a\nshower of buffets rained down upon his person as sufficed to convince\nhim that he was in skilful and experienced hands.  Nothing daunted by\nthis reception, he clung tight to his opponent, and bit and hammered\naway with such good-will and heartiness, that it was at least a couple\nof minutes before he was dislodged.  Then, and not until then, Daniel\nQuilp found himself, all flushed and dishevelled, in the middle of the\nstreet, with Mr Richard Swiveller performing a kind of dance round him\nand requiring to know 'whether he wanted any more?'\n\n'There's plenty more of it at the same shop,' said Mr Swiveller, by\nturns advancing and retreating in a threatening attitude, 'a large and\nextensive assortment always on hand--country orders executed with\npromptitude and despatch--will you have a little more, Sir--don't say\nno, if you'd rather not.'\n\n'I thought it was somebody else,' said Quilp, rubbing his shoulders,\n'why didn't you say who you were?'\n\n'Why didn't you say who YOU were?' returned Dick, 'instead of flying\nout of the house like a Bedlamite?'\n\n'It was you that--that knocked,' said the dwarf, getting up with a\nshort groan, 'was it?'\n\n'Yes, I am the man,' replied Dick.  'That lady had begun when I came,\nbut she knocked too soft, so I relieved her.'  As he said this, he\npointed towards Mrs Quilp, who stood trembling at a little distance.\n\n'Humph!' muttered the dwarf, darting an angry look at his wife, 'I\nthought it was your fault!  And you, sir--don't you know there has been\nsomebody ill here, that you knock as if you'd beat the door down?'\n\n'Damme!' answered Dick, 'that's why I did it.  I thought there was\nsomebody dead here.'\n\n'You came for some purpose, I suppose,' said Quilp.  'What is it you\nwant?'\n\n'I want to know how the old gentleman is,' rejoined Mr Swiveller, 'and\nto hear from Nell herself, with whom I should like to have a little\ntalk.  I'm a friend of the family, sir--at least I'm the friend of one\nof the family, and that's the same thing.'\n\n'You'd better walk in then,' said the dwarf.  'Go on, sir, go on.  Now,\nMrs Quilp--after you, ma'am.'\n\nMrs Quilp hesitated, but Mr Quilp insisted.  And it was not a contest\nof politeness, or by any means a matter of form, for she knew very well\nthat her husband wished to enter the house in this order, that he might\nhave a favourable opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her arms,\nwhich were seldom free from impressions of his fingers in black and\nblue colours.  Mr Swiveller, who was not in the secret, was a little\nsurprised to hear a suppressed scream, and, looking round, to see Mrs\nQuilp following him with a sudden jerk; but he did not remark on these\nappearances, and soon forgot them.\n\n'Now, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf when they had entered the shop, 'go\nyou up stairs, if you please, to Nelly's room, and tell her that she's\nwanted.'\n\n'You seem to make yourself at home here,' said Dick, who was\nunacquainted with Mr Quilp's authority.\n\n'I AM at home, young gentleman,' returned the dwarf.\n\nDick was pondering what these words might mean, and still more what the\npresence of Mr Brass might mean, when Mrs Quilp came hurrying down\nstairs, declaring that the rooms above were empty.\n\n'Empty, you fool!' said the dwarf.\n\n'I give you my word, Quilp,' answered his trembling wife, 'that I have\nbeen into every room and there's not a soul in any of them.'\n\n'And that,' said Mr Brass, clapping his hands once, with an emphasis,\n'explains the mystery of the key!'\n\nQuilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his wife, and\nfrowningly at Richard Swiveller; but, receiving no enlightenment from\nany of them, hurried up stairs, whence he soon hurried down again,\nconfirming the report which had already been made.\n\n'It's a strange way of going,' he said, glancing at Swiveller, 'very\nstrange not to communicate with me who am such a close and intimate\nfriend of his!  Ah! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll bid Nelly\nwrite--yes, yes, that's what he'll do.  Nelly's very fond of me.\nPretty Nell!'\n\nMr Swiveller looked, as he was, all open-mouthed astonishment.  Still\nglancing furtively at him, Quilp turned to Mr Brass and observed, with\nassumed carelessness, that this need not interfere with the removal of\nthe goods.\n\n'For indeed,' he added, 'we knew that they'd go away to-day, but not\nthat they'd go so early, or so quietly.  But they have their reasons,\nthey have their reasons.'\n\n'Where in the devil's name are they gone?' said the wondering Dick.\n\nQuilp shook his head, and pursed up his lips, in a manner which implied\nthat he knew very well, but was not at liberty to say.\n\n'And what,' said Dick, looking at the confusion about him, 'what do you\nmean by moving the goods?'\n\n'That I have bought 'em, Sir,' rejoined Quilp.  'Eh?  What then?'\n\n'Has the sly old fox made his fortune then, and gone to live in a\ntranquil cot in a pleasant spot with a distant view of the changing\nsea?' said Dick, in great bewilderment.\n\n'Keeping his place of retirement very close, that he may not be visited\ntoo often by affectionate grandsons and their devoted friends, eh?'\nadded the dwarf, rubbing his hands hard; 'I say nothing, but is that\nyour meaning?'\n\nRichard Swiveller was utterly aghast at this unexpected alteration of\ncircumstances, which threatened the complete overthrow of the project\nin which he bore so conspicuous a part, and seemed to nip his prospects\nin the bud.  Having only received from Frederick Trent, late on the\nprevious night, information of the old man's illness, he had come upon\na visit of condolence and inquiry to Nell, prepared with the first\ninstalment of that long train of fascinations which was to fire her\nheart at last.  And here, when he had been thinking of all kinds of\ngraceful and insinuating approaches, and meditating on the fearful\nretaliation which was slowly working against Sophy Wackles--here were\nNell, the old man, and all the money gone, melted away, decamped he\nknew not whither, as if with a fore-knowledge of the scheme and a\nresolution to defeat it in the very outset, before a step was taken.\n\nIn his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised and troubled by\nthe flight which had been made.  It had not escaped his keen eye that\nsome indispensable articles of clothing were gone with the fugitives,\nand knowing the old man's weak state of mind, he marvelled what that\ncourse of proceeding might be in which he had so readily procured the\nconcurrence of the child.  It must not be supposed (or it would be a\ngross injustice to Mr Quilp) that he was tortured by any disinterested\nanxiety on behalf of either.  His uneasiness arose from a misgiving\nthat the old man had some secret store of money which he had not\nsuspected; and the idea of its escaping his clutches, overwhelmed him\nwith mortification and self-reproach.\n\nIn this frame of mind, it was some consolation to him to find that\nRichard Swiveller was, for different reasons, evidently irritated and\ndisappointed by the same cause.  It was plain, thought the dwarf, that\nhe had come there, on behalf of his friend, to cajole or frighten the\nold man out of some small fraction of that wealth of which they\nsupposed him to have an abundance.  Therefore, it was a relief to vex\nhis heart with a picture of the riches the old man hoarded, and to\nexpatiate on his cunning in removing himself even beyond the reach of\nimportunity.\n\n'Well,' said Dick, with a blank look, 'I suppose it's of no use my\nstaying here.'\n\n'Not the least in the world,' rejoined the dwarf.\n\n'You'll mention that I called, perhaps?' said Dick.\n\nMr Quilp nodded, and said he certainly would, the very first time he\nsaw them.\n\n'And say,' added Mr Swiveller, 'say, sir, that I was wafted here upon\nthe pinions of concord; that I came to remove, with the rake of\nfriendship, the seeds of mutual violence and heart-burning, and to sow\nin their place, the germs of social harmony.  Will you have the\ngoodness to charge yourself with that commission, Sir?'\n\n'Certainly!' rejoined Quilp.\n\n'Will you be kind enough to add to it, Sir,' said Dick, producing a\nvery small limp card, 'that that is my address, and that I am to be\nfound at home every morning.  Two distinct knocks, sir, will produce\nthe slavey at any time.  My particular friends, Sir, are accustomed to\nsneeze when the door is opened, to give her to understand that they ARE\nmy friends and have no interested motives in asking if I'm at home.  I\nbeg your pardon; will you allow me to look at that card again?'\n\n'Oh! by all means,' rejoined Quilp.\n\n'By a slight and not unnatural mistake, sir,' said Dick, substituting\nanother in its stead, 'I had handed you the pass-ticket of a select\nconvivial circle called the Glorious Apollers of which I have the\nhonour to be Perpetual Grand.  That is the proper document, Sir.  Good\nmorning.'\n\nQuilp bade him good day; the perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious\nApollers, elevating his hat in honour of Mrs Quilp, dropped it\ncarelessly on the side of his head again, and disappeared with a\nflourish.\n\nBy this time, certain vans had arrived for the conveyance of the goods,\nand divers strong men in caps were balancing chests of drawers and\nother trifles of that nature upon their heads, and performing muscular\nfeats which heightened their complexions considerably.  Not to be\nbehind-hand in the bustle, Mr Quilp went to work with surprising\nvigour; hustling and driving the people about, like an evil spirit;\nsetting Mrs Quilp upon all kinds of arduous and impracticable tasks;\ncarrying great weights up and down, with no apparent effort; kicking\nthe boy from the wharf, whenever he could get near him; and inflicting,\nwith his loads, a great many sly bumps and blows on the shoulders of Mr\nBrass, as he stood upon the door-steps to answer all the inquiries of\ncurious neighbours, which was his department.  His presence and example\ndiffused such alacrity among the persons employed, that, in a few\nhours, the house was emptied of everything, but pieces of matting,\nempty porter-pots, and scattered fragments of straw.\n\nSeated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of matting, the\ndwarf was regaling himself in the parlour, with bread and cheese and\nbeer, when he observed without appearing to do so, that a boy was\nprying in at the outer door.  Assured that it was Kit, though he saw\nlittle more than his nose, Mr Quilp hailed him by his name; whereupon\nKit came in and demanded what he wanted.\n\n'Come here, you sir,' said the dwarf.  'Well, so your old master and\nyoung mistress have gone?'\n\n'Where?' rejoined Kit, looking round.\n\n'Do you mean to say you don't know where?' answered Quilp sharply.\n'Where have they gone, eh?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Kit.\n\n'Come,' retorted Quilp, 'let's have no more of this!  Do you mean to\nsay that you don't know they went away by stealth, as soon as it was\nlight this morning?'\n\n'No,' said the boy, in evident surprise.\n\n'You don't know that?' cried Quilp.  'Don't I know that you were\nhanging about the house the other night, like a thief, eh?  Weren't you\ntold then?'\n\n'No,' replied the boy.\n\n'You were not?' said Quilp.  'What were you told then; what were you\ntalking about?'\n\nKit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep the matter secret\nnow, related the purpose for which he had come on that occasion, and\nthe proposal he had made.\n\n'Oh!' said the dwarf after a little consideration.  'Then, I think\nthey'll come to you yet.'\n\n'Do you think they will?' cried Kit eagerly.\n\n'Aye, I think they will,' returned the dwarf.  'Now, when they do, let\nme know; d'ye hear?  Let me know, and I'll give you something.  I want\nto do 'em a kindness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless I know where\nthey are.  You hear what I say?'\n\nKit might have returned some answer which would not have been agreeable\nto his irascible questioner, if the boy from the wharf, who had been\nskulking about the room in search of anything that might have been left\nabout by accident, had not happened to cry, 'Here's a bird!  What's to\nbe done with this?'\n\n'Wring its neck,' rejoined Quilp.\n\n'Oh no, don't do that,' said Kit, stepping forward.  'Give it to me.'\n\n'Oh yes, I dare say,' cried the other boy.  'Come!  You let the cage\nalone, and let me wring its neck will you?  He said I was to do it.\nYou let the cage alone will you.'\n\n'Give it here, give it to me, you dogs,' roared Quilp.  'Fight for it,\nyou dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself!'\n\nWithout further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each other, tooth\nand nail, while Quilp, holding up the cage in one hand, and chopping\nthe ground with his knife in an ecstasy, urged them on by his taunts\nand cries to fight more fiercely.  They were a pretty equal match, and\nrolled about together, exchanging blows which were by no means child's\nplay, until at length Kit, planting a well-directed hit in his\nadversary's chest, disengaged himself, sprung nimbly up, and snatching\nthe cage from Quilp's hands made off with his prize.\n\nHe did not stop once until he reached home, where his bleeding face\noccasioned great consternation, and caused the elder child to howl\ndreadfully.\n\n'Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what have you been doing?'\ncried Mrs Nubbles.\n\n'Never you mind, mother,' answered her son, wiping his face on the\njack-towel behind the door.  'I'm not hurt, don't you be afraid for me.\nI've been a fightin' for a bird and won him, that's all.  Hold your\nnoise, little Jacob.  I never see such a naughty boy in all my days!'\n\n'You have been fighting for a bird!' exclaimed his mother.\n\n'Ah!  Fightin' for a bird!' replied Kit, 'and here he is--Miss Nelly's\nbird, mother, that they was agoin' to wring the neck of!  I stopped\nthat though--ha ha ha!  They wouldn't wring his neck and me by, no, no.\nIt wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all.  Ha ha ha!'\n\nKit laughing so heartily, with his swoln and bruised face looking out\nof the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and then his mother laughed, and\nthen the baby crowed and kicked with great glee, and then they all\nlaughed in concert: partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly because\nthey were very fond of each other.  When this fit was over, Kit\nexhibited the bird to both children, as a great and precious rarity--it\nwas only a poor linnet--and looking about the wall for an old nail,\nmade a scaffolding of a chair and table and twisted it out with great\nexultation.\n\n'Let me see,' said the boy, 'I think I'll hang him in the winder,\nbecause it's more light and cheerful, and he can see the sky there, if\nhe looks up very much.  He's such a one to sing, I can tell you!'\n\nSo, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit, climbing up with the poker\nfor a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung up the cage, to the\nimmeasurable delight of the whole family.  When it had been adjusted\nand straightened a great many times, and he had walked backwards into\nthe fire-place in his admiration of it, the arrangement was pronounced\nto be perfect.\n\n'And now, mother,' said the boy, 'before I rest any more, I'll go out\nand see if I can find a horse to hold, and then I can buy some\nbirdseed, and a bit of something nice for you, into the bargain.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\nAs it was very easy for Kit to persuade himself that the old house was\nin his way, his way being anywhere, he tried to look upon his passing\nit once more as a matter of imperative and disagreeable necessity,\nquite apart from any desire of his own, to which he could not choose\nbut yield.  It is not uncommon for people who are much better fed and\ntaught than Christopher Nubbles had ever been, to make duties of their\ninclinations in matters of more doubtful propriety, and to take great\ncredit for the self-denial with which they gratify themselves.\n\nThere was no need of any caution this time, and no fear of being\ndetained by having to play out a return match with Daniel Quilp's boy.\nThe place was entirely deserted, and looked as dusty and dingy as if it\nhad been so for months.  A rusty padlock was fastened on the door, ends\nof discoloured blinds and curtains flapped drearily against the\nhalf-opened upper windows, and the crooked holes cut in the closed\nshutters below, were black with the darkness of the inside.  Some of\nthe glass in the window he had so often watched, had been broken in the\nrough hurry of the morning, and that room looked more deserted and dull\nthan any.  A group of idle urchins had taken possession of the\ndoor-steps; some were plying the knocker and listening with delighted\ndread to the hollow sounds it spread through the dismantled house;\nothers were clustered about the keyhole, watching half in jest and half\nin earnest for 'the ghost,' which an hour's gloom, added to the mystery\nthat hung about the late inhabitants, had already raised.  Standing all\nalone in the midst of the business and bustle of the street, the house\nlooked a picture of cold desolation; and Kit, who remembered the\ncheerful fire that used to burn there on a winter's night and the no\nless cheerful laugh that made the small room ring, turned quite\nmournfully away.\n\nIt must be especially observed in justice to poor Kit that he was by no\nmeans of a sentimental turn, and perhaps had never heard that adjective\nin all his life.  He was only a soft-hearted grateful fellow, and had\nnothing genteel or polite about him; consequently, instead of going\nhome again, in his grief, to kick the children and abuse his mother\n(for, when your finely strung people are out of sorts, they must have\neverybody else unhappy likewise), he turned his thoughts to the vulgar\nexpedient of making them more comfortable if he could.\n\nBless us, what a number of gentlemen on horseback there were riding up\nand down, and how few of them wanted their horses held!  A good city\nspeculator or a parliamentary commissioner could have told to a\nfraction, from the crowds that were cantering about, what sum of money\nwas realised in London, in the course of a year, by holding horses\nalone.  And undoubtedly it would have been a very large one, if only a\ntwentieth part of the gentlemen without grooms had had occasion to\nalight; but they had not; and it is often an ill-natured circumstance\nlike this, which spoils the most ingenious estimate in the world.\n\nKit walked about, now with quick steps and now with slow; now lingering\nas some rider slackened his horse's pace and looked about him; and now\ndarting at full speed up a bye-street as he caught a glimpse of some\ndistant horseman going lazily up the shady side of the road, and\npromising to stop, at every door.  But on they all went, one after\nanother, and there was not a penny stirring.  'I wonder,' thought the\nboy, 'if one of these gentlemen knew there was nothing in the cupboard\nat home, whether he'd stop on purpose, and make believe that he wanted\nto call somewhere, that I might earn a trifle?'\n\nHe was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say nothing of\nrepeated disappointments, and was sitting down upon a step to rest,\nwhen there approached towards him a little clattering jingling\nfour-wheeled chaise, drawn by a little obstinate-looking rough-coated\npony, and driven by a little fat placid-faced old gentleman.  Beside\nthe little old gentleman sat a little old lady, plump and placid like\nhimself, and the pony was coming along at his own pace and doing\nexactly as he pleased with the whole concern.  If the old gentleman\nremonstrated by shaking the reins, the pony replied by shaking his\nhead.  It was plain that the utmost the pony would consent to do, was\nto go in his own way up any street that the old gentleman particularly\nwished to traverse, but that it was an understanding between them that\nhe must do this after his own fashion or not at all.\n\nAs they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at the little\nturn-out, that the old gentleman looked at him.  Kit rising and putting\nhis hand to his hat, the old gentleman intimated to the pony that he\nwished to stop, to which proposal the pony (who seldom objected to that\npart of his duty) graciously acceded.\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Kit.  'I'm sorry you stopped, sir.  I\nonly meant did you want your horse minded.'\n\n'I'm going to get down in the next street,' returned the old gentleman.\n'If you like to come on after us, you may have the job.'\n\nKit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed.  The pony ran off at a sharp\nangle to inspect a lamp-post on the opposite side of the way, and then\nwent off at a tangent to another lamp-post on the other side.  Having\nsatisfied himself that they were of the same pattern and materials, he\ncame to a stop apparently absorbed in meditation.\n\n'Will you go on, sir,' said the old gentleman, gravely, 'or are we to\nwait here for you till it's too late for our appointment?'\n\nThe pony remained immoveable.\n\n'Oh you naughty Whisker,' said the old lady.  'Fie upon you!  I'm\nashamed of such conduct.'\n\nThe pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his feelings, for he\ntrotted on directly, though in a sulky manner, and stopped no more\nuntil he came to a door whereon was a brass plate with the words\n'Witherden--Notary.'  Here the old gentleman got out and helped out the\nold lady, and then took from under the seat a nosegay resembling in\nshape and dimensions a full-sized warming-pan with the handle cut short\noff.  This, the old lady carried into the house with a staid and\nstately air, and the old gentleman (who had a club-foot) followed close\nupon her.\n\nThey went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of their voices, into\nthe front parlour, which seemed to be a kind of office.  The day being\nvery warm and the street a quiet one, the windows were wide open; and\nit was easy to hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside.\n\nAt first there was a great shaking of hands and shuffling of feet,\nsucceeded by the presentation of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed by\nthe listener to be that of Mr Witherden the Notary, was heard to\nexclaim a great many times, 'oh, delicious!' 'oh, fragrant, indeed!'\nand a nose, also supposed to be the property of that gentleman, was\nheard to inhale the scent with a snuffle of exceeding pleasure.\n\n'I brought it in honour of the occasion, Sir,' said the old lady.\n\n'Ah! an occasion indeed, ma'am, an occasion which does honour to me,\nma'am, honour to me,' rejoined Mr Witherden, the notary.  'I have had\nmany a gentleman articled to me, ma'am, many a one.  Some of them are\nnow rolling in riches, unmindful of their old companion and friend,\nma'am, others are in the habit of calling upon me to this day and\nsaying, \"Mr Witherden, some of the pleasantest hours I ever spent in my\nlife were spent in this office--were spent, Sir, upon this very stool\";\nbut there was never one among the number, ma'am, attached as I have\nbeen to many of them, of whom I augured such bright things as I do of\nyour only son.'\n\n'Oh dear!' said the old lady.  'How happy you do make us when you tell\nus that, to be sure!'\n\n'I tell you, ma'am,' said Mr Witherden, 'what I think as an honest man,\nwhich, as the poet observes, is the noblest work of God.  I agree with\nthe poet in every particular, ma'am.  The mountainous Alps on the one\nhand, or a humming-bird on the other, is nothing, in point of\nworkmanship, to an honest man--or woman--or woman.'\n\n'Anything that Mr Witherden can say of me,' observed a small quiet\nvoice, 'I can say, with interest, of him, I am sure.'\n\n'It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance,' said the\nNotary, 'to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and I\nhope I know how to appreciate it.  I trust, Mr Garland, my dear Sir,\nthat we may mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious\noccasion.'\n\nTo this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might.\nThere appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and when\nit was over, the old gentleman said that, though he said it who should\nnot, he believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his parents\nthan Abel Garland had been to his.\n\n'Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting for\na great many years, until we were well enough off--coming together when\nwe were no longer young, and then being blessed with one child who has\nalways been dutiful and affectionate--why, it's a source of great\nhappiness to us both, sir.'\n\n'Of course it is, I have no doubt of it,' returned the Notary in a\nsympathising voice.  'It's the contemplation of this sort of thing,\nthat makes me deplore my fate in being a bachelor.  There was a young\nlady once, sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of the first\nrespectability--but that's a weakness.  Chuckster, bring in Mr Abel's\narticles.'\n\n'You see, Mr Witherden,' said the old lady, 'that Abel has not been\nbrought up like the run of young men.  He has always had a pleasure in\nour society, and always been with us.  Abel has never been absent from\nus, for a day; has he, my dear?'\n\n'Never, my dear,' returned the old gentleman, 'except when he went to\nMargate one Saturday with Mr Tomkinley that had been a teacher at that\nschool he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but he was very ill\nafter that, you remember, my dear; it was quite a dissipation.'\n\n'He was not used to it, you know,' said the old lady, 'and he couldn't\nbear it, that's the truth.  Besides he had no comfort in being there\nwithout us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself with.'\n\n'That was it, you know,' interposed the same small quiet voice that had\nspoken once before.  'I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate, and\nto think that the sea was between us--oh, I never shall forget what I\nfelt when I first thought that the sea was between us!'\n\n'Very natural under the circumstances,' observed the Notary.  'Mr\nAbel's feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your nature,\nma'am, and his father's nature, and human nature.  I trace the same\ncurrent now, flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive\nproceedings.--I am about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of\nthe articles which Mr Chuckster will witness; and placing my finger\nupon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I am constrained to\nremark in a distinct tone of voice--don't be alarmed, ma'am, it is\nmerely a form of law--that I deliver this, as my act and deed.  Mr Abel\nwill place his name against the other wafer, repeating the same\ncabalistic words, and the business is over.  Ha ha ha!  You see how\neasily these things are done!'\n\nThere was a short silence, apparently, while Mr Abel went through the\nprescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet\nwere renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of\nwine-glasses and a great talkativeness on the part of everybody.  In\nabout a quarter of an hour Mr Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear and\nhis face inflamed with wine) appeared at the door, and condescending to\naddress Kit by the jocose appellation of 'Young Snob,' informed him\nthat the visitors were coming out.\n\nOut they came forthwith; Mr Witherden, who was short, chubby,\nfresh-coloured, brisk, and pompous, leading the old lady with extreme\npoliteness, and the father and son following them, arm in arm.  Mr\nAbel, who had a quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of\nthe same age as his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in\nface and figure, though wanting something of his full, round,\ncheerfulness, and substituting in its place a timid reserve.  In all\nother respects, in the neatness of the dress, and even in the\nclub-foot, he and the old gentleman were precisely alike.\n\nHaving seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the\narrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an\nindispensable portion of her equipage, Mr Abel got into a little box\nbehind which had evidently been made for his express accommodation, and\nsmiled at everybody present by turns, beginning with his mother and\nending with the pony.  There was then a great to-do to make the pony\nhold up his head that the bearing-rein might be fastened; at last even\nthis was effected; and the old gentleman, taking his seat and the\nreins, put his hand in his pocket to find a sixpence for Kit.\n\nHe had no sixpence, neither had the old lady, nor Mr Abel, nor the\nNotary, nor Mr Chuckster.  The old gentleman thought a shilling too\nmuch, but there was no shop in the street to get change at, so he gave\nit to the boy.\n\n'There,' he said jokingly, 'I'm coming here again next Monday at the\nsame time, and mind you're here, my lad, to work it out.'\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' said Kit.  'I'll be sure to be here.'\n\nHe was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying so,\nespecially Mr Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to relish the\njoke amazingly.  As the pony, with a presentiment that he was going\nhome, or a determination that he would not go anywhere else (which was\nthe same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no time to justify\nhimself, and went his way also.  Having expended his treasure in such\npurchases as he knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting\nsome seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back as fast as he could,\nso elated with his success and great good fortune, that he more than\nhalf expected Nell and the old man would have arrived before him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\nOften, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on the\nmorning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled sensation\nof hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the\nclear distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit.  But\nalthough she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked him for\nwhat he had said at their last meeting, it was always a relief to find,\nwhen they came nearer to each other, that the person who approached was\nnot he, but a stranger; for even if she had not dreaded the effect\nwhich the sight of him might have wrought upon her fellow-traveller,\nshe felt that to bid farewell to anybody now, and most of all to him\nwho had been so faithful and so true, was more than she could bear.  It\nwas enough to leave dumb things behind, and objects that were\ninsensible both to her love and sorrow.  To have parted from her only\nother friend upon the threshold of that wild journey, would have wrung\nher heart indeed.\n\nWhy is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and\nwhile we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve to say\nit?  On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends\nwho are tenderly attached will separate with the usual look, the usual\npressure of the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow,\nwhile each well knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of\nuttering that one word, and that the meeting will never be.  Should\npossibilities be worse to bear than certainties?  We do not shun our\ndying friends; the not having distinctly taken leave of one among them,\nwhom we left in all kindness and affection, will often embitter the\nwhole remainder of a life.\n\nThe town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and\ndistrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams\ndancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain\nbefore sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the\nshadows of the night.  Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark,\nfelt it was morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little\ncells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled\ntimidly together; the sleek house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat\nwinking at the rays of sun starting through keyhole and cranny in the\ndoor, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside.  The\nnobler beasts confined in dens, stood motionless behind their bars and\ngazed on fluttering boughs, and sunshine peeping through some little\nwindow, with eyes in which old forests gleamed--then trod impatiently\nthe track their prisoned feet had worn--and stopped and gazed again.\nMen in their dungeons stretched their cramp cold limbs and cursed the\nstone that no bright sky could warm.  The flowers that sleep by night,\nopened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day.  The light,\ncreation's mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its power.\n\nThe two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or exchanging a\nsmile or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence.  Bright and happy\nas it was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted streets,\nfrom which, like bodies without souls, all habitual character and\nexpression had departed, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made\nthem all alike.  All was so still at that early hour, that the few pale\npeople whom they met seemed as much unsuited to the scene, as the\nsickly lamp which had been here and there left burning, was powerless\nand faint in the full glory of the sun.\n\nBefore they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men's abodes\nwhich yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect began to melt\naway, and noise and bustle to usurp its place.  Some straggling carts\nand coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm, then others came, then\nothers yet more active, then a crowd.  The wonder was, at first, to see\na tradesman's window open, but it was a rare thing soon to see one\nclosed; then, smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were\nthrown up to let in air, and doors were opened, and servant girls,\nlooking lazily in all directions but their brooms, scattered brown\nclouds of dust into the eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened\ndisconsolately to milkmen who spoke of country fairs, and told of\nwaggons in the mews, with awnings and all things complete, and gallant\nswains to boot, which another hour would see upon their journey.\n\nThis quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and great\ntraffic, where many people were resorting, and business was already\nrife.  The old man looked about him with a startled and bewildered\ngaze, for these were places that he hoped to shun.  He pressed his\nfinger on his lip, and drew the child along by narrow courts and\nwinding ways, nor did he seem at ease until they had left it far\nbehind, often casting a backward look towards it, murmuring that ruin\nand self-murder were crouching in every street, and would follow if\nthey scented them; and that they could not fly too fast.\n\nAgain this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neighbourhood,\nwhere the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows patched with\nrags and paper, told of the populous poverty that sheltered there.  The\nshops sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers\nwere pinched and griped alike.  Here were poor streets where faded\ngentility essayed with scanty space and shipwrecked means to make its\nlast feeble stand, but tax-gatherer and creditor came there as\nelsewhere, and the poverty that yet faintly struggled was hardly less\nsqualid and manifest than that which had long ago submitted and given\nup the game.\n\nThis was a wide, wide track--for the humble followers of the camp of\nwealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile--but its\ncharacter was still the same.  Damp rotten houses, many to let, many\nyet building, many half-built and mouldering away--lodgings, where it\nwould be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who let or those\nwho came to take--children, scantily fed and clothed, spread over every\nstreet, and sprawling in the dust--scolding mothers, stamping their\nslipshod feet with noisy threats upon the pavement--shabby fathers,\nhurrying with dispirited looks to the occupation which brought them\n'daily bread' and little more--mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers,\ntailors, chandlers, driving their trades in parlours and kitchens and\nback room and garrets, and sometimes all of them under the same\nroof--brick-fields skirting gardens paled with staves of old casks, or\ntimber pillaged from houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered by\nthe flames--mounds of dock-weed, nettles, coarse grass and\noyster-shells, heaped in rank confusion--small dissenting chapels to\nteach, with no lack of illustration, the miseries of Earth, and plenty\nof new churches, erected with a little superfluous wealth, to show the\nway to Heaven.\n\nAt length these streets becoming more straggling yet, dwindled and\ndwindled away, until there were only small garden patches bordering the\nroad, with many a summer house innocent of paint and built of old\ntimber or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-stalks\nthat grew about it, and grottoed at the seams with toad-stools and\ntight-sticking snails.  To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two\nwith plots of ground in front, laid out in angular beds with stiff box\nborders and narrow paths between, where footstep never strayed to make\nthe gravel rough.  Then came the public-house, freshly painted in green\nand white, with tea-gardens and a bowling green, spurning its old\nneighbour with the horse-trough where the waggons stopped; then,\nfields; and then, some houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns,\nsome even with a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife.  Then came a\nturnpike; then fields again with trees and hay-stacks; then, a hill,\nand on the top of that, the traveller might stop, and--looking back at\nold Saint Paul's looming through the smoke, its cross peeping above the\ncloud (if the day were clear), and glittering in the sun; and casting\nhis eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew until he traced it down to\nthe furthest outposts of the invading army of bricks and mortar whose\nstation lay for the present nearly at his feet--might feel at last that\nhe was clear of London.\n\nNear such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and his\nlittle guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they were bound)\nsat down to rest.  She had had the precaution to furnish her basket\nwith some slices of bread and meat, and here they made their frugal\nbreakfast.\n\nThe freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of the\nwaving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, and the thousand\nexquisite scents and sounds that floated in the air--deep joys to most\nof us, but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd or who live\nsolitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human well--sunk into\ntheir breasts and made them very glad.  The child had repeated her\nartless prayers once that morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had\never done in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her\nlips again.  The old man took off his hat--he had no memory for the\nwords--but he said amen, and that they were very good.\n\nThere had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with strange\nplates, upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored whole\nevenings, wondering whether it was true in every word, and where those\ndistant countries with the curious names might be.  As she looked back\nupon the place they had left, one part of it came strongly on her mind.\n\n'Dear grandfather,' she said, 'only that this place is prettier and a\ngreat deal better than the real one, if that in the book is like it, I\nfeel as if we were both Christian, and laid down on this grass all the\ncares and troubles we brought with us; never to take them up again.'\n\n'No--never to return--never to return'--replied the old man, waving his\nhand towards the city.  'Thou and I are free of it now, Nell.  They\nshall never lure us back.'\n\n'Are you tired?' said the child, 'are you sure you don't feel ill from\nthis long walk?'\n\n'I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,' was his\nreply.  'Let us be stirring, Nell.  We must be further away--a long,\nlong way further.  We are too near to stop, and be at rest.  Come!'\n\nThere was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child laved\nher hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth to walk\nagain.  She would have the old man refresh himself in this way too, and\nmaking him sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her\nhands, and dried it with her simple dress.\n\n'I can do nothing for myself, my darling,' said the grandfather; 'I\ndon't know how it is, I could once, but the time's gone.  Don't leave\nme, Nell; say that thou'lt not leave me.  I loved thee all the while,\nindeed I did.  If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!'\n\nHe laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously.  The time had\nbeen, and a very few days before, when the child could not have\nrestrained her tears and must have wept with him.  But now she soothed\nhim with gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking they could\never part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest.  He was soon\ncalmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a low voice, like a\nlittle child.\n\nHe awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey.  The road was\npleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn, about\nwhich, poised high in the clear blue sky, the lark trilled out her\nhappy song.  The air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its\nway, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their\ndrowsy satisfaction as they floated by.\n\nThey were now in the open country; the houses were very few and\nscattered at long intervals, often miles apart.  Occasionally they came\nupon a cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board put\nacross the open door to keep the scrambling children from the road,\nothers shut up close while all the family were working in the fields.\nThese were often the commencement of a little village: and after an\ninterval came a wheelwright's shed or perhaps a blacksmith's forge;\nthen a thriving farm with sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses\npeering over the low wall and scampering away when harnessed horses\npassed upon the road, as though in triumph at their freedom.  There\nwere dull pigs too, turning up the ground in search of dainty food, and\ngrunting their monotonous grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed\neach other in their quest; plump pigeons skimming round the roof or\nstrutting on the eaves; and ducks and geese, far more graceful in their\nown conceit, waddling awkwardly about the edges of the pond or sailing\nglibly on its surface.  The farm-yard passed, then came the little inn;\nthe humbler beer-shop; and the village tradesman's; then the lawyer's\nand the parson's, at whose dread names the beer-shop trembled; the\nchurch then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees; then there were\na few more cottages; then the cage, and pound, and not unfrequently, on\na bank by the way-side, a deep old dusty well.  Then came the\ntrim-hedged fields on either hand, and the open road again.\n\nThey walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds\nwere let to travellers.  Next morning they were afoot again, and though\njaded at first, and very tired, recovered before long and proceeded\nbriskly forward.\n\nThey often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and\nstill kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the morning.  It\nwas nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when drawing near another\ncluster of labourers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each,\ndoubtful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy a\ndraught of milk.\n\nIt was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of being\nrepulsed.  Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife.  In this,\nthe people seemed too poor; in that, too many.  At length she stopped\nat one where the family were seated round the table--chiefly because\nthere was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the hearth,\nand she thought he was a grandfather and would feel for hers.\n\nThere were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young sturdy\nchildren, brown as berries.  The request was no sooner preferred, than\ngranted.  The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged\ntwo stools towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's\ngown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand.\n\n'God save you, master,' said the old cottager in a thin piping voice;\n'are you travelling far?'\n\n'Yes, Sir, a long way'--replied the child; for her grandfather appealed\nto her.\n\n'From London?' inquired the old man.\n\nThe child said yes.\n\nAh!  He had been in London many a time--used to go there often once,\nwith waggons.  It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had been there\nlast, and he did hear say there were great changes.  Like enough!  He\nhad changed, himself, since then.  Two-and-thirty year was a long time\nand eighty-four a great age, though there was some he had known that\nhad lived to very hard upon a hundred--and not so hearty as he,\nneither--no, nothing like it.\n\n'Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair,' said the old man, knocking\nhis stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so sharply.  'Take a\npinch out o' that box; I don't take much myself, for it comes dear, but\nI find it wakes me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me.  I should\nhave a son pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived, but they listed him\nfor a so'ger--he come back home though, for all he had but one poor\nleg.  He always said he'd be buried near the sun-dial he used to climb\nupon when he was a baby, did my poor boy, and his words come true--you\ncan see the place with your own eyes; we've kept the turf up, ever\nsince.'\n\nHe shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes, said\nshe needn't be afraid that he was going to talk about that, any more.\nHe didn't wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by\nwhat he said, he asked pardon, that was all.\n\nThe milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and\nselecting its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty\nmeal.  The furniture of the room was very homely of course--a few rough\nchairs and a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of\ncrockery and delf, a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright red,\nwalking out with a very blue parasol, a few common, coloured scripture\nsubjects in frames upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf\nclothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a\nkettle, comprised the whole.  But everything was clean and neat, and as\nthe child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of comfort and content\nto which she had long been unaccustomed.\n\n'How far is it to any town or village?' she asked of the husband.\n\n'A matter of good five mile, my dear,' was the reply, 'but you're not\ngoing on to-night?'\n\n'Yes, yes, Nell,' said the old man hastily, urging her too by signs.\n'Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk till\nmidnight.'\n\n'There's a good barn hard by, master,' said the man, 'or there's\ntravellers' lodging, I know, at the Plow an' Harrer.  Excuse me, but\nyou do seem a little tired, and unless you're very anxious to get on--'\n\n'Yes, yes, we are,' returned the old man fretfully.  'Further away,\ndear Nell, pray further away.'\n\n'We must go on, indeed,' said the child, yielding to his restless wish.\n'We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon.  I'm quite ready,\ngrandfather.'\n\nBut the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that one of\nher little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and a mother\ntoo, she would not suffer her to go until she had washed the place and\napplied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and with such a\ngentle hand--rough-grained and hard though it was, with work--that the\nchild's heart was too full to admit of her saying more than a fervent\n'God bless you!' nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak,\nuntil they had left the cottage some distance behind.  When she turned\nher head, she saw that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were\nstanding in the road watching them as they went, and so, with many\nwaves of the hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not\nwithout tears, they parted company.\n\nThey trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they had done yet,\nfor another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of wheels\nbehind them, and looking round observed an empty cart approaching\npretty briskly.  The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and\nlooked earnestly at Nell.\n\n'Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?' he said.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied the child.\n\n'Ah!  They asked me to look out for you,' said the man.  'I'm going\nyour way.  Give me your hand--jump up, master.'\n\nThis was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and could\nscarcely crawl along.  To them the jolting cart was a luxurious\ncarriage, and the ride the most delicious in the world.  Nell had\nscarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when\nshe fell asleep, for the first time that day.\n\nShe was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn\nup a bye-lane.  The driver kindly got down to help her out, and\npointing to some trees at a very short distance before them, said that\nthe town lay there, and that they had better take the path which they\nwould see leading through the churchyard.  Accordingly, towards this\nspot, they directed their weary steps.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\nThe sun was setting when they reached the wicket-gate at which the path\nbegan, and, as the rain falls upon the just and unjust alike, it shed\nits warm tint even upon the resting-places of the dead, and bade them\nbe of good hope for its rising on the morrow.  The church was old and\ngrey, with ivy clinging to the walls, and round the porch.  Shunning\nthe tombs, it crept about the mounds, beneath which slept poor humble\nmen: twining for them the first wreaths they had ever won, but wreaths\nless liable to wither and far more lasting in their kind, than some\nwhich were graven deep in stone and marble, and told in pompous terms\nof virtues meekly hidden for many a year, and only revealed at last to\nexecutors and mourning legatees.\n\nThe clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull blunt sound among the\ngraves, was cropping the grass; at once deriving orthodox consolation\nfrom the dead parishioners, and enforcing last Sunday's text that this\nwas what all flesh came to; a lean ass who had sought to expound it\nalso, without being qualified and ordained, was pricking his ears in an\nempty pound hard by, and looking with hungry eyes upon his priestly\nneighbour.\n\nThe old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and strayed among\nthe tombs; for there the ground was soft, and easy to their tired feet.\nAs they passed behind the church, they heard voices near at hand, and\npresently came on those who had spoken.\n\nThey were two men who were seated in easy attitudes upon the grass, and\nso busily engaged as to be at first unconscious of intruders.  It was\nnot difficult to divine that they were of a class of itinerant\nshowmen--exhibitors of the freaks of Punch--for, perched cross-legged\nupon a tombstone behind them, was a figure of that hero himself, his\nnose and chin as hooked and his face as beaming as usual.  Perhaps his\nimperturbable character was never more strikingly developed, for he\npreserved his usual equable smile notwithstanding that his body was\ndangling in a most uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and\nshapeless, while his long peaked cap, unequally balanced against his\nexceedingly slight legs, threatened every instant to bring him toppling\ndown.\n\nIn part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two men, and in\npart jumbled together in a long flat box, were the other persons of the\nDrama.  The hero's wife and one child, the hobby-horse, the doctor, the\nforeign gentleman who not being familiar with the language is unable in\nthe representation to express his ideas otherwise than by the utterance\nof the word 'Shallabalah' three distinct times, the radical neighbour\nwho will by no means admit that a tin bell is an organ, the\nexecutioner, and the devil, were all here.  Their owners had evidently\ncome to that spot to make some needful repairs in the stage\narrangements, for one of them was engaged in binding together a small\ngallows with thread, while the other was intent upon fixing a new black\nwig, with the aid of a small hammer and some tacks, upon the head of\nthe radical neighbour, who had been beaten bald.\n\nThey raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were\nclose upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their looks of\ncuriosity.  One of them, the actual exhibitor no doubt, was a little\nmerry-faced man with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have\nunconsciously imbibed something of his hero's character.  The\nother--that was he who took the money--had rather a careful and\ncautious look, which was perhaps inseparable from his occupation also.\n\nThe merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and\nfollowing the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the\nfirst time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage.  (Punch, it may be\nremarked, seemed to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most\nflourishing epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.)\n\n'Why do you come here to do this?' said the old man, sitting down\nbeside them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight.\n\n'Why you see,' rejoined the little man, 'we're putting up for to-night\nat the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the\npresent company undergoing repair.'\n\n'No!' cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, 'why not, eh?\nwhy not?'\n\n'Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the\ninterest, wouldn't it?' replied the little man.  'Would you care a\nha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and\nwithout his wig?--certainly not.'\n\n'Good!' said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and\ndrawing away his hand with a shrill laugh.  'Are you going to show 'em\nto-night?  are you?'\n\n'That is the intention, governor,' replied the other, 'and unless I'm\nmuch mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a calculating at this minute what we've\nlost through your coming upon us.  Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much.'\n\nThe little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive\nof the estimate he had formed of the travellers' finances.\n\nTo this Mr Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as he\ntwitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box, 'I don't\ncare if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free.  If you stood in\nfront of the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd know\nhuman natur' better.'\n\n'Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch,'\nrejoined his companion.  'When you played the ghost in the reg'lar\ndrama in the fairs, you believed in everything--except ghosts.  But now\nyou're a universal mistruster.  I never see a man so changed.'\n\n'Never mind,' said Mr Codlin, with the air of a discontented\nphilosopher.  'I know better now, and p'raps I'm sorry for it.'\n\nTurning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised\nthem, Mr Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his\nfriend:\n\n'Look here; here's all this judy's clothes falling to pieces again.\nYou haven't got a needle and thread I suppose?'\n\nThe little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully as he\ncontemplated this severe indisposition of a principal performer.\nSeeing that they were at a loss, the child said timidly:\n\n'I have a needle, Sir, in my basket, and thread too.  Will you let me\ntry to mend it for you?  I think I could do it neater than you could.'\n\nEven Mr Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable.\nNelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her\ntask, and accomplishing it to a miracle.\n\nWhile she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with an\ninterest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced at her\nhelpless companion.  When she had finished her work he thanked her, and\ninquired whither they were travelling.\n\n'N--no further to-night, I think,' said the child, looking towards her\ngrandfather.\n\n'If you're wanting a place to stop at,' the man remarked, 'I should\nadvise you to take up at the same house with us.  That's it.  The long,\nlow, white house there.  It's very cheap.'\n\nThe old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have remained in the\nchurchyard all night if his new acquaintances had remained there too.\nAs he yielded to this suggestion a ready and rapturous assent, they all\nrose and walked away together; he keeping close to the box of puppets\nin which he was quite absorbed, the merry little man carrying it slung\nover his arm by a strap attached to it for the purpose, Nelly having\nhold of her grandfather's hand, and Mr Codlin sauntering slowly behind,\ncasting up at the church tower and neighbouring trees such looks as he\nwas accustomed in town-practice to direct to drawing-room and nursery\nwindows, when seeking for a profitable spot on which to plant the show.\n\nThe public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady who made\nno objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty\nand were at once prepossessed in her behalf.  There was no other\ncompany in the kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very\nthankful that they had fallen upon such good quarters.  The landlady\nwas very much astonished to learn that they had come all the way from\nLondon, and appeared to have no little curiosity touching their farther\ndestination.  The child parried her inquiries as well as she could, and\nwith no great trouble, for finding that they appeared to give her pain,\nthe old lady desisted.\n\n'These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an hour's time,' she said,\ntaking her into the bar; 'and your best plan will be to sup with them.\nMeanwhile you shall have a little taste of something that'll do you\ngood, for I'm sure you must want it after all you've gone through\nto-day.  Now, don't look after the old gentleman, because when you've\ndrank that, he shall have some too.'\n\nAs nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, however, or to\ntouch anything in which he was not the first and greatest sharer, the\nold lady was obliged to help him first.  When they had been thus\nrefreshed, the whole house hurried away into an empty stable where the\nshow stood, and where, by the light of a few flaring candles stuck\nround a hoop which hung by a line from the ceiling, it was to be\nforthwith exhibited.\n\nAnd now Mr Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after blowing away at the\nPan's pipes until he was intensely wretched, took his station on one\nside of the checked drapery which concealed the mover of the figures,\nand putting his hands in his pockets prepared to reply to all questions\nand remarks of Punch, and to make a dismal feint of being his most\nintimate private friend, of believing in him to the fullest and most\nunlimited extent, of knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and\nglorious existence in that temple, and that he was at all times and\nunder every circumstance the same intelligent and joyful person that\nthe spectators then beheld him.  All this Mr Codlin did with the air of\na man who had made up his mind for the worst and was quite resigned;\nhis eye slowly wandering about during the briskest repartee to observe\nthe effect upon the audience, and particularly the impression made upon\nthe landlord and landlady, which might be productive of very important\nresults in connexion with the supper.\n\nUpon this head, however, he had no cause for any anxiety, for the whole\nperformance was applauded to the echo, and voluntary contributions were\nshowered in with a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the\ngeneral delight.  Among the laughter none was more loud and frequent\nthan the old man's.  Nell's was unheard, for she, poor child, with her\nhead drooping on his shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly\nto be roused by any of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in\nhis glee.\n\nThe supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet would\nnot leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed.  He, happily\ninsensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile\nand admiring face to all that his new friend said; and it was not until\nthey retired yawning to their room, that he followed the child up\nstairs.\n\nIt was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, where they were to\nrest, but they were well pleased with their lodging and had hoped for\nnone so good.  The old man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged\nthat Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she had done for so many\nnights.  She hastened to him, and sat there till he slept.\n\nThere was a little window, hardly more than a chink in the wall, in her\nroom, and when she left him, she opened it, quite wondering at the\nsilence.  The sight of the old church, and the graves about it in the\nmoonlight, and the dark trees whispering among themselves, made her\nmore thoughtful than before.  She closed the window again, and sitting\ndown upon the bed, thought of the life that was before them.\n\nShe had a little money, but it was very little, and when that was gone,\nthey must begin to beg.  There was one piece of gold among it, and an\nemergency might come when its worth to them would be increased a\nhundred fold.  It would be best to hide this coin, and never produce it\nunless their case was absolutely desperate, and no other resource was\nleft them.\n\nHer resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress, and\ngoing to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\nAnother bright day shining in through the small casement, and claiming\nfellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her.  At sight of\nthe strange room and its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm,\nwondering how she had been moved from the familiar chamber in which she\nseemed to have fallen asleep last night, and whither she had been\nconveyed.  But, another glance around called to her mind all that had\nlately passed, and she sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.\n\nIt was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out\ninto the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her\nfeet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in\nothers, that she might not tread upon the graves.  She felt a curious\nkind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and read\nthe inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a great number of\ngood people were buried there), passing on from one to another with\nincreasing interest.\n\nIt was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the\ncawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of\nsome tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in the\nair.  First, one sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung\nand dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by chance as it\nwould seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but talking to\nhimself.  Another answered, and he called again, but louder than\nbefore; then another spoke and then another; and each time the first,\naggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly.  Other\nvoices, silent till now, struck in from boughs lower down and higher up\nand midway, and to the right and left, and from the tree-tops; and\nothers, arriving hastily from the grey church turrets and old belfry\nwindow, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and swelled and dropped\nagain, and still went on; and all this noisy contention amidst a\nskimming to and fro, and lighting on fresh branches, and frequent\nchange of place, which satirised the old restlessness of those who lay\nso still beneath the moss and turf below, and the strife in which they\nhad worn away their lives.\n\nFrequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down,\nand feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect\nsilence would have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now\nstopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which had started\nfrom some green mound it helped to keep in shape, and now peeping\nthrough one of the low latticed windows into the church, with its\nworm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of whitened-green mouldering\nfrom the pew sides and leaving the naked wood to view.  There were the\nseats where the poor old people sat, worn spare, and yellow like\nthemselves; the rugged font where children had their names, the homely\naltar where they knelt in after life, the plain black tressels that\nbore their weight on their last visit to the cool old shady church.\nEverything told of long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-rope in\nthe porch was frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age.\n\nShe was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had\ndied at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she heard a\nfaltering step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble woman bent\nwith the weight of years, who tottered to the foot of that same grave\nand asked her to read the writing on the stone.  The old woman thanked\nher when she had done, saying that she had had the words by heart for\nmany a long, long year, but could not see them now.\n\n'Were you his mother?' said the child.\n\n'I was his wife, my dear.'\n\nShe the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty!  Ah, true!  It was\nfifty-five years ago.\n\n'You wonder to hear me say that,' remarked the old woman, shaking her\nhead.  'You're not the first.  Older folk than you have wondered at the\nsame thing before now.  Yes, I was his wife.  Death doesn't change us\nmore than life, my dear.'\n\n'Do you come here often?' asked the child.\n\n'I sit here very often in the summer time,' she answered, 'I used to\ncome here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago, bless\nGod!'\n\n'I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,' said the old\nwoman after a short silence.  'I like no flowers so well as these, and\nhaven't for five-and-fifty years.  It's a long time, and I'm getting\nvery old.'\n\nThen growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener\nthough it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and moaned\nand prayed to die herself, when this happened; and how when she first\ncame to that place, a young creature strong in love and grief, she had\nhoped that her heart was breaking as it seemed to be.  But that time\npassed by, and although she continued to be sad when she came there,\nstill she could bear to come, and so went on until it was pain no\nlonger, but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she had learned to like.  And\nnow that five-and-fifty years were gone, she spoke of the dead man as\nif he had been her son or grandson, with a kind of pity for his youth,\ngrowing out of her own old age, and an exalting of his strength and\nmanly beauty as compared with her own weakness and decay; and yet she\nspoke about him as her husband too, and thinking of herself in\nconnexion with him, as she used to be and not as she was now, talked of\ntheir meeting in another world, as if he were dead but yesterday, and\nshe, separated from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of\nthat comely girl who seemed to have died with him.\n\nThe child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave, and\nthoughtfully retraced her steps.\n\nThe old man was by this time up and dressed.  Mr Codlin, still doomed\nto contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing among his\nlinen the candle-ends which had been saved from the previous night's\nperformance; while his companion received the compliments of all the\nloungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to separate him from the\nmaster-mind of Punch, set him down as next in importance to that merry\noutlaw, and loved him scarcely less.  When he had sufficiently\nacknowledged his popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they\nall sat down together.\n\n'And where are you going to-day?' said the little man, addressing\nhimself to Nell.\n\n'Indeed I hardly know--we have not determined yet,' replied the child.\n\n'We're going on to the races,' said the little man.  'If that's your\nway and you like to have us for company, let us travel together.  If\nyou prefer going alone, only say the word and you'll find that we\nshan't trouble you.'\n\n'We'll go with you,' said the old man.  'Nell--with them, with them.'\n\nThe child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must shortly\nbeg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where\ncrowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled together for\npurposes of enjoyment and festivity, determined to accompany these men\nso far.  She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said,\nglancing timidly towards his friend, that if there was no objection to\ntheir accompanying them as far as the race town--\n\n'Objection!' said the little man.  'Now be gracious for once, Tommy,\nand say that you'd rather they went with us.  I know you would.  Be\ngracious, Tommy.'\n\n'Trotters,' said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very\ngreedily, as is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes;\n'you're too free.'\n\n'Why what harm can it do?' urged the other.\n\n'No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps,' replied Mr Codlin;\n'but the principle's a dangerous one, and you're too free I tell you.'\n\n'Well, are they to go with us or not?'\n\n'Yes, they are,' said Mr Codlin; 'but you might have made a favour of\nit, mightn't you?'\n\nThe real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually merged\ninto the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory\nadjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason of the small\nsize of his legs.  Short Trotters however, being a compound name,\ninconvenient of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom it had\nbeen bestowed was known among his intimates either as 'Short,' or\n'Trotters,' and was seldom accosted at full length as Short Trotters,\nexcept in formal conversations and on occasions of ceremony.\n\nShort, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the\nremonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose answer calculated\nto turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with great relish to\nthe cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and butter, strongly impressed\nupon his companions that they should do the like.  Mr Codlin indeed\nrequired no such persuasion, as he had already eaten as much as he\ncould possibly carry and was now moistening his clay with strong ale,\nwhereof he took deep draughts with a silent relish and invited nobody\nto partake--thus again strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of\nmind.\n\nBreakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and charging\nthe ale to the company generally (a practice also savouring of\nmisanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and equal parts,\nassigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the other to Nelly and\nher grandfather.  These being duly discharged and all things ready for\ntheir departure, they took farewell of the landlord and landlady and\nresumed their journey.\n\nAnd here Mr Codlin's false position in society and the effect it\nwrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for whereas\nhe had been last night accosted by Mr Punch as 'master,' and had by\ninference left the audience to understand that he maintained that\nindividual for his own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he\nwas, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of that same Punch's\ntemple, and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders on a sultry day and\nalong a dusty road.  In place of enlivening his patron with a constant\nfire of wit or the cheerful rattle of his quarter-staff on the heads of\nhis relations and acquaintance, here was that beaming Punch utterly\ndevoid of spine, all slack and drooping in a dark box, with his legs\ndoubled up round his neck, and not one of his social qualities\nremaining.\n\nMr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals\nwith Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally.  Short led the\nway; with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not extensive)\ntied up in a bundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his\nshoulder-blade.  Nell and her grandfather walked next him on either\nhand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the rear.\n\nWhen they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house of\ngood appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and\ncarolled a fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to Punches\nand their consorts.  If people hurried to the windows, Mr Codlin\npitched the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and concealing\nShort therewith, flourished hysterically on the pipes and performed an\nair.  Then the entertainment began as soon as might be; Mr Codlin\nhaving the responsibility of deciding on its length and of protracting\nor expediting the time for the hero's final triumph over the enemy of\nmankind, according as he judged that the after-crop of half-pence would\nbe plentiful or scant.  When it had been gathered in to the last\nfarthing, he resumed his load and on they went again.\n\nSometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and once\nexhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector,\nbeing drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to have it to\nhimself.  There was one small place of rich promise in which their\nhopes were blighted, for a favourite character in the play having\ngold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling wooden-headed fellow was\nheld to be a libel on the beadle, for which reason the authorities\nenforced a quick retreat; but they were generally well received, and\nseldom left a town without a troop of ragged children shouting at their\nheels.\n\nThey made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and were\nyet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky.  Short beguiled\nthe time with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that\nhappened.  Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the\nhollow things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with\nthe theatre on his back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin.\n\nThey had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met,\nand Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and\nseated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and\ndisdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when two monstrous\nshadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in the road by\nwhich they had come.  The child was at first quite terrified by the\nsight of these gaunt giants--for such they looked as they advanced with\nlofty strides beneath the shadow of the trees--but Short, telling her\nthere was nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was\nanswered by a cheerful shout.\n\n'It's Grinder's lot, an't it?' cried Mr Short in a loud key.\n\n'Yes,' replied a couple of shrill voices.\n\n'Come on then,' said Short.  'Let's have a look at you.  I thought it\nwas you.'\n\nThus invited, 'Grinder's lot' approached with redoubled speed and soon\ncame up with the little party.\n\nMr Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young\ngentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who used\nhis natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his back a\ndrum.  The public costume of the young people was of the Highland kind,\nbut the night being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore over his\nkilt a man's pea jacket reaching to his ankles, and a glazed hat; the\nyoung lady too was muffled in an old cloth pelisse and had a\nhandkerchief tied about her head.  Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented\nwith plumes of jet black feathers, Mr Grinder carried on his instrument.\n\n'Bound for the races, I see,' said Mr Grinder coming up out of breath.\n'So are we.  How are you, Short?'  With that they shook hands in a very\nfriendly manner.  The young people being too high up for the ordinary\nsalutations, saluted Short after their own fashion.  The young\ngentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted him on the shoulder,\nand the young lady rattled her tambourine.\n\n'Practice?' said Short, pointing to the stilts.\n\n'No,' returned Grinder.  'It comes either to walkin' in 'em or carryin'\nof 'em, and they like walkin' in 'em best.  It's wery pleasant for the\nprospects.  Which road are you takin'?  We go the nighest.'\n\n'Why, the fact is,' said Short, 'that we are going the longest way,\nbecause then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on.  But\nthree or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and if\nyou keep on, I think our best way is to do the same.'\n\n'Where's your partner?' inquired Grinder.\n\n'Here he is,' cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face in\nthe proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of\ncountenance not often seen there; 'and he'll see his partner boiled\nalive before he'll go on to-night.  That's what he says.'\n\n'Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted to\nsomething pleasanter,' urged Short.  'Respect associations, Tommy, even\nif you do cut up rough.'\n\n'Rough or smooth,' said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little\nfootboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his\nlegs and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit\nthem to popular admiration, 'rough or smooth, I won't go further than\nthe mile and a half to-night.  I put up at the Jolly Sandboys and\nnowhere else.  If you like to come there, come there.  If you like to\ngo on by yourself, go on by yourself, and do without me if you can.'\n\nSo saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene and immediately\npresented himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a\njerk, and made off with most remarkable agility.\n\nAny further controversy being now out of the question, Short was fain\nto part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his morose\ncompanion.  After lingering at the finger-post for a few minutes to see\nthe stilts frisking away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum\ntoiling slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet as a\nparting salute, and hastened with all speed to follow Mr Codlin.  With\nthis view he gave his unoccupied hand to Nell, and bidding her be of\ngood cheer as they would soon be at the end of their journey for that\nnight, and stimulating the old man with a similar assurance, led them\nat a pretty swift pace towards their destination, which he was the less\nunwilling to make for, as the moon was now overcast and the clouds were\nthreatening rain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\nThe Jolly Sandboys was a small road-side inn of pretty ancient date,\nwith a sign, representing three Sandboys increasing their jollity with\nas many jugs of ale and bags of gold, creaking and swinging on its post\non the opposite side of the road.  As the travellers had observed that\nday many indications of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race\ntown, such as gipsy camps, carts laden with gambling booths and their\nappurtenances, itinerant showmen of various kinds, and beggars and\ntrampers of every degree, all wending their way in the same direction,\nMr Codlin was fearful of finding the accommodations forestalled; this\nfear increasing as he diminished the distance between himself and the\nhostelry, he quickened his pace, and notwithstanding the burden he had\nto carry, maintained a round trot until he reached the threshold.  Here\nhe had the gratification of finding that his fears were without\nfoundation, for the landlord was leaning against the door-post looking\nlazily at the rain, which had by this time begun to descend heavily,\nand no tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous shout, nor noisy\nchorus, gave note of company within.\n\n'All alone?' said Mr Codlin, putting down his burden and wiping his\nforehead.\n\n'All alone as yet,' rejoined the landlord, glancing at the sky, 'but we\nshall have more company to-night I expect.  Here one of you boys, carry\nthat show into the barn.  Make haste in out of the wet, Tom; when it\ncame on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a glorious\nblaze in the kitchen, I can tell you.'\n\nMr Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon found that the\nlandlord had not commended his preparations without good reason.  A\nmighty fire was blazing on the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney\nwith a cheerful sound, which a large iron cauldron, bubbling and\nsimmering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell.  There was a\ndeep red ruddy blush upon the room, and when the landlord stirred the\nfire, sending the flames skipping and leaping up--when he took off the\nlid of the iron pot and there rushed out a savoury smell, while the\nbubbling sound grew deeper and more rich, and an unctuous steam came\nfloating out, hanging in a delicious mist above their heads--when he\ndid this, Mr Codlin's heart was touched.  He sat down in the\nchimney-corner and smiled.\n\nMr Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner, eyeing the landlord as\nwith a roguish look he held the cover in his hand, and, feigning that\nhis doing so was needful to the welfare of the cookery, suffered the\ndelightful steam to tickle the nostrils of his guest.  The glow of the\nfire was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling eye, and\nupon his watering mouth, and upon his pimpled face, and upon his round\nfat figure.  Mr Codlin drew his sleeve across his lips, and said in a\nmurmuring voice, 'What is it?'\n\n'It's a stew of tripe,' said the landlord smacking his lips, 'and\ncow-heel,' smacking them again, 'and bacon,' smacking them once more,\n'and steak,' smacking them for the fourth time, 'and peas,\ncauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together\nin one delicious gravy.'  Having come to the climax, he smacked his\nlips a great many times, and taking a long hearty sniff of the\nfragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again with the air\nof one whose toils on earth were over.\n\n'At what time will it be ready?' asked Mr Codlin faintly.\n\n'It'll be done to a turn,' said the landlord looking up to the\nclock--and the very clock had a colour in its fat white face, and\nlooked a clock for jolly Sandboys to consult--'it'll be done to a turn\nat twenty-two minutes before eleven.'\n\n'Then,' said Mr Codlin, 'fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let\nnobody bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time\narrives.'\n\nNodding his approval of this decisive and manly course of procedure,\nthe landlord retired to draw the beer, and presently returning with it,\napplied himself to warm the same in a small tin vessel shaped\nfunnel-wise, for the convenience of sticking it far down in the fire\nand getting at the bright places.  This was soon done, and he handed it\nover to Mr Codlin with that creamy froth upon the surface which is one\nof the happy circumstances attendant on mulled malt.\n\nGreatly softened by this soothing beverage, Mr Codlin now bethought him\nof his companions, and acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that their\narrival might be shortly looked for.  The rain was rattling against the\nwindows and pouring down in torrents, and such was Mr Codlin's extreme\namiability of mind, that he more than once expressed his earnest hope\nthat they would not be so foolish as to get wet.\n\nAt length they arrived, drenched with the rain and presenting a most\nmiserable appearance, notwithstanding that Short had sheltered the\nchild as well as he could under the skirts of his own coat, and they\nwere nearly breathless from the haste they had made.  But their steps\nwere no sooner heard upon the road than the landlord, who had been at\nthe outer door anxiously watching for their coming, rushed into the\nkitchen and took the cover off.  The effect was electrical.  They all\ncame in with smiling faces though the wet was dripping from their\nclothes upon the floor, and Short's first remark was, 'What a delicious\nsmell!'\n\nIt is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the side of a\ncheerful fire, and in a bright room.  They were furnished with slippers\nand such dry garments as the house or their own bundles afforded, and\nensconcing themselves, as Mr Codlin had already done, in the warm\nchimney-corner, soon forgot their late troubles or only remembered them\nas enhancing the delights of the present time.  Overpowered by the\nwarmth and comfort and the fatigue they had undergone, Nelly and the\nold man had not long taken their seats here, when they fell asleep.\n\n'Who are they?' whispered the landlord.\n\nShort shook his head, and wished he knew himself.\n\n'Don't you know?' asked the host, turning to Mr Codlin.\n\n'Not I,' he replied.  'They're no good, I suppose.'\n\n'They're no harm,' said Short.  'Depend upon that.  I tell you\nwhat--it's plain that the old man an't in his right mind--'\n\n'If you haven't got anything newer than that to say,' growled Mr\nCodlin, glancing at the clock, 'you'd better let us fix our minds upon\nthe supper, and not disturb us.'\n\n'Hear me out, won't you?' retorted his friend.  'It's very plain to me,\nbesides, that they're not used to this way of life.  Don't tell me that\nthat handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she's\ndone these last two or three days.  I know better.'\n\n'Well, who DOES tell you she has?' growled Mr Codlin, again glancing at\nthe clock and from it to the cauldron, 'can't you think of anything\nmore suitable to present circumstances than saying things and then\ncontradicting 'em?'\n\n'I wish somebody would give you your supper,' returned Short, 'for\nthere'll be no peace till you've got it.  Have you seen how anxious the\nold man is to get on--always wanting to be furder away--furder away.\nHave you seen that?'\n\n'Ah! what then?' muttered Thomas Codlin.\n\n'This, then,' said Short.  'He has given his friends the slip.  Mind\nwhat I say--he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this\ndelicate young creetur all along of her fondness for him to be his\nguide and travelling companion--where to, he knows no more than the man\nin the moon.  Now I'm not a going to stand that.'\n\n'YOU'RE not a going to stand that!' cried Mr Codlin, glancing at the\nclock again and pulling his hair with both hands in a kind of frenzy,\nbut whether occasioned by his companion's observation or the tardy pace\nof Time, it was difficult to determine.  'Here's a world to live in!'\n\n'I,' repeated Short emphatically and slowly, 'am not a-going to stand\nit.  I am not a-going to see this fair young child a falling into bad\nhands, and getting among people that she's no more fit for, than they\nare to get among angels as their ordinary chums.  Therefore when they\ndewelope an intention of parting company from us, I shall take measures\nfor detaining of 'em, and restoring 'em to their friends, who I dare\nsay have had their disconsolation pasted up on every wall in London by\nthis time.'\n\n'Short,' said Mr Codlin, who with his head upon his hands, and his\nelbows on his knees, had been shaking himself impatiently from side to\nside up to this point and occasionally stamping on the ground, but who\nnow looked up with eager eyes; 'it's possible that there may be\nuncommon good sense in what you've said.  If there is, and there should\nbe a reward, Short, remember that we're partners in everything!'\n\nHis companion had only time to nod a brief assent to this position, for\nthe child awoke at the instant.  They had drawn close together during\nthe previous whispering, and now hastily separated and were rather\nawkwardly endeavouring to exchange some casual remarks in their usual\ntone, when strange footsteps were heard without, and fresh company\nentered.\n\nThese were no other than four very dismal dogs, who came pattering in\none after the other, headed by an old bandy dog of particularly\nmournful aspect, who, stopping when the last of his followers had got\nas far as the door, erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round\nat his companions, who immediately stood upon their hind legs, in a\ngrave and melancholy row.  Nor was this the only remarkable\ncircumstance about these dogs, for each of them wore a kind of little\ncoat of some gaudy colour trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of\nthem had a cap upon his head, tied very carefully under his chin, which\nhad fallen down upon his nose and completely obscured one eye; add to\nthis, that the gaudy coats were all wet through and discoloured with\nrain, and that the wearers were splashed and dirty, and some idea may\nbe formed of the unusual appearance of these new visitors to the Jolly\nSandboys.\n\nNeither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, however, was in the\nleast surprised, merely remarking that these were Jerry's dogs and that\nJerry could not be far behind.  So there the dogs stood, patiently\nwinking and gaping and looking extremely hard at the boiling pot, until\nJerry himself appeared, when they all dropped down at once and walked\nabout the room in their natural manner.  This posture it must be\nconfessed did not much improve their appearance, as their own personal\ntails and their coat tails--both capital things in their way--did not\nagree together.\n\nJerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall black-whiskered\nman in a velveteen coat, who seemed well known to the landlord and his\nguests and accosted them with great cordiality.  Disencumbering himself\nof a barrel organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining in his\nhand a small whip wherewith to awe his company of comedians, he came up\nto the fire to dry himself, and entered into conversation.\n\n'Your people don't usually travel in character, do they?' said Short,\npointing to the dresses of the dogs.  'It must come expensive if they\ndo?'\n\n'No,' replied Jerry, 'no, it's not the custom with us.  But we've been\nplaying a little on the road to-day, and we come out with a new\nwardrobe at the races, so I didn't think it worth while to stop to\nundress.  Down, Pedro!'\n\nThis was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who being a new member\nof the company, and not quite certain of his duty, kept his unobscured\neye anxiously on his master, and was perpetually starting upon his hind\nlegs when there was no occasion, and falling down again.\n\n'I've got a animal here,' said Jerry, putting his hand into the\ncapacious pocket of his coat, and diving into one corner as if he were\nfeeling for a small orange or an apple or some such article, 'a animal\nhere, wot I think you know something of, Short.'\n\n'Ah!' cried Short, 'let's have a look at him.'\n\n'Here he is,' said Jerry, producing a little terrier from his pocket.\n'He was once a Toby of yours, warn't he!'\n\nIn some versions of the great drama of Punch there is a small dog--a\nmodern innovation--supposed to be the private property of that\ngentleman, whose name is always Toby.  This Toby has been stolen in\nyouth from another gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the confiding\nhero, who having no guile himself has no suspicion that it lurks in\nothers; but Toby, entertaining a grateful recollection of his old\nmaster, and scorning to attach himself to any new patrons, not only\nrefuses to smoke a pipe at the bidding of Punch, but to mark his old\nfidelity more strongly, seizes him by the nose and wrings the same with\nviolence, at which instance of canine attachment the spectators are\ndeeply affected.  This was the character which the little terrier in\nquestion had once sustained; if there had been any doubt upon the\nsubject he would speedily have resolved it by his conduct; for not only\ndid he, on seeing Short, give the strongest tokens of recognition, but\ncatching sight of the flat box he barked so furiously at the pasteboard\nnose which he knew was inside, that his master was obliged to gather\nhim up and put him into his pocket again, to the great relief of the\nwhole company.\n\nThe landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which process\nMr Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork\nin the most convenient place and establishing himself behind them.\nWhen everything was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last\ntime, and then indeed there burst forth such a goodly promise of\nsupper, that if he had offered to put it on again or had hinted at\npostponement, he would certainly have been sacrificed on his own hearth.\n\nHowever, he did nothing of the kind, but instead thereof assisted a\nstout servant girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into a large\ntureen; a proceeding which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes\nwhich fell upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness.  At\nlength the dish was lifted on the table, and mugs of ale having been\npreviously set round, little Nell ventured to say grace, and supper\nbegan.\n\nAt this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind legs quite\nsurprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about to cast some\nmorsels of food to them before she tasted it herself, hungry though she\nwas, when their master interposed.\n\n'No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand but mine if you\nplease.  That dog,' said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the\ntroop, and speaking in a terrible voice, 'lost a halfpenny to-day.  He\ngoes without his supper.'\n\nThe unfortunate creature dropped upon his fore-legs directly, wagged\nhis tail, and looked imploringly at his master.\n\n'You must be more careful, Sir,' said Jerry, walking coolly to the\nchair where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop.  'Come here.\nNow, Sir, you play away at that, while we have supper, and leave off if\nyou dare.'\n\nThe dog immediately began to grind most mournful music.  His master\nhaving shown him the whip resumed his seat and called up the others,\nwho, at his directions, formed in a row, standing upright as a file of\nsoldiers.\n\n'Now, gentlemen,' said Jerry, looking at them attentively.  'The dog\nwhose name's called, eats.  The dogs whose names an't called, keep\nquiet.  Carlo!'\n\nThe lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel\nthrown towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle.  In this\nmanner they were fed at the discretion of their master.  Meanwhile the\ndog in disgrace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time,\nsometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant.  When the\nknives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got an\nunusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a short\nhowl, but he immediately checked it on his master looking round, and\napplied himself with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\nSupper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two\nmore travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been\nwalking in the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with\nwater.  One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady\nwithout legs or arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a\nsilent gentleman who earned his living by showing tricks upon the\ncards, and who had rather deranged the natural expression of his\ncountenance by putting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing\nthem out at his mouth, which was one of his professional\naccomplishments.  The name of the first of these newcomers was Vuffin;\nthe other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was called\nSweet William.  To render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord\nbestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both gentlemen were\nperfectly at their ease.\n\n'How's the Giant?' said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire.\n\n'Rather weak upon his legs,' returned Mr Vuffin.  'I begin to be afraid\nhe's going at the knees.'\n\n'That's a bad look-out,' said Short.\n\n'Aye!  Bad indeed,' replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a\nsigh.  'Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more\nabout him than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.'\n\n'What becomes of old giants?' said Short, turning to him again after a\nlittle reflection.\n\n'They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,' said Mr\nVuffin.\n\n'The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when they can't be shown,\neh?' remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.\n\n'It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish or about the\nstreets,' said Mr Vuffin.  'Once make a giant common and giants will\nnever draw again.  Look at wooden legs.  If there was only one man with\na wooden leg what a property he'd be!'\n\n'So he would!' observed the landlord and Short both together.  'That's\nvery true.'\n\n'Instead of which,' pursued Mr Vuffin, 'if you was to advertise\nShakspeare played entirely by wooden legs, it's my belief you wouldn't\ndraw a sixpence.'\n\n'I don't suppose you would,' said Short.  And the landlord said so too.\n\n'This shows, you see,' said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an\nargumentative air, 'this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants\nstill in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all\ntheir lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there.  There\nwas one giant--a black 'un--as left his carawan some year ago and took\nto carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as\ncrossing-sweepers.  He died.  I make no insinuation against anybody in\nparticular,' said Mr Vuffin, looking solemnly round, 'but he was\nruining the trade;--and he died.'\n\nThe landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs,\nwho nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.\n\n'I know you do, Jerry,' said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning.  'I know\nyou remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served\nhim right.  Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had\nthree-and-twenty wans--I remember the time when old Maunders had in his\ncottage in Spa Fields in the winter time, when the season was over,\neight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was\nwaited on by eight old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton\nstockings, and high-lows: and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly\nand wicious who whenever his giant wasn't quick enough to please him,\nused to stick pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any higher.\nI know that's a fact, for Maunders told it me himself.'\n\n'What about the dwarfs when they get old?' inquired the landlord.\n\n'The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,' returned Mr Vuffin; 'a\ngrey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion.  But a giant\nweak in the legs and not standing upright!--keep him in the carawan,\nbut never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be\noffered.'\n\nWhile Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the\ntime with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm\ncorner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence\nfor practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other\nfeats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to\nthe company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed.  At length\nthe weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they\nwithdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs\nfast asleep at a humble distance.\n\nAfter bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret,\nbut had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at.  She\nopened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas\nCodlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down stairs.\n\n'What is the matter?' said the child.\n\n'Nothing's the matter, my dear,' returned her visitor.  'I'm your\nfriend.  Perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your\nfriend--not him.'\n\n'Not who?' the child inquired.\n\n'Short, my dear.  I tell you what,' said Codlin, 'for all his having a\nkind of way with him that you'd be very apt to like, I'm the real,\nopen-hearted man.  I mayn't look it, but I am indeed.'\n\nThe child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken\neffect upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the\nconsequence.\n\n'Short's very well, and seems kind,' resumed the misanthrope, 'but he\noverdoes it.  Now I don't.'\n\nCertainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin's usual deportment, it\nwas that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than\noverdid it.  But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say.\n\n'Take my advice,' said Codlin: 'don't ask me why, but take it.  As long\nas you travel with us, keep as near me as you can.  Don't offer to\nleave us--not on any account--but always stick to me and say that I'm\nyour friend.  Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that\nit was me that was your friend?'\n\n'Say so where--and when?' inquired the child innocently.\n\n'O, nowhere in particular,' replied Codlin, a little put out as it\nseemed by the question; 'I'm only anxious that you should think me so,\nand do me justice.  You can't think what an interest I have in you.\nWhy didn't you tell me your little history--that about you and the poor\nold gentleman?  I'm the best adviser that ever was, and so interested\nin you--so much more interested than Short.  I think they're breaking\nup down stairs; you needn't tell Short, you know, that we've had this\nlittle talk together.  God bless you.  Recollect the friend.  Codlin's\nthe friend, not Short.  Short's very well as far as he goes, but the\nreal friend is Codlin--not Short.'\n\nEking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting\nlooks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe,\nleaving the child in a state of extreme surprise.  She was still\nruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy\nstairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers\nwho were passing to their beds.  When they had all passed, and the\nsound of their footsteps had died away, one of them returned, and after\na little hesitation and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful\nwhat door to knock at, knocked at hers.\n\n'Yes,' said the child from within.\n\n'It's me--Short'--a voice called through the keyhole.  'I only wanted\nto say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear, because\nunless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages\nwon't be worth a penny.  You'll be sure to be stirring early and go\nwith us?  I'll call you.'\n\nThe child answered in the affirmative, and returning his 'good night'\nheard him creep away.  She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these\nmen, increased by the recollection of their whispering together down\nstairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite\nfree from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she\ncould have stumbled on.  Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed\nagainst her fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep.\n\nVery early next morning, Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking\nsoftly at her door, entreated that she would get up directly, as the\nproprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time they\nmight get a good deal in advance both of him and the conjuror, who was\ntalking in his sleep, and from what he could be heard to say, appeared\nto be balancing a donkey in his dreams.  She started from her bed\nwithout delay, and roused the old man with so much expedition that they\nwere both ready as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's\nunspeakable gratification and relief.\n\nAfter a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the\nstaple commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of\nthe landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys.  The\nmorning was fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late\nrain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and everything\nfresh and healthful.  Surrounded by these influences, they walked on\npleasantly enough.\n\nThey had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the\naltered behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on\nsulkily by himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her, and\nwhen he had an opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion,\nwarned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any\ntrust in Short, but to reserve all confidences for Codlin.  Neither did\nhe confine himself to looks and gestures, for when she and her\ngrandfather were walking on beside the aforesaid Short, and that little\nman was talking with his accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of\nindifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and distrust\nby following close at her heels, and occasionally admonishing her\nankles with the legs of the theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner.\n\nAll these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and\nsuspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform\noutside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went\nthrough his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her\nand the old man, or with a show of great friendship and consideration\ninvited the latter to lean upon his arm, and so held him tight until\nthe representation was over and they again went forward.  Even Short\nseemed to change in this respect, and to mingle with his good-nature\nsomething of a desire to keep them in safe custody.  This increased the\nchild's misgivings, and made her yet more anxious and uneasy.\n\nMeanwhile, they were drawing near the town where the races were to\nbegin next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gipsies and\ntrampers on the road, wending their way towards it, and straggling out\nfrom every by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a\nstream of people, some walking by the side of covered carts, others\nwith horses, others with donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads\nupon their backs, but all tending to the same point.  The public-houses\nby the wayside, from being empty and noiseless as those in the remoter\nparts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts and clouds of smoke;\nand, from the misty windows, clusters of broad red faces looked down\nupon the road.  On every piece of waste or common ground, some small\ngambler drove his noisy trade, and bellowed to the idle passersby to\nstop and try their chance; the crowd grew thicker and more noisy; gilt\ngingerbread in blanket-stalls exposed its glories to the dust; and\noften a four-horse carriage, dashing by, obscured all objects in the\ngritty cloud it raised, and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind.\n\nIt was dark before they reached the town itself, and long indeed the\nfew last miles had been.  Here all was tumult and confusion; the\nstreets were filled with throngs of people--many strangers were there,\nit seemed, by the looks they cast about--the church-bells rang out\ntheir noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows and house-tops.  In\nthe large inn-yards waiters flitted to and fro and ran against each\nother, horses clattered on the uneven stones, carriage steps fell\nrattling down, and sickening smells from many dinners came in a heavy\nlukewarm breath upon the sense.  In the smaller public-houses, fiddles\nwith all their might and main were squeaking out the tune to staggering\nfeet; drunken men, oblivious of the burden of their song, joined in a\nsenseless howl, which drowned the tinkling of the feeble bell and made\nthem savage for their drink; vagabond groups assembled round the doors\nto see the stroller woman dance, and add their uproar to the shrill\nflageolet and deafening drum.\n\nThrough this delirious scene, the child, frightened and repelled by all\nshe saw, led on her bewildered charge, clinging close to her conductor,\nand trembling lest in the press she should be separated from him and\nleft to find her way alone.  Quickening their steps to get clear of all\nthe roar and riot, they at length passed through the town and made for\nthe race-course, which was upon an open heath, situated on an eminence,\na full mile distant from its furthest bounds.\n\nAlthough there were many people here, none of the best favoured or best\nclad, busily erecting tents and driving stakes in the ground, and\nhurrying to and fro with dusty feet and many a grumbled oath--although\nthere were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between the wheels\nof carts, crying themselves to sleep--and poor lean horses and donkeys\njust turned loose, grazing among the men and women, and pots and\nkettles, and half-lighted fires, and ends of candles flaring and\nwasting in the air--for all this, the child felt it an escape from the\ntown and drew her breath more freely.  After a scanty supper, the\npurchase of which reduced her little stock so low, that she had only a\nfew halfpence with which to buy a breakfast on the morrow, she and the\nold man lay down to rest in a corner of a tent, and slept, despite the\nbusy preparations that were going on around them all night long.\n\nAnd now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread.  Soon\nafter sunrise in the morning she stole out from the tent, and rambling\ninto some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such\nhumble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays and offer\nthem to the ladies in the carriages when the company arrived.  Her\nthoughts were not idle while she was thus employed; when she returned\nand was seated beside the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her\nflowers together, while the two men lay dozing in another corner, she\nplucked him by the sleeve, and slightly glancing towards them, said, in\na low voice--\n\n'Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if I\nspoke of anything but what I am about.  What was that you told me\nbefore we left the old house?  That if they knew what we were going to\ndo, they would say that you were mad, and part us?'\n\nThe old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror; but she\nchecked him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers while she tied\nthem up, and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said--\n\n'I know that was what you told me.  You needn't speak, dear.  I\nrecollect it very well.  It was not likely that I should forget it.\nGrandfather, these men suspect that we have secretly left our friends,\nand mean to carry us before some gentleman and have us taken care of\nand sent back.  If you let your hand tremble so, we can never get away\nfrom them, but if you're only quiet now, we shall do so, easily.'\n\n'How?' muttered the old man.  'Dear Nelly, how?  They will shut me up\nin a stone room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell--flog\nme with whips, and never let me see thee more!'\n\n'You're trembling again,' said the child.  'Keep close to me all day.\nNever mind them, don't look at them, but me.  I shall find a time when\nwe can steal away.  When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop\nor speak a word.  Hush!  That's all.'\n\n'Halloa! what are you up to, my dear?' said Mr Codlin, raising his\nhead, and yawning.  Then observing that his companion was fast asleep,\nhe added in an earnest whisper, 'Codlin's the friend, remember--not\nShort.'\n\n'Making some nosegays,' the child replied; 'I am going to try and sell\nsome, these three days of the races.  Will you have one--as a present I\nmean?'\n\nMr Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried towards\nhim and placed it in his hand.  He stuck it in his buttonhole with an\nair of ineffable complacency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly\nat the unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down again, 'Tom\nCodlin's the friend, by G--!'\n\nAs the morning wore on, the tents assumed a gayer and more brilliant\nappearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling softly on the\nturf.  Men who had lounged about all night in smock-frocks and leather\nleggings, came out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or\nmountebanks; or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken servants at\ngambling booths; or in sturdy yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful games.\nBlack-eyed gipsy girls, hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to\ntell fortunes, and pale slender women with consumptive faces lingered\nupon the footsteps of ventriloquists and conjurors, and counted the\nsixpences with anxious eyes long before they were gained.  As many of\nthe children as could be kept within bounds, were stowed away, with all\nthe other signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys, carts, and\nhorses; and as many as could not be thus disposed of ran in and out in\nall intricate spots, crept between people's legs and carriage wheels,\nand came forth unharmed from under horses' hoofs.  The dancing-dogs,\nthe stilts, the little lady and the tall man, and all the other\nattractions, with organs out of number and bands innumerable, emerged\nfrom the holes and corners in which they had passed the night, and\nflourished boldly in the sun.\n\nAlong the uncleared course, Short led his party, sounding the brazen\ntrumpet and revelling in the voice of Punch; and at his heels went\nThomas Codlin, bearing the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nelly\nand her grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear.  The child\nbore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes\nstopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay\ncarriage; but alas! there were many bolder beggars there, gipsies who\npromised husbands, and other adepts in their trade, and although some\nladies smiled gently as they shook their heads, and others cried to the\ngentlemen beside them 'See, what a pretty face!' they let the pretty\nface pass on, and never thought that it looked tired or hungry.\n\nThere was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, and she was\none who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in\ndashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed\nloudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her, quite.  There\nwere many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked\nanother way, or at the two young men (not unfavourably at them), and\nleft her to herself.  She motioned away a gipsy-woman urgent to tell\nher fortune, saying that it was told already and had been for some\nyears, but called the child towards her, and taking her flowers put\nmoney into her trembling hand, and bade her go home and keep at home\nfor God's sake.\n\nMany a time they went up and down those long, long lines, seeing\neverything but the horses and the race; when the bell rang to clear the\ncourse, going back to rest among the carts and donkeys, and not coming\nout again until the heat was over.  Many a time, too, was Punch\ndisplayed in the full zenith of his humour, but all this while the eye\nof Thomas Codlin was upon them, and to escape without notice was\nimpracticable.\n\nAt length, late in the day, Mr Codlin pitched the show in a convenient\nspot, and the spectators were soon in the very triumph of the scene.\nThe child, sitting down with the old man close behind it, had been\nthinking how strange it was that horses who were such fine honest\ncreatures should seem to make vagabonds of all the men they drew about\nthem, when a loud laugh at some extemporaneous witticism of Mr Short's,\nhaving allusion to the circumstances of the day, roused her from her\nmeditation and caused her to look around.\n\nIf they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment.  Short\nwas plying the quarter-staves vigorously and knocking the characters in\nthe fury of the combat against the sides of the show, the people were\nlooking on with laughing faces, and Mr Codlin had relaxed into a grim\nsmile as his roving eye detected hands going into waistcoat pockets and\ngroping secretly for sixpences.  If they were ever to get away unseen,\nthat was the very moment.  They seized it, and fled.\n\nThey made a path through booths and carriages and throngs of people,\nand never once stopped to look behind.  The bell was ringing and the\ncourse was cleared by the time they reached the ropes, but they dashed\nacross it insensible to the shouts and screeching that assailed them\nfor breaking in upon its sanctity, and creeping under the brow of the\nhill at a quick pace, made for the open fields.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\nDay after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning from some new\neffort to procure employment, Kit raised his eyes to the window of the\nlittle room he had so much commended to the child, and hoped to see\nsome indication of her presence.  His own earnest wish, coupled with\nthe assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him with the belief\nthat she would yet arrive to claim the humble shelter he had offered,\nand from the death of each day's hope another hope sprung up to live\nto-morrow.\n\n'I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh mother?' said Kit,\nlaying aside his hat with a weary air and sighing as he spoke.  'They\nhave been gone a week.  They surely couldn't stop away more than a\nweek, could they now?'\n\nThe mother shook her head, and reminded him how often he had been\ndisappointed already.\n\n'For the matter of that,' said Kit, 'you speak true and sensible\nenough, as you always do, mother.  Still, I do consider that a week is\nquite long enough for 'em to be rambling about; don't you say so?'\n\n'Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they may not come back\nfor all that.'\n\nKit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this contradiction, and\nnot the less so from having anticipated it in his own mind and knowing\nhow just it was.  But the impulse was only momentary, and the vexed\nlook became a kind one before it had crossed the room.\n\n'Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em?  You don't think\nthey've gone to sea, anyhow?'\n\n'Not gone for sailors, certainly,' returned the mother with a smile.\n'But I can't help thinking that they have gone to some foreign country.'\n\n'I say,' cried Kit with a rueful face, 'don't talk like that, mother.'\n\n'I am afraid they have, and that's the truth,' she said.  'It's the\ntalk of all the neighbours, and there are some even that know of their\nhaving been seen on board ship, and can tell you the name of the place\nthey've gone to, which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a very\nhard one.'\n\n'I don't believe it,' said Kit.  'Not a word of it.  A set of idle\nchatterboxes, how should they know!'\n\n'They may be wrong of course,' returned the mother, 'I can't tell about\nthat, though I don't think it's at all unlikely that they're in the\nright, for the talk is that the old gentleman had put by a little money\nthat nobody knew of, not even that ugly little man you talk to me\nabout--what's his name--Quilp; and that he and Miss Nell have gone to\nlive abroad where it can't be taken from them, and they will never be\ndisturbed.  That don't seem very far out of the way now, do it?'\n\nKit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admission that it did\nnot, and clambering up to the old nail took down the cage and set\nhimself to clean it and to feed the bird.  His thoughts reverting from\nthis occupation to the little old gentleman who had given him the\nshilling, he suddenly recollected that that was the very day--nay,\nnearly the very hour--at which the little old gentleman had said he\nshould be at the Notary's house again.  He no sooner remembered this,\nthan he hung up the cage with great precipitation, and hastily\nexplaining the nature of his errand, went off at full speed to the\nappointed place.\n\nIt was some two minutes after the time when he reached the spot, which\nwas a considerable distance from his home, but by great good luck the\nlittle old gentleman had not yet arrived; at least there was no\npony-chaise to be seen, and it was not likely that he had come and gone\nagain in so short a space.  Greatly relieved to find that he was not\ntoo late, Kit leant against a lamp-post to take breath, and waited the\nadvent of the pony and his charge.\n\nSure enough, before long the pony came trotting round the corner of the\nstreet, looking as obstinate as pony might, and picking his steps as if\nhe were spying about for the cleanest places, and would by no means\ndirty his feet or hurry himself inconveniently.  Behind the pony sat\nthe little old gentleman, and by the old gentleman's side sat the\nlittle old lady, carrying just such a nosegay as she had brought before.\n\nThe old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the chaise, came up the\nstreet in perfect unanimity, until they arrived within some half a\ndozen doors of the Notary's house, when the pony, deceived by a\nbrass-plate beneath a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and maintained\nby a sturdy silence, that that was the house they wanted.\n\n'Now, Sir, will you ha' the goodness to go on; this is not the place,'\nsaid the old gentleman.\n\nThe pony looked with great attention into a fire-plug which was near\nhim, and appeared to be quite absorbed in contemplating it.\n\n'Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker!' cried the old lady.  'After being so\ngood too, and coming along so well!  I am quite ashamed of him.  I\ndon't know what we are to do with him, I really don't.'\n\nThe pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and\nproperties of the fire-plug, looked into the air after his old enemies\nthe flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling his ear at\nthat moment he shook his head and whisked his tail, after which he\nappeared full of thought but quite comfortable and collected.  The old\ngentleman having exhausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to lead\nhim; whereupon the pony, perhaps because he held this to be a\nsufficient concession, perhaps because he happened to catch sight of\nthe other brass-plate, or perhaps because he was in a spiteful humour,\ndarted off with the old lady and stopped at the right house, leaving\nthe old gentleman to come panting on behind.\n\nIt was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's head, and touched\nhis hat with a smile.\n\n'Why, bless me,' cried the old gentleman, 'the lad is here!  My dear,\ndo you see?'\n\n'I said I'd be here, Sir,' said Kit, patting Whisker's neck.  'I hope\nyou've had a pleasant ride, sir.  He's a very nice little pony.'\n\n'My dear,' said the old gentleman.  'This is an uncommon lad; a good\nlad, I'm sure.'\n\n'I'm sure he is,' rejoined the old lady.  'A very good lad, and I am\nsure he is a good son.'\n\nKit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by touching his hat\nagain and blushing very much.  The old gentleman then handed the old\nlady out, and after looking at him with an approving smile, they went\ninto the house--talking about him as they went, Kit could not help\nfeeling.  Presently Mr Witherden, smelling very hard at the nosegay,\ncame to the window and looked at him, and after that Mr Abel came and\nlooked at him, and after that the old gentleman and lady came and\nlooked at him again, and after that they all came and looked at him\ntogether, which Kit, feeling very much embarrassed by, made a pretence\nof not observing.  Therefore he patted the pony more and more; and this\nliberty the pony most handsomely permitted.\n\nThe faces had not disappeared from the window many moments, when Mr\nChuckster in his official coat, and with his hat hanging on his head\njust as it happened to fall from its peg, appeared upon the pavement,\nand telling him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and he would mind\nthe chaise the while.  In giving him this direction Mr Chuckster\nremarked that he wished that he might be blessed if he could make out\nwhether he (Kit) was 'precious raw' or 'precious deep,' but intimated\nby a distrustful shake of the head, that he inclined to the latter\nopinion.\n\nKit entered the office in a great tremor, for he was not used to going\namong strange ladies and gentlemen, and the tin boxes and bundles of\ndusty papers had in his eyes an awful and venerable air.  Mr Witherden\ntoo was a bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast, and all eyes\nwere upon him, and he was very shabby.\n\n'Well, boy,' said Mr Witherden, 'you came to work out that\nshilling;--not to get another, hey?'\n\n'No indeed, sir,' replied Kit, taking courage to look up.  'I never\nthought of such a thing.'\n\n'Father alive?' said the Notary.\n\n'Dead, sir.'\n\n'Mother?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Married again--eh?'\n\nKit made answer, not without some indignation, that she was a widow\nwith three children, and that as to her marrying again, if the\ngentleman knew her he wouldn't think of such a thing.  At this reply Mr\nWitherden buried his nose in the flowers again, and whispered behind\nthe nosegay to the old gentleman that he believed the lad was as honest\na lad as need be.\n\n'Now,' said Mr Garland when they had made some further inquiries of\nhim, 'I am not going to give you anything--'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' Kit replied; and quite seriously too, for this\nannouncement seemed to free him from the suspicion which the Notary had\nhinted.\n\n'--But,' resumed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I may want to know\nsomething more about you, so tell me where you live, and I'll put it\ndown in my pocket-book.'\n\nKit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the address with his\npencil.  He had scarcely done so, when there was a great uproar in the\nstreet, and the old lady hurrying to the window cried that Whisker had\nrun away, upon which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the others\nfollowed.\n\nIt seemed that Mr Chuckster had been standing with his hands in his\npockets looking carelessly at the pony, and occasionally insulting him\nwith such admonitions as 'Stand still,'--'Be quiet,'--'Woa-a-a,' and the\nlike, which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne.  Consequently, the\npony being deterred by no considerations of duty or obedience, and not\nhaving before him the slightest fear of the human eye, had at length\nstarted off, and was at that moment rattling down the street--Mr\nChuckster, with his hat off and a pen behind his ear, hanging on in the\nrear of the chaise and making futile attempts to draw it the other way,\nto the unspeakable admiration of all beholders.  Even in running away,\nhowever, Whisker was perverse, for he had not gone very far when he\nsuddenly stopped, and before assistance could be rendered, commenced\nbacking at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone forward.  By these\nmeans Mr Chuckster was pushed and hustled to the office again, in a\nmost inglorious manner, and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and\ndiscomfiture.\n\nThe old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr Abel (whom they had\ncome to fetch) into his.  The old gentleman, after reasoning with the\npony on the extreme impropriety of his conduct, and making the best\namends in his power to Mr Chuckster, took his place also, and they\ndrove away, waving a farewell to the Notary and his clerk, and more\nthan once turning to nod kindly to Kit as he watched them from the road.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\nKit turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and the chaise, and the\nlittle old lady, and the little old gentleman, and the little young\ngentleman to boot, in thinking what could have become of his late\nmaster and his lovely grandchild, who were the fountain-head of all his\nmeditations.  Still casting about for some plausible means of\naccounting for their non-appearance, and of persuading himself that\nthey must soon return, he bent his steps towards home, intending to\nfinish the task which the sudden recollection of his contract had\ninterrupted, and then to sally forth once more to seek his fortune for\nthe day.\n\nWhen he came to the corner of the court in which he lived, lo and\nbehold there was the pony again!  Yes, there he was, looking more\nobstinate than ever; and alone in the chaise, keeping a steady watch\nupon his every wink, sat Mr Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by chance\nand seeing Kit pass by, nodded to him as though he would have nodded\nhis head off.\n\nKit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own home too, but it\nnever occurred to him for what purpose the pony might have come there,\nor where the old lady and the old gentleman had gone, until he lifted\nthe latch of the door, and walking in, found them seated in the room in\nconversation with his mother, at which unexpected sight he pulled off\nhis hat and made his best bow in some confusion.\n\n'We are here before you, you see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland smiling.\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Kit; and as he said it, he looked towards his mother\nfor an explanation of the visit.\n\n'The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear,' said she, in reply to this\nmute interrogation, 'to ask me whether you were in a good place, or in\nany place at all, and when I told him no, you were not in any, he was\nso good as to say that--'\n\n'--That we wanted a good lad in our house,' said the old gentleman and\nthe old lady both together, 'and that perhaps we might think of it, if\nwe found everything as we would wish it to be.'\n\nAs this thinking of it, plainly meant the thinking of engaging Kit, he\nimmediately partook of his mother's anxiety and fell into a great\nflutter; for the little old couple were very methodical and cautious,\nand asked so many questions that he began to be afraid there was no\nchance of his success.\n\n'You see, my good woman,' said Mrs Garland to Kit's mother, 'that it's\nnecessary to be very careful and particular in such a matter as this,\nfor we're only three in family, and are very quiet regular folks, and\nit would be a sad thing if we made any kind of mistake, and found\nthings different from what we hoped and expected.'\n\nTo this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite true, and\nquite right, and quite proper, and Heaven forbid that she should\nshrink, or have cause to shrink, from any inquiry into her character or\nthat of her son, who was a very good son though she was his mother, in\nwhich respect, she was bold to say, he took after his father, who was\nnot only a good son to HIS mother, but the best of husbands and the\nbest of fathers besides, which Kit could and would corroborate she\nknew, and so would little Jacob and the baby likewise if they were old\nenough, which unfortunately they were not, though as they didn't know\nwhat a loss they had had, perhaps it was a great deal better that they\nshould be as young as they were; and so Kit's mother wound up a long\nstory by wiping her eyes with her apron, and patting little Jacob's\nhead, who was rocking the cradle and staring with all his might at the\nstrange lady and gentleman.\n\nWhen Kit's mother had done speaking, the old lady struck in again, and\nsaid that she was quite sure she was a very honest and very respectable\nperson or she never would have expressed herself in that manner, and\nthat certainly the appearance of the children and the cleanliness of\nthe house deserved great praise and did her the utmost credit, whereat\nKit's mother dropped a curtsey and became consoled.  Then the good\nwoman entered in a long and minute account of Kit's life and history\nfrom the earliest period down to that time, not omitting to make\nmention of his miraculous fall out of a back-parlour window when an\ninfant of tender years, or his uncommon sufferings in a state of\nmeasles, which were illustrated by correct imitations of the plaintive\nmanner in which he called for toast and water, day and night, and said,\n'don't cry, mother, I shall soon be better;' for proof of which\nstatements reference was made to Mrs Green, lodger, at the\ncheesemonger's round the corner, and divers other ladies and gentlemen\nin various parts of England and Wales (and one Mr Brown who was\nsupposed to be then a corporal in the East Indies, and who could of\ncourse be found with very little trouble), within whose personal\nknowledge the circumstances had occurred.  This narration ended, Mr\nGarland put some questions to Kit respecting his qualifications and\ngeneral acquirements, while Mrs Garland noticed the children, and\nhearing from Kit's mother certain remarkable circumstances which had\nattended the birth of each, related certain other remarkable\ncircumstances which had attended the birth of her own son, Mr Abel,\nfrom which it appeared that both Kit's mother and herself had been,\nabove and beyond all other women of what condition or age soever,\npeculiarly hemmed in with perils and dangers.  Lastly, inquiry was made\ninto the nature and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and a small advance being\nmade to improve the same, he was formally hired at an annual income of\nSix Pounds, over and above his board and lodging, by Mr and Mrs\nGarland, of Abel Cottage, Finchley.\n\nIt would be difficult to say which party appeared most pleased with\nthis arrangement, the conclusion of which was hailed with nothing but\npleasant looks and cheerful smiles on both sides.  It was settled that\nKit should repair to his new abode on the next day but one, in the\nmorning; and finally, the little old couple, after bestowing a bright\nhalf-crown on little Jacob and another on the baby, took their leaves;\nbeing escorted as far as the street by their new attendant, who held\nthe obdurate pony by the bridle while they took their seats, and saw\nthem drive away with a lightened heart.\n\n'Well, mother,' said Kit, hurrying back into the house, 'I think my\nfortune's about made now.'\n\n'I should think it was indeed, Kit,' rejoined his mother.  'Six pound a\nyear!  Only think!'\n\n'Ah!' said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which the consideration\nof such a sum demanded, but grinning with delight in spite of himself.\n'There's a property!'\n\nKit drew a long breath when he had said this, and putting his hands\ndeep into his pockets as if there were one year's wages at least in\neach, looked at his mother, as though he saw through her, and down an\nimmense perspective of sovereigns beyond.\n\n'Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sundays, mother! such a\nscholar of Jacob, such a child of the baby, such a room of the one up\nstairs!  Six pound a year!'\n\n'Hem!' croaked a strange voice.  'What's that about six pound a year?\nWhat about six pound a year?'  And as the voice made this inquiry,\nDaniel Quilp walked in with Richard Swiveller at his heels.\n\n'Who said he was to have six pound a year?' said Quilp, looking sharply\nround.  'Did the old man say it, or did little Nell say it?  And what's\nhe to have it for, and where are they, eh!'\n\nThe good woman was so much alarmed by the sudden apparition of this\nunknown piece of ugliness, that she hastily caught the baby from its\ncradle and retreated into the furthest corner of the room; while little\nJacob, sitting upon his stool with his hands on his knees, looked full\nat him in a species of fascination, roaring lustily all the time.\nRichard Swiveller took an easy observation of the family over Mr Quilp's\nhead, and Quilp himself, with his hands in his pockets, smiled in an\nexquisite enjoyment of the commotion he occasioned.\n\n'Don't be frightened, mistress,' said Quilp, after a pause.  'Your son\nknows me; I don't eat babies; I don't like 'em.  It will be as well to\nstop that young screamer though, in case I should be tempted to do him\na mischief.  Holloa, sir!  Will you be quiet?'\n\nLittle Jacob stemmed the course of two tears which he was squeezing out\nof his eyes, and instantly subsided into a silent horror.\n\n'Mind you don't break out again, you villain,' said Quilp, looking\nsternly at him, 'or I'll make faces at you and throw you into fits, I\nwill.  Now you sir, why haven't you been to me as you promised?'\n\n'What should I come for?' retorted Kit.  'I hadn't any business with\nyou, no more than you had with me.'\n\n'Here, mistress,' said Quilp, turning quickly away, and appealing from\nKit to his mother.  'When did his old master come or send here last?\nIs he here now?  If not, where's he gone?'\n\n'He has not been here at all,' she replied.  'I wish we knew where they\nhave gone, for it would make my son a good deal easier in his mind, and\nme too.  If you're the gentleman named Mr Quilp, I should have thought\nyou'd have known, and so I told him only this very day.'\n\n'Humph!' muttered Quilp, evidently disappointed to believe that this\nwas true.  'That's what you tell this gentleman too, is it?'\n\n'If the gentleman comes to ask the same question, I can't tell him\nanything else, sir; and I only wish I could, for our own sakes,' was\nthe reply.\n\nQuilp glanced at Richard Swiveller, and observed that having met him on\nthe threshold, he assumed that he had come in search of some\nintelligence of the fugitives.  He supposed he was right?\n\n'Yes,' said Dick, 'that was the object of the present expedition.  I\nfancied it possible--but let us go ring fancy's knell.  I'll begin it.'\n\n'You seem disappointed,' observed Quilp.\n\n'A baffler, Sir, a baffler, that's all,' returned Dick.  'I have\nentered upon a speculation which has proved a baffler; and a Being of\nbrightness and beauty will be offered up a sacrifice at Cheggs's altar.\nThat's all, sir.'\n\nThe dwarf eyed Richard with a sarcastic smile, but Richard, who had\nbeen taking a rather strong lunch with a friend, observed him not, and\ncontinued to deplore his fate with mournful and despondent looks.\nQuilp plainly discerned that there was some secret reason for this\nvisit and his uncommon disappointment, and, in the hope that there\nmight be means of mischief lurking beneath it, resolved to worm it out.\nHe had no sooner adopted this resolution, than he conveyed as much\nhonesty into his face as it was capable of expressing, and sympathised\nwith Mr Swiveller exceedingly.\n\n'I am disappointed myself,' said Quilp, 'out of mere friendly feeling\nfor them; but you have real reasons, private reasons I have no doubt,\nfor your disappointment, and therefore it comes heavier than mine.'\n\n'Why, of course it does,' Dick observed, testily.\n\n'Upon my word, I'm very sorry, very sorry.  I'm rather cast down\nmyself.  As we are companions in adversity, shall we be companions in\nthe surest way of forgetting it?  If you had no particular business,\nnow, to lead you in another direction,' urged Quilp, plucking him by\nthe sleeve and looking slyly up into his face out of the corners of his\neyes, 'there is a house by the water-side where they have some of the\nnoblest Schiedam--reputed to be smuggled, but that's between\nourselves--that can be got in all the world.  The landlord knows me.\nThere's a little summer-house overlooking the river, where we might\ntake a glass of this delicious liquor with a whiff of the best\ntobacco--it's in this case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain\nknowledge--and be perfectly snug and happy, could we possibly contrive\nit; or is there any very particular engagement that peremptorily takes\nyou another way, Mr Swiveller, eh?'\n\nAs the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a compliant smile, and his\nbrows slowly unbent.  By the time he had finished, Dick was looking\ndown at Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking up at him,\nand there remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house\nin question.  This they did, straightway.  The moment their backs were\nturned, little Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from the point\nwhere Quilp had frozen him.\n\nThe summer-house of which Mr Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden box,\nrotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and threatened\nto slide down into it.  The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy\nbuilding, sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by great\nbars of wood which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up\nso long that even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and\nof a windy night might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole\nfabric were about to come toppling down.  The house stood--if anything\nso old and feeble could be said to stand--on a piece of waste ground,\nblighted with the unwholesome smoke of factory chimneys, and echoing\nthe clank of iron wheels and rush of troubled water.  Its internal\naccommodations amply fulfilled the promise of the outside.  The rooms\nwere low and damp, the clammy walls were pierced with chinks and holes,\nthe rotten floors had sunk from their level, the very beams started\nfrom their places and warned the timid stranger from their\nneighbourhood.\n\nTo this inviting spot, entreating him to observe its beauties as they\npassed along, Mr Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table of the\nsummer-house, scored deep with many a gallows and initial letter, there\nsoon appeared a wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor.  Drawing it off\ninto the glasses with the skill of a practised hand, and mixing it with\nabout a third part of water, Mr Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller his\nportion, and lighting his pipe from an end of a candle in a very old\nand battered lantern, drew himself together upon a seat and puffed away.\n\n'Is it good?' said Quilp, as Richard Swiveller smacked his lips, 'is it\nstrong and fiery?  Does it make you wink, and choke, and your eyes\nwater, and your breath come short--does it?'\n\n'Does it?' cried Dick, throwing away part of the contents of his glass,\nand filling it up with water, 'why, man, you don't mean to tell me that\nyou drink such fire as this?'\n\n'No!' rejoined Quilp, 'Not drink it!  Look here.  And here.  And here\nagain.  Not drink it!'\n\nAs he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank three small glassfuls of\nthe raw spirit, and then with a horrible grimace took a great many\npulls at his pipe, and swallowing the smoke, discharged it in a heavy\ncloud from his nose.  This feat accomplished he drew himself together\nin his former position, and laughed excessively.\n\n'Give us a toast!' cried Quilp, rattling on the table in a dexterous\nmanner with his fist and elbow alternately, in a kind of tune, 'a\nwoman, a beauty.  Let's have a beauty for our toast and empty our\nglasses to the last drop.  Her name, come!'\n\n'If you want a name,' said Dick, 'here's Sophy Wackles.'\n\n'Sophy Wackles,' screamed the dwarf, 'Miss Sophy Wackles that is--Mrs\nRichard Swiveller that shall be--that shall be--ha ha ha!'\n\n'Ah!' said Dick, 'you might have said that a few weeks ago, but it\nwon't do now, my buck.  Immolating herself upon the shrine of Cheggs--'\n\n'Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs's ears off,' rejoined Quilp.  'I won't hear\nof Cheggs.  Her name is Swiveller or nothing.  I'll drink her health\nagain, and her father's, and her mother's; and to all her sisters and\nbrothers--the glorious family of the Wackleses--all the Wackleses in\none glass--down with it to the dregs!'\n\n'Well,' said Richard Swiveller, stopping short in the act of raising\nthe glass to his lips and looking at the dwarf in a species of stupor\nas he flourished his arms and legs about: 'you're a jolly fellow, but\nof all the jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you have the queerest\nand most extraordinary way with you, upon my life you have.'\n\nThis candid declaration tended rather to increase than restrain Mr\nQuilp's eccentricities, and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see him in\nsuch a roystering vein, and drinking not a little himself, for\ncompany--began imperceptibly to become more companionable and\nconfiding, so that, being judiciously led on by Mr Quilp, he grew at\nlast very confiding indeed.  Having once got him into this mood, and\nknowing now the key-note to strike whenever he was at a loss, Daniel\nQuilp's task was comparatively an easy one, and he was soon in\npossession of the whole details of the scheme contrived between the\neasy Dick and his more designing friend.\n\n'Stop!' said Quilp.  'That's the thing, that's the thing.  It can be\nbrought about, it shall be brought about.  There's my hand upon it; I\nam your friend from this minute.'\n\n'What! do you think there's still a chance?' inquired Dick, in surprise\nat this encouragement.\n\n'A chance!' echoed the dwarf, 'a certainty!  Sophy Wackles may become a\nCheggs or anything else she likes, but not a Swiveller.  Oh you lucky\ndog!  He's richer than any Jew alive; you're a made man.  I see in you\nnow nothing but Nelly's husband, rolling in gold and silver.  I'll help\nyou.  It shall be done.  Mind my words, it shall be done.'\n\n'But how?' said Dick.\n\n'There's plenty of time,' rejoined the dwarf, 'and it shall be done.\nWe'll sit down and talk it over again all the way through.  Fill your\nglass while I'm gone.  I shall be back directly--directly.'\n\nWith these hasty words, Daniel Quilp withdrew into a dismantled skittle-\nground behind the public-house, and, throwing himself upon the ground\nactually screamed and rolled about in uncontrollable delight.\n\n'Here's sport!' he cried, 'sport ready to my hand, all invented and\narranged, and only to be enjoyed.  It was this shallow-pated fellow who\nmade my bones ache t'other day, was it?  It was his friend and\nfellow-plotter, Mr Trent, that once made eyes at Mrs Quilp, and leered\nand looked, was it?  After labouring for two or three years in their\nprecious scheme, to find that they've got a beggar at last, and one of\nthem tied for life.  Ha ha ha!  He shall marry Nell.  He shall have\nher, and I'll be the first man, when the knot's tied hard and fast, to\ntell 'em what they've gained and what I've helped 'em to.  Here will be\na clearing of old scores, here will be a time to remind 'em what a\ncapital friend I was, and how I helped them to the heiress.  Ha ha ha!'\n\nIn the height of his ecstasy, Mr Quilp had like to have met with a\ndisagreeable check, for rolling very near a broken dog-kennel, there\nleapt forth a large fierce dog, who, but that his chain was of the\nshortest, would have given him a disagreeable salute.  As it was, the\ndwarf remained upon his back in perfect safety, taunting the dog with\nhideous faces, and triumphing over him in his inability to advance\nanother inch, though there were not a couple of feet between them.\n\n'Why don't you come and bite me, why don't you come and tear me to\npieces, you coward?' said Quilp, hissing and worrying the animal till\nhe was nearly mad.  'You're afraid, you bully, you're afraid, you know\nyou are.'\n\nThe dog tore and strained at his chain with starting eyes and furious\nbark, but there the dwarf lay, snapping his fingers with gestures of\ndefiance and contempt.  When he had sufficiently recovered from his\ndelight, he rose, and with his arms a-kimbo, achieved a kind of\ndemon-dance round the kennel, just without the limits of the chain,\ndriving the dog quite wild.  Having by this means composed his spirits\nand put himself in a pleasant train, he returned to his unsuspicious\ncompanion, whom he found looking at the tide with exceeding gravity,\nand thinking of that same gold and silver which Mr Quilp had mentioned.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\nThe remainder of that day and the whole of the next were a busy time\nfor the Nubbles family, to whom everything connected with Kit's outfit\nand departure was matter of as great moment as if he had been about to\npenetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take a cruise round the\nworld.  It would be difficult to suppose that there ever was a box\nwhich was opened and shut so many times within four-and-twenty hours,\nas that which contained his wardrobe and necessaries; and certainly\nthere never was one which to two small eyes presented such a mine of\nclothing, as this mighty chest with its three shirts and proportionate\nallowance of stockings and pocket-handkerchiefs, disclosed to the\nastonished vision of little Jacob.  At last it was conveyed to the\ncarrier's, at whose house at Finchley Kit was to find it next day; and\nthe box being gone, there remained but two questions for consideration:\nfirstly, whether the carrier would lose, or dishonestly feign to lose,\nthe box upon the road; secondly, whether Kit's mother perfectly\nunderstood how to take care of herself in the absence of her son.\n\n'I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really losing it, but\ncarriers are under great temptation to pretend they lose things, no\ndoubt,' said Mrs Nubbles apprehensively, in reference to the first\npoint.\n\n'No doubt about it,' returned Kit, with a serious look; 'upon my word,\nmother, I don't think it was right to trust it to itself.  Somebody\nought to have gone with it, I'm afraid.'\n\n'We can't help it now,' said his mother; 'but it was foolish and wrong.\nPeople oughtn't to be tempted.'\n\nKit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a carrier any more,\nsave with an empty box; and having formed this Christian determination,\nhe turned his thoughts to the second question.\n\n'_You_ know you must keep up your spirits, mother, and not be lonesome\nbecause I'm not at home.  I shall very often be able to look in when I\ncome into town I dare say, and I shall send you a letter sometimes, and\nwhen the quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of course; and then\nsee if we don't take little Jacob to the play, and let him know what\noysters means.'\n\n'I hope plays mayn't be sinful, Kit, but I'm a'most afraid,' said Mrs\nNubbles.\n\n'I know who has been putting that in your head,' rejoined her son\ndisconsolately; 'that's Little Bethel again.  Now I say, mother, pray\ndon't take to going there regularly, for if I was to see your\ngood-humoured face that has always made home cheerful, turned into a\ngrievous one, and the baby trained to look grievous too, and to call\nitself a young sinner (bless its heart) and a child of the devil (which\nis calling its dead father names); if I was to see this, and see little\nJacob looking grievous likewise, I should so take it to heart that I'm\nsure I should go and list for a soldier, and run my head on purpose\nagainst the first cannon-ball I saw coming my way.'\n\n'Oh, Kit, don't talk like that.'\n\n'I would, indeed, mother, and unless you want to make me feel very\nwretched and uncomfortable, you'll keep that bow on your bonnet, which\nyou'd more than half a mind to pull off last week.  Can you suppose\nthere's any harm in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our\npoor circumstances will permit?  Do I see anything in the way I'm made,\nwhich calls upon me to be a snivelling, solemn, whispering chap,\nsneaking about as if I couldn't help it, and expressing myself in a\nmost unpleasant snuffle?  on the contrary, don't I see every reason why\nI shouldn't?  just hear this!  Ha ha ha!  An't that as nat'ral as\nwalking, and as good for the health?  Ha ha ha!  An't that as nat'ral\nas a sheep's bleating, or a pig's grunting, or a horse's neighing, or a\nbird's singing?  Ha ha ha!  Isn't it, mother?'\n\nThere was something contagious in Kit's laugh, for his mother, who had\nlooked grave before, first subsided into a smile, and then fell to\njoining in it heartily, which occasioned Kit to say that he knew it was\nnatural, and to laugh the more.  Kit and his mother, laughing together\nin a pretty loud key, woke the baby, who, finding that there was\nsomething very jovial and agreeable in progress, was no sooner in its\nmother's arms than it began to kick and laugh, most vigorously.  This\nnew illustration of his argument so tickled Kit, that he fell backward\nin his chair in a state of exhaustion, pointing at the baby and shaking\nhis sides till he rocked again.  After recovering twice or thrice, and\nas often relapsing, he wiped his eyes and said grace; and a very\ncheerful meal their scanty supper was.\n\nWith more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many young gentlemen who\nstart upon their travels, and leave well-stocked homes behind them,\nwould deem within the bounds of probability (if matter so low could be\nherein set down), Kit left the house at an early hour next morning, and\nset out to walk to Finchley; feeling a sufficient pride in his\nappearance to have warranted his excommunication from Little Bethel\nfrom that time forth, if he had ever been one of that mournful\ncongregation.\n\nLest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit was clad, it may\nbe briefly remarked that he wore no livery, but was dressed in a coat\nof pepper-and-salt with waistcoat of canary colour, and nether garments\nof iron-grey; besides these glories, he shone in the lustre of a new\npair of boots and an extremely stiff and shiny hat, which on being\nstruck anywhere with the knuckles, sounded like a drum.  And in this\nattire, rather wondering that he attracted so little attention, and\nattributing the circumstance to the insensibility of those who got up\nearly, he made his way towards Abel Cottage.\n\nWithout encountering any more remarkable adventure on the road, than\nmeeting a lad in a brimless hat, the exact counterpart of his old one,\non whom he bestowed half the sixpence he possessed, Kit arrived in\ncourse of time at the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honour of\nhuman nature, he found the box in safety.  Receiving from the wife of\nthis immaculate man, a direction to Mr Garland's, he took the box upon\nhis shoulder and repaired thither directly.\n\nTo be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a thatched roof and\nlittle spires at the gable-ends, and pieces of stained glass in some of\nthe windows, almost as large as pocket-books.  On one side of the house\nwas a little stable, just the size for the pony, with a little room\nover it, just the size for Kit.  White curtains were fluttering, and\nbirds in cages that looked as bright as if they were made of gold, were\nsinging at the windows; plants were arranged on either side of the\npath, and clustered about the door; and the garden was bright with\nflowers in full bloom, which shed a sweet odour all round, and had a\ncharming and elegant appearance.  Everything within the house and\nwithout, seemed to be the perfection of neatness and order.  In the\ngarden there was not a weed to be seen, and to judge from some dapper\ngardening-tools, a basket, and a pair of gloves which were lying in one\nof the walks, old Mr Garland had been at work in it that very morning.\n\nKit looked about him, and admired, and looked again, and this a great\nmany times before he could make up his mind to turn his head another\nway and ring the bell.  There was abundance of time to look about him\nagain though, when he had rung it, for nobody came, so after ringing it\ntwice or thrice he sat down upon his box, and waited.\n\nHe rang the bell a great many times, and yet nobody came.  But at last,\nas he was sitting upon the box thinking about giants' castles, and\nprincesses tied up to pegs by the hair of their heads, and dragons\nbursting out from behind gates, and other incidents of the like nature,\ncommon in story-books to youths of low degree on their first visit to\nstrange houses, the door was gently opened, and a little servant-girl,\nvery tidy, modest, and demure, but very pretty too, appeared.\n\n'I suppose you're Christopher, sir,' said the servant-girl.\n\nKit got off the box, and said yes, he was.\n\n'I'm afraid you've rung a good many times perhaps,' she rejoined, 'but\nwe couldn't hear you, because we've been catching the pony.'\n\nKit rather wondered what this meant, but as he couldn't stop there,\nasking questions, he shouldered the box again and followed the girl\ninto the hall, where through a back-door he descried Mr Garland leading\nWhisker in triumph up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as\nhe afterwards learned) dodged the family round a small paddock in the\nrear, for one hour and three quarters.\n\nThe old gentleman received him very kindly and so did the old lady,\nwhose previous good opinion of him was greatly enhanced by his wiping\nhis boots on the mat until the soles of his feet burnt again.  He was\nthen taken into the parlour to be inspected in his new clothes; and\nwhen he had been surveyed several times, and had afforded by his\nappearance unlimited satisfaction, he was taken into the stable (where\nthe pony received him with uncommon complaisance); and thence into the\nlittle chamber he had already observed, which was very clean and\ncomfortable: and thence into the garden, in which the old gentleman\ntold him he would be taught to employ himself, and where he told him,\nbesides, what great things he meant to do to make him comfortable, and\nhappy, if he found he deserved it.  All these kindnesses, Kit\nacknowledged with various expressions of gratitude, and so many touches\nof the new hat, that the brim suffered considerably.  When the old\ngentleman had said all he had to say in the way of promise and advice,\nand Kit had said all he had to say in the way of assurance and\nthankfulness, he was handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning\nthe little servant-girl (whose name was Barbara) instructed her to take\nhim down stairs and give him something to eat and drink, after his walk.\n\nDown stairs, therefore, Kit went; and at the bottom of the stairs there\nwas such a kitchen as was never before seen or heard of out of a\ntoy-shop window, with everything in it as bright and glowing, and as\nprecisely ordered too, as Barbara herself.  And in this kitchen, Kit\nsat himself down at a table as white as a tablecloth, to eat cold meat,\nand drink small ale, and use his knife and fork the more awkwardly,\nbecause there was an unknown Barbara looking on and observing him.\n\nIt did not appear, however, that there was anything remarkably\ntremendous about this strange Barbara, who having lived a very quiet\nlife, blushed very much and was quite as embarrassed and uncertain what\nshe ought to say or do, as Kit could possibly be.  When he had sat for\nsome little time, attentive to the ticking of the sober clock, he\nventured to glance curiously at the dresser, and there, among the\nplates and dishes, were Barbara's little work-box with a sliding lid to\nshut in the balls of cotton, and Barbara's prayer-book, and Barbara's\nhymn-book, and Barbara's Bible.  Barbara's little looking-glass hung in\na good light near the window, and Barbara's bonnet was on a nail behind\nthe door.  From all these mute signs and tokens of her presence, he\nnaturally glanced at Barbara herself, who sat as mute as they, shelling\npeas into a dish; and just when Kit was looking at her eyelashes and\nwondering--quite in the simplicity of his heart--what colour her eyes\nmight be, it perversely happened that Barbara raised her head a little\nto look at him, when both pair of eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit\nleant over his plate, and Barbara over her pea-shells, each in extreme\nconfusion at having been detected by the other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\nMr Richard Swiveller wending homeward from the Wilderness (for such was\nthe appropriate name of Quilp's choice retreat), after a sinuous and\ncorkscrew fashion, with many checks and stumbles; after stopping\nsuddenly and staring about him, then as suddenly running forward for a\nfew paces, and as suddenly halting again and shaking his head; doing\neverything with a jerk and nothing by premeditation;--Mr Richard\nSwiveller wending his way homeward after this fashion, which is\nconsidered by evil-minded men to be symbolical of intoxication, and is\nnot held by such persons to denote that state of deep wisdom and\nreflection in which the actor knows himself to be, began to think that\npossibly he had misplaced his confidence and that the dwarf might not\nbe precisely the sort of person to whom to entrust a secret of such\ndelicacy and importance.  And being led and tempted on by this\nremorseful thought into a condition which the evil-minded class before\nreferred to would term the maudlin state or stage of drunkenness, it\noccurred to Mr Swiveller to cast his hat upon the ground, and moan,\ncrying aloud that he was an unhappy orphan, and that if he had not been\nan unhappy orphan things had never come to this.\n\n'Left an infant by my parents, at an early age,' said Mr Swiveller,\nbewailing his hard lot, 'cast upon the world in my tenderest period,\nand thrown upon the mercies of a deluding dwarf, who can wonder at my\nweakness!  Here's a miserable orphan for you.  Here,' said Mr Swiveller\nraising his voice to a high pitch, and looking sleepily round, 'is a\nmiserable orphan!'\n\n'Then,' said somebody hard by, 'let me be a father to you.'\n\nMr Swiveller swayed himself to and fro to preserve his balance, and,\nlooking into a kind of haze which seemed to surround him, at last\nperceived two eyes dimly twinkling through the mist, which he observed\nafter a short time were in the neighbourhood of a nose and mouth.\nCasting his eyes down towards that quarter in which, with reference to\na man's face, his legs are usually to be found, he observed that the\nface had a body attached; and when he looked more intently he was\nsatisfied that the person was Mr Quilp, who indeed had been in his\ncompany all the time, but whom he had some vague idea of having left a\nmile or two behind.\n\n'You have deceived an orphan, Sir,' said Mr Swiveller solemnly.'\n\n'I!  I'm a second father to you,' replied Quilp.\n\n'You my father, Sir!' retorted Dick.  'Being all right myself, Sir, I\nrequest to be left alone--instantly, Sir.'\n\n'What a funny fellow you are!' cried Quilp.\n\n'Go, Sir,' returned Dick, leaning against a post and waving his hand.\n'Go, deceiver, go, some day, Sir, p'r'aps you'll waken, from pleasure's\ndream to know, the grief of orphans forsaken.  Will you go, Sir?'\n\nThe dwarf taking no heed of this adjuration, Mr Swiveller advanced with\nthe view of inflicting upon him condign chastisement.  But forgetting\nhis purpose or changing his mind before he came close to him, he seized\nhis hand and vowed eternal friendship, declaring with an agreeable\nfrankness that from that time forth they were brothers in everything\nbut personal appearance.  Then he told his secret over again, with the\naddition of being pathetic on the subject of Miss Wackles, who, he gave\nMr Quilp to understand, was the occasion of any slight incoherency he\nmight observe in his speech at that moment, which was attributable\nsolely to the strength of his affection and not to rosy wine or other\nfermented liquor.  And then they went on arm-in-arm, very lovingly\ntogether.\n\n'I'm as sharp,' said Quilp to him, at parting, 'as sharp as a ferret,\nand as cunning as a weazel.  You bring Trent to me; assure him that I'm\nhis friend though I fear he a little distrusts me (I don't know why, I\nhave not deserved it); and you've both of you made your fortunes--in\nperspective.'\n\n'That's the worst of it,' returned Dick.  'These fortunes in\nperspective look such a long way off.'\n\n'But they look smaller than they really are, on that account,' said\nQuilp, pressing his arm.  'You'll have no conception of the value of\nyour prize until you draw close to it.  Mark that.'\n\n'D'ye think not?' said Dick.\n\n'Aye, I do; and I am certain of what I say, that's better,' returned\nthe dwarf.  'You bring Trent to me.  Tell him I am his friend and\nyours--why shouldn't I be?'\n\n'There's no reason why you shouldn't, certainly,' replied Dick, 'and\nperhaps there are a great many why you should--at least there would be\nnothing strange in your wanting to be my friend, if you were a choice\nspirit, but then you know you're not a choice spirit.'\n\n'I not a choice spirit?' cried Quilp.\n\n'Devil a bit, sir,' returned Dick.  'A man of your appearance couldn't\nbe.  If you're any spirit at all, sir, you're an evil spirit.  Choice\nspirits,' added Dick, smiting himself on the breast, 'are quite a\ndifferent looking sort of people, you may take your oath of that, sir.'\n\nQuilp glanced at his free-spoken friend with a mingled expression of\ncunning and dislike, and wringing his hand almost at the same moment,\ndeclared that he was an uncommon character and had his warmest esteem.\nWith that they parted; Mr Swiveller to make the best of his way home\nand sleep himself sober; and Quilp to cogitate upon the discovery he\nhad made, and exult in the prospect of the rich field of enjoyment and\nreprisal it opened to him.\n\nIt was not without great reluctance and misgiving that Mr Swiveller,\nnext morning, his head racked by the fumes of the renowned Schiedam,\nrepaired to the lodging of his friend Trent (which was in the roof of\nan old house in an old ghostly inn), and recounted by very slow degrees\nwhat had yesterday taken place between him and Quilp.  Nor was it\nwithout great surprise and much speculation on Quilp's probable\nmotives, nor without many bitter comments on Dick Swiveller's folly,\nthat his friend received the tale.\n\n'I don't defend myself, Fred,' said the penitent Richard; 'but the\nfellow has such a queer way with him and is such an artful dog, that\nfirst of all he set me upon thinking whether there was any harm in\ntelling him, and while I was thinking, screwed it out of me.  If you\nhad seen him drink and smoke, as I did, you couldn't have kept anything\nfrom him.  He's a Salamander you know, that's what he is.'\n\nWithout inquiring whether Salamanders were of necessity good\nconfidential agents, or whether a fire-proof man was as a matter of\ncourse trustworthy, Frederick Trent threw himself into a chair, and,\nburying his head in his hands, endeavoured to fathom the motives which\nhad led Quilp to insinuate himself into Richard Swiveller's\nconfidence;--for that the disclosure was of his seeking, and had not\nbeen spontaneously revealed by Dick, was sufficiently plain from\nQuilp's seeking his company and enticing him away.\n\nThe dwarf had twice encountered him when he was endeavouring to obtain\nintelligence of the fugitives.  This, perhaps, as he had not shown any\nprevious anxiety about them, was enough to awaken suspicion in the\nbreast of a creature so jealous and distrustful by nature, setting\naside any additional impulse to curiosity that he might have derived\nfrom Dick's incautious manner.  But knowing the scheme they had\nplanned, why should he offer to assist it?  This was a question more\ndifficult of solution; but as knaves generally overreach themselves by\nimputing their own designs to others, the idea immediately presented\nitself that some circumstances of irritation between Quilp and the old\nman, arising out of their secret transactions and not unconnected\nperhaps with his sudden disappearance, now rendered the former desirous\nof revenging himself upon him by seeking to entrap the sole object of\nhis love and anxiety into a connexion of which he knew he had a dread\nand hatred.  As Frederick Trent himself, utterly regardless of his\nsister, had this object at heart, only second to the hope of gain, it\nseemed to him the more likely to be Quilp's main principle of action.\nOnce investing the dwarf with a design of his own in abetting them,\nwhich the attainment of their purpose would serve, it was easy to\nbelieve him sincere and hearty in the cause; and as there could be no\ndoubt of his proving a powerful and useful auxiliary, Trent determined\nto accept his invitation and go to his house that night, and if what he\nsaid and did confirmed him in the impression he had formed, to let him\nshare the labour of their plan, but not the profit.\n\nHaving revolved these things in his mind and arrived at this\nconclusion, he communicated to Mr Swiveller as much of his meditations\nas he thought proper (Dick would have been perfectly satisfied with\nless), and giving him the day to recover himself from his late\nsalamandering, accompanied him at evening to Mr Quilp's house.\n\nMighty glad Mr Quilp was to see them, or mightily glad he seemed to be;\nand fearfully polite Mr Quilp was to Mrs Quilp and Mrs Jiniwin; and\nvery sharp was the look he cast on his wife to observe how she was\naffected by the recognition of young Trent.  Mrs Quilp was as innocent\nas her own mother of any emotion, painful or pleasant, which the sight\nof him awakened, but as her husband's glance made her timid and\nconfused, and uncertain what to do or what was required of her, Mr\nQuilp did not fail to assign her embarrassment to the cause he had in\nhis mind, and while he chuckled at his penetration was secretly\nexasperated by his jealousy.\n\nNothing of this appeared, however.  On the contrary, Mr Quilp was all\nblandness and suavity, and presided over the case-bottle of rum with\nextraordinary open-heartedness.\n\n'Why, let me see,' said Quilp.  'It must be a matter of nearly two\nyears since we were first acquainted.'\n\n'Nearer three, I think,' said Trent.\n\n'Nearer three!' cried Quilp.  'How fast time flies.  Does it seem as\nlong as that to you, Mrs Quilp?'\n\n'Yes, I think it seems full three years, Quilp,' was the unfortunate\nreply.\n\n'Oh indeed, ma'am,' thought Quilp, 'you have been pining, have you?\nVery good, ma'am.'\n\n'It seems to me but yesterday that you went out to Demerara in the Mary\nAnne,' said Quilp; 'but yesterday, I declare.  Well, I like a little\nwildness.  I was wild myself once.'\n\nMr Quilp accompanied this admission with such an awful wink, indicative\nof old rovings and backslidings, that Mrs Jiniwin was indignant, and\ncould not forbear from remarking under her breath that he might at\nleast put off his confessions until his wife was absent; for which act\nof boldness and insubordination Mr Quilp first stared her out of\ncountenance and then drank her health ceremoniously.\n\n'I thought you'd come back directly, Fred.  I always thought that,'\nsaid Quilp setting down his glass.  'And when the Mary Anne returned\nwith you on board, instead of a letter to say what a contrite heart you\nhad, and how happy you were in the situation that had been provided for\nyou, I was amused--exceedingly amused.  Ha ha ha!'\n\nThe young man smiled, but not as though the theme was the most\nagreeable one that could have been selected for his entertainment; and\nfor that reason Quilp pursued it.\n\n'I always will say,' he resumed, 'that when a rich relation having two\nyoung people--sisters or brothers, or brother and sister--dependent on\nhim, attaches himself exclusively to one, and casts off the other, he\ndoes wrong.'\n\nThe young man made a movement of impatience, but Quilp went on as\ncalmly as if he were discussing some abstract question in which nobody\npresent had the slightest personal interest.\n\n'It's very true,' said Quilp, 'that your grandfather urged repeated\nforgiveness, ingratitude, riot, and extravagance, and all that; but as\nI told him \"these are common faults.\"  \"But he's a scoundrel,\" said he.\n\"Granting that,\" said I (for the sake of argument of course), \"a great\nmany young noblemen and gentlemen are scoundrels too!\" But he wouldn't\nbe convinced.'\n\n'I wonder at that, Mr Quilp,' said the young man sarcastically.\n\n'Well, so did I at the time,' returned Quilp, 'but he was always\nobstinate.  He was in a manner a friend of mine, but he was always\nobstinate and wrong-headed.  Little Nell is a nice girl, a charming\ngirl, but you're her brother, Frederick.  You're her brother after all;\nas you told him the last time you met, he can't alter that.'\n\n'He would if he could, confound him for that and all other kindnesses,'\nsaid the young man impatiently.  'But nothing can come of this subject\nnow, and let us have done with it in the Devil's name.'\n\n'Agreed,' returned Quilp, 'agreed on my part readily.  Why have I\nalluded to it?  Just to show you, Frederick, that I have always stood\nyour friend.  You little knew who was your friend, and who your foe;\nnow did you?  You thought I was against you, and so there has been a\ncoolness between us; but it was all on your side, entirely on your\nside.  Let's shake hands again, Fred.'\n\nWith his head sunk down between his shoulders, and a hideous grin\nover-spreading his face, the dwarf stood up and stretched his short arm\nacross the table.  After a moment's hesitation, the young man stretched\nout his to meet it; Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip that for the\nmoment stopped the current of the blood within them, and pressing his\nother hand upon his lip and frowning towards the unsuspicious Richard,\nreleased them and sat down.\n\nThis action was not lost upon Trent, who, knowing that Richard\nSwiveller was a mere tool in his hands and knew no more of his designs\nthan he thought proper to communicate, saw that the dwarf perfectly\nunderstood their relative position, and fully entered into the\ncharacter of his friend.  It is something to be appreciated, even in\nknavery.  This silent homage to his superior abilities, no less than a\nsense of the power with which the dwarf's quick perception had already\ninvested him, inclined the young man towards that ugly worthy, and\ndetermined him to profit by his aid.\n\nIt being now Mr Quilp's cue to change the subject with all convenient\nexpedition, lest Richard Swiveller in his heedlessness should reveal\nanything which it was inexpedient for the women to know, he proposed a\ngame at four-handed cribbage, and partners being cut for, Mrs Quilp\nfell to Frederick Trent, and Dick himself to Quilp.  Mrs Jiniwin being\nvery fond of cards was carefully excluded by her son-in-law from any\nparticipation in the game, and had assigned to her the duty of\noccasionally replenishing the glasses from the case-bottle; Mr Quilp\nfrom that moment keeping one eye constantly upon her, lest she should\nby any means procure a taste of the same, and thereby tantalising the\nwretched old lady (who was as much attached to the case-bottle as the\ncards) in a double degree and most ingenious manner.\n\nBut it was not to Mrs Jiniwin alone that Mr Quilp's attention was\nrestricted, as several other matters required his constant vigilance.\nAmong his various eccentric habits he had a humorous one of always\ncheating at cards, which rendered necessary on his part, not only a\nclose observance of the game, and a sleight-of-hand in counting and\nscoring, but also involved the constant correction, by looks, and\nfrowns, and kicks under the table, of Richard Swiveller, who being\nbewildered by the rapidity with which his cards were told, and the rate\nat which the pegs travelled down the board, could not be prevented from\nsometimes expressing his surprise and incredulity.  Mrs Quilp too was\nthe partner of young Trent, and for every look that passed between\nthem, and every word they spoke, and every card they played, the dwarf\nhad eyes and ears; not occupied alone with what was passing above the\ntable, but with signals that might be exchanging beneath it, which he\nlaid all kinds of traps to detect; besides often treading on his wife's\ntoes to see whether she cried out or remained silent under the\ninfliction, in which latter case it would have been quite clear that\nTrent had been treading on her toes before.  Yet, in the most of all\nthese distractions, the one eye was upon the old lady always, and if\nshe so much as stealthily advanced a tea-spoon towards a neighbouring\nglass (which she often did), for the purpose of abstracting but one sup\nof its sweet contents, Quilp's hand would overset it in the very moment\nof her triumph, and Quilp's mocking voice implore her to regard her\nprecious health.  And in any one of these his many cares, from first to\nlast, Quilp never flagged nor faltered.\n\nAt length, when they had played a great many rubbers and drawn pretty\nfreely upon the case-bottle, Mr Quilp warned his lady to retire to\nrest, and that submissive wife complying, and being followed by her\nindignant mother, Mr Swiveller fell asleep.  The dwarf beckoning his\nremaining companion to the other end of the room, held a short\nconference with him in whispers.\n\n'It's as well not to say more than one can help before our worthy\nfriend,' said Quilp, making a grimace towards the slumbering Dick.  'Is\nit a bargain between us, Fred?  Shall he marry little rosy Nell\nby-and-by?'\n\n'You have some end of your own to answer, of course,' returned the\nother.\n\n'Of course I have, dear Fred,' said Quilp, grinning to think how little\nhe suspected what the real end was.  'It's retaliation perhaps; perhaps\nwhim.  I have influence, Fred, to help or oppose.  Which way shall I\nuse it?  There are a pair of scales, and it goes into one.'\n\n'Throw it into mine then,' said Trent.\n\n'It's done, Fred,' rejoined Quilp, stretching out his clenched hand and\nopening it as if he had let some weight fall out.  'It's in the scale\nfrom this time, and turns it, Fred.  Mind that.'\n\n'Where have they gone?' asked Trent.\n\nQuilp shook his head, and said that point remained to be discovered,\nwhich it might be, easily.  When it was, they would begin their\npreliminary advances.  He would visit the old man, or even Richard\nSwiveller might visit him, and by affecting a deep concern in his\nbehalf, and imploring him to settle in some worthy home, lead to the\nchild's remembering him with gratitude and favour.  Once impressed to\nthis extent, it would be easy, he said, to win her in a year or two,\nfor she supposed the old man to be poor, as it was a part of his\njealous policy (in common with many other misers) to feign to be so, to\nthose about him.\n\n'He has feigned it often enough to me, of late,' said Trent.\n\n'Oh! and to me too!' replied the dwarf.  'Which is more extraordinary,\nas I know how rich he really is.'\n\n'I suppose you should,' said Trent.\n\n'I think I should indeed,' rejoined the dwarf; and in that, at least,\nhe spoke the truth.\n\nAfter a few more whispered words, they returned to the table, and the\nyoung man rousing Richard Swiveller informed him that he was waiting to\ndepart.  This was welcome news to Dick, who started up directly.  After\na few words of confidence in the result of their project had been\nexchanged, they bade the grinning Quilp good night.\n\nQuilp crept to the window as they passed in the street below, and\nlistened.  Trent was pronouncing an encomium upon his wife, and they\nwere both wondering by what enchantment she had been brought to marry\nsuch a misshapen wretch as he.  The dwarf after watching their\nretreating shadows with a wider grin than his face had yet displayed,\nstole softly in the dark to bed.\n\nIn this hatching of their scheme, neither Trent nor Quilp had had one\nthought about the happiness or misery of poor innocent Nell.  It would\nhave been strange if the careless profligate, who was the butt of both,\nhad been harassed by any such consideration; for his high opinion of\nhis own merits and deserts rendered the project rather a laudable one\nthan otherwise; and if he had been visited by so unwonted a guest as\nreflection, he would--being a brute only in the gratification of his\nappetites--have soothed his conscience with the plea that he did not\nmean to beat or kill his wife, and would therefore, after all said and\ndone, be a very tolerable, average husband.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\nIt was not until they were quite exhausted and could no longer maintain\nthe pace at which they had fled from the race-ground, that the old man\nand the child ventured to stop, and sit down to rest upon the borders\nof a little wood.  Here, though the course was hidden from their view,\nthey could yet faintly distinguish the noise of distant shouts, the hum\nof voices, and the beating of drums.  Climbing the eminence which lay\nbetween them and the spot they had left, the child could even discern\nthe fluttering flags and white tops of booths; but no person was\napproaching towards them, and their resting-place was solitary and\nstill.\n\nSome time elapsed before she could reassure her trembling companion, or\nrestore him to a state of moderate tranquillity.  His disordered\nimagination represented to him a crowd of persons stealing towards them\nbeneath the cover of the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peeping\nfrom the boughs of every rustling tree.  He was haunted by\napprehensions of being led captive to some gloomy place where he would\nbe chained and scourged, and worse than all, where Nell could never\ncome to see him, save through iron bars and gratings in the wall.  His\nterrors affected the child.  Separation from her grandfather was the\ngreatest evil she could dread; and feeling for the time as though, go\nwhere they would, they were to be hunted down, and could never be safe\nbut in hiding, her heart failed her, and her courage drooped.\n\nIn one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which she had lately\nmoved, this sinking of the spirit was not surprising.  But, Nature\noften enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms--oftenest, God\nbless her, in female breasts--and when the child, casting her tearful\neyes upon the old man, remembered how weak he was, and how destitute\nand helpless he would be if she failed him, her heart swelled within\nher, and animated her with new strength and fortitude.\n\n'We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear\ngrandfather,' she said.\n\n'Nothing to fear!' returned the old man.  'Nothing to fear if they took\nme from thee!  Nothing to fear if they parted us!  Nobody is true to\nme.  No, not one.  Not even Nell!'\n\n'Oh! do not say that,' replied the child, 'for if ever anybody was true\nat heart, and earnest, I am.  I am sure you know I am.'\n\n'Then how,' said the old man, looking fearfully round, 'how can you\nbear to think that we are safe, when they are searching for me\neverywhere, and may come here, and steal upon us, even while we're\ntalking?'\n\n'Because I'm sure we have not been followed,' said the child.  'Judge\nfor yourself, dear grandfather: look round, and see how quiet and still\nit is.  We are alone together, and may ramble where we like.  Not safe!\nCould I feel easy--did I feel at ease--when any danger threatened you?'\n\n'True, too,' he answered, pressing her hand, but still looking\nanxiously about.  'What noise was that?'\n\n'A bird,' said the child, 'flying into the wood, and leading the way\nfor us to follow.'  You remember that we said we would walk in woods\nand fields, and by the side of rivers, and how happy we would be--you\nremember that?  But here, while the sun shines above our heads, and\neverything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly down, and losing\ntime.  See what a pleasant path; and there's the bird--the same\nbird--now he flies to another tree, and stays to sing.  Come!'\n\nWhen they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led\nthem through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny\nfootsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and\ngave it back as mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured the old\nman on, with many a backward look and merry beck, now pointing\nstealthily to some lone bird as it perched and twittered on a branch\nthat strayed across their path, now stopping to listen to the songs\nthat broke the happy silence, or watch the sun as it trembled through\nthe leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks of stout old trees,\nopened long paths of light.  As they passed onward, parting the boughs\nthat clustered in their way, the serenity which the child had first\nassumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the old man cast no longer\nfearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for the further\nthey passed into the deep green shade, the more they felt that the\ntranquil mind of God was there, and shed its peace on them.\n\nAt length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought them to\nthe end of the wood, and into a public road.  Taking their way along it\nfor a short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on\neither hand that they met together over-head, and arched the narrow\nway.  A broken finger-post announced that this led to a village three\nmiles off; and thither they resolved to bend their steps.\n\nThe miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have\nmissed their road.  But at last, to their great joy, it led downwards\nin a steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths\nled; and the clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody\nhollow below.\n\nIt was a very small place.  The men and boys were playing at cricket on\nthe green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and\ndown, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging.  There was but one old\nman in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of\napproaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and had 'School' written up\nover his window in black letters on a white board.  He was a pale,\nsimple-looking man, of a spare and meagre habit, and sat among his\nflowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch before his\ndoor.\n\n'Speak to him, dear,' the old man whispered.\n\n'I am almost afraid to disturb him,' said the child timidly.  'He does\nnot seem to see us.  Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way.'\n\nThey waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and still\nsat, thoughtful and silent, in the little porch.  He had a kind face.\nIn his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and meagre.  They\nfancied, too, a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that\nwas because the other people formed a merry company upon the green, and\nhe seemed the only solitary man in all the place.\n\nThey were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to\naddress even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which\nseemed to denote that he was uneasy or distressed.  As they stood\nhesitating at a little distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes\nat a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and took\na few turns in his garden, then approached the gate and looked towards\nthe green, then took up his pipe again with a sigh, and sat down\nthoughtfully as before.\n\nAs nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length took\ncourage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to draw\nnear, leading her grandfather by the hand.  The slight noise they made\nin raising the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his attention.  He\nlooked at them kindly but seemed disappointed too, and slightly shook\nhis head.\n\nNell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who\nsought a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far\nas their means allowed.  The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as\nshe spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly.\n\n'If you could direct us anywhere, sir,' said the child, 'we should take\nit very kindly.'\n\n'You have been walking a long way,' said the schoolmaster.\n\n'A long way, Sir,' the child replied.\n\n'You're a young traveller, my child,' he said, laying his hand gently\non her head.  'Your grandchild, friend?'\n\n'Aye, Sir,' cried the old man, 'and the stay and comfort of my life.'\n\n'Come in,' said the schoolmaster.\n\nWithout further preface he conducted them into his little school-room,\nwhich was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them that they were\nwelcome to remain under his roof till morning.  Before they had done\nthanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with\nknives and platters; and bringing out some bread and cold meat and a\njug of beer, besought them to eat and drink.\n\nThe child looked round the room as she took her seat.  There were a\ncouple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk\nperched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few\ndog's-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a motley\ncollection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles,\nhalf-eaten apples, and other confiscated property of idle urchins.\nDisplayed on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were the cane\nand ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the dunce's cap,\nmade of old newspapers and decorated with glaring wafers of the largest\nsize.  But, the great ornaments of the walls were certain moral\nsentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in\nsimple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same\nhand, which were plentifully pasted all round the room: for the double\npurpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the\nschool, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.\n\n'Yes,' said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was\ncaught by these latter specimens.  'That's beautiful writing, my dear.'\n\n'Very, Sir,' replied the child modestly, 'is it yours?'\n\n'Mine!' he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, to\nhave a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart.  'I couldn't\nwrite like that, now-a-days.  No.  They're all done by one hand; a\nlittle hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.'\n\nAs the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been\nthrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket, and\ngoing up to the wall, carefully scraped it out.  When he had finished,\nhe walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might\ncontemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his\nvoice and manner which quite touched the child, though she was\nunacquainted with its cause.\n\n'A little hand indeed,' said the poor schoolmaster.  'Far beyond all\nhis companions, in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever\ncome to be so fond of me!  That I should love him is no wonder, but\nthat he should love me--' and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took\noff his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.\n\n'I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,' said Nell anxiously.\n\n'Not much, my dear,' returned the schoolmaster.  'I hoped to have seen\nhim on the green to-night.  He was always foremost among them.  But\nhe'll be there to-morrow.'\n\n'Has he been ill?' asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy.\n\n'Not very.  They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy,\nand so they said the day before.  But that's a part of that kind of\ndisorder; it's not a bad sign--not at all a bad sign.'\n\nThe child was silent.  He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out.\nThe shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.\n\n'If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come to me, I know,' he\nsaid, returning into the room.  'He always came into the garden to say\ngood night.  But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favourable\nturn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp and\nthere's a heavy dew.  It's much better he shouldn't come to-night.'\n\nThe schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the window-shutter, and\nclosed the door.  But after he had done this, and sat silent a little\ntime, he took down his hat, and said he would go and satisfy himself,\nif Nell would sit up till he returned.  The child readily complied, and\nhe went out.\n\nShe sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place very strange and\nlonely, for she had prevailed upon the old man to go to bed, and there\nwas nothing to be heard but the ticking of an old clock, and the\nwhistling of the wind among the trees.  When he returned, he took his\nseat in the chimney corner, but remained silent for a long time.  At\nlength he turned to her, and speaking very gently, hoped she would say\na prayer that night for a sick child.\n\n'My favourite scholar!' said the poor schoolmaster, smoking a pipe he\nhad forgotten to light, and looking mournfully round upon the walls.\n'It is a little hand to have done all that, and waste away with\nsickness.  It is a very, very little hand!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\nAfter a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in which\nit seemed the sexton had for some years been a lodger, but which he had\nlately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child rose\nearly in the morning and descended to the room where she had supped\nlast night.  As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out,\nshe bestirred herself to make it neat and comfortable, and had just\nfinished its arrangement when the kind host returned.\n\nHe thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually did\nsuch offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom he had\ntold her of.  The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.\n\n'No,' rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, 'no\nbetter.  They even say he is worse.'\n\n'I am very sorry for that, Sir,' said the child.\n\nThe poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest manner,\nbut yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily that anxious\npeople often magnified an evil and thought it greater than it was; 'for\nmy part,' he said, in his quiet, patient way, 'I hope it's not so.  I\ndon't think he can be worse.'\n\nThe child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather\ncoming down stairs, they all three partook of it together.  While the\nmeal was in progress, their host remarked that the old man seemed much\nfatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest.\n\n'If the journey you have before you is a long one,' he said, 'and don't\npress you for one day, you're very welcome to pass another night here.\nI should really be glad if you would, friend.'\n\nHe saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain whether to accept or\ndecline his offer; and added,\n\n'I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day.  If\nyou can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time,\ndo so.  If you must proceed upon your journey, I wish you well through\nit, and will walk a little way with you before school begins.'\n\n'What are we to do, Nell?' said the old man irresolutely, 'say what\nwe're to do, dear.'\n\nIt required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that they\nhad better accept the invitation and remain.  She was happy to show her\ngratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the\nperformance of such household duties as his little cottage stood in\nneed of.  When these were done, she took some needle-work from her\nbasket, and sat herself down upon a stool beside the lattice, where the\nhoneysuckle and woodbine entwined their tender stems, and stealing into\nthe room filled it with their delicious breath.  Her grandfather was\nbasking in the sun outside, breathing the perfume of the flowers, and\nidly watching the clouds as they floated on before the light summer\nwind.\n\nAs the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order, took\nhis seat behind his desk and made other preparations for school, the\nchild was apprehensive that she might be in the way, and offered to\nwithdraw to her little bedroom.  But this he would not allow, and as he\nseemed pleased to have her there, she remained, busying herself with\nher work.\n\n'Have you many scholars, sir?' she asked.\n\nThe poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely filled\nthe two forms.\n\n'Are the others clever, sir?' asked the child, glancing at the trophies\non the wall.\n\n'Good boys,' returned the schoolmaster, 'good boys enough, my dear, but\nthey'll never do like that.'\n\nA small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door\nwhile he was speaking, and stopping there to make a rustic bow, came in\nand took his seat upon one of the forms.  The white-headed boy then put\nan open book, astonishingly dog's-eared upon his knees, and thrusting\nhis hands into his pockets began counting the marbles with which they\nwere filled; displaying in the expression of his face a remarkable\ncapacity of totally abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his\neyes were fixed.  Soon afterwards another white-headed little boy came\nstraggling in, and after him a red-headed lad, and after him two more\nwith white heads, and then one with a flaxen poll, and so on until the\nforms were occupied by a dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every\ncolour but grey, and ranging in their ages from four years old to\nfourteen years or more; for the legs of the youngest were a long way\nfrom the floor when he sat upon the form, and the eldest was a heavy\ngood-tempered foolish fellow, about half a head taller than the\nschoolmaster.\n\nAt the top of the first form--the post of honour in the school--was the\nvacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of\npegs on which those who came in hats or caps were wont to hang them up,\none was left empty.  No boy attempted to violate the sanctity of seat\nor peg, but many a one looked from the empty spaces to the\nschoolmaster, and whispered his idle neighbour behind his hand.\n\nThen began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by heart,\nthe whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl of\nschool; and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, the very\nimage of meekness and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his mind\nupon the duties of the day, and to forget his little friend.  But the\ntedium of his office reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar,\nand his thoughts were rambling from his pupils--it was plain.\n\nNone knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with\nimpunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even under the\nmaster's eye, eating apples openly and without rebuke, pinching each\nother in sport or malice without the least reserve, and cutting their\nautographs in the very legs of his desk.  The puzzled dunce, who stood\nbeside it to say his lesson out of book, looked no longer at the\nceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to the master's elbow and\nboldly cast his eye upon the page; the wag of the little troop squinted\nand made grimaces (at the smallest boy of course), holding no book\nbefore his face, and his approving audience knew no constraint in their\ndelight.  If the master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to\nwhat was going on, the noise subsided for a moment and no eyes met his\nbut wore a studious and a deeply humble look; but the instant he\nrelapsed again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before.\n\nOh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how they\nlooked at the open door and window, as if they half meditated rushing\nviolently out, plunging into the woods, and being wild boys and savages\nfrom that time forth.  What rebellious thoughts of the cool river, and\nsome shady bathing-place beneath willow trees with branches dipping in\nthe water, kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who, with his\nshirt-collar unbuttoned and flung back as far as it could go, sat\nfanning his flushed face with a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale,\nor a tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a boy at school on that hot,\nbroiling day!  Heat!  ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to\nthe door gave him opportunities of gliding out into the garden and\ndriving his companions to madness by dipping his face into the bucket\nof the well and then rolling on the grass--ask him if there were ever\nsuch a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into the\ncups of flowers and stopping there, as if they had made up their minds\nto retire from business and be manufacturers of honey no more.  The day\nwas made for laziness, and lying on one's back in green places, and\nstaring at the sky till its brightness forced one to shut one's eyes\nand go to sleep; and was this a time to be poring over musty books in a\ndark room, slighted by the very sun itself?  Monstrous!\n\nNell sat by the window occupied with her work, but attentive still to\nall that passed, though sometimes rather timid of the boisterous boys.\nThe lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one desk and\nthat the master's, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured at his\ncrooked copy, while the master walked about.  This was a quieter time;\nfor he would come and look over the writer's shoulder, and tell him\nmildly to observe how such a letter was turned in such a copy on the\nwall, praise such an up-stroke here and such a down-stroke there, and\nbid him take it for his model.  Then he would stop and tell them what\nthe sick child had said last night, and how he had longed to be among\nthem once again; and such was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and\naffectionate manner, that the boys seemed quite remorseful that they\nhad worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples,\ncutting no names, inflicting no pinches, and making no grimaces, for\nfull two minutes afterwards.\n\n'I think, boys,' said the schoolmaster when the clock struck twelve,\n'that I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon.'\n\nAt this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy,\nraised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to\nspeak, but could not be heard.  As he held up his hand, however, in\ntoken of his wish that they should be silent, they were considerate\nenough to leave off, as soon as the longest-winded among them were\nquite out of breath.\n\n'You must promise me first,' said the schoolmaster, 'that you'll not be\nnoisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be so--away out\nof the village I mean.  I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate\nand companion.'\n\nThere was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for they\nwere but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely\nas any of them, called those about him to witness that he had only\nshouted in a whisper.\n\n'Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars,' said the\nschoolmaster, 'what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me.  Be\nas happy as you can, and don't be unmindful that you are blessed with\nhealth.  Good-bye all!'\n\n'Thank'ee, Sir,' and 'good-bye, Sir,' were said a good many times in a\nvariety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and softly.  But\nthere was the sun shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun\nonly shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays;\nthere were the trees waving to all free boys to climb and nestle among\ntheir leafy branches; the hay, entreating them to come and scatter it\nto the pure air; the green corn, gently beckoning towards wood and\nstream; the smooth ground, rendered smoother still by blending lights\nand shadows, inviting to runs and leaps, and long walks God knows\nwhither.  It was more than boy could bear, and with a joyous whoop the\nwhole cluster took to their heels and spread themselves about, shouting\nand laughing as they went.\n\n'It's natural, thank Heaven!' said the poor schoolmaster, looking after\nthem.  'I'm very glad they didn't mind me!'\n\nIt is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would have\ndiscovered, even without the fable which bears that moral, and in the\ncourse of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils looked in\nto express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's proceeding.\nA few confined themselves to hints, such as politely inquiring what\nred-letter day or saint's day the almanack said it was; a few (these\nwere the profound village politicians) argued that it was a slight to\nthe throne and an affront to church and state, and savoured of\nrevolutionary principles, to grant a half-holiday upon any lighter\noccasion than the birthday of the Monarch; but the majority expressed\ntheir displeasure on private grounds and in plain terms, arguing that\nto put the pupils on this short allowance of learning was nothing but\nan act of downright robbery and fraud: and one old lady, finding that\nshe could not inflame or irritate the peaceable schoolmaster by talking\nto him, bounced out of his house and talked at him for half-an-hour\noutside his own window, to another old lady, saying that of course he\nwould deduct this half-holiday from his weekly charge, or of course he\nwould naturally expect to have an opposition started against him; there\nwas no want of idle chaps in that neighbourhood (here the old lady\nraised her voice), and some chaps who were too idle even to be\nschoolmasters, might soon find that there were other chaps put over\ntheir heads, and so she would have them take care, and look pretty\nsharp about them.  But all these taunts and vexations failed to elicit\none word from the meek schoolmaster, who sat with the child by his\nside--a little more dejected perhaps, but quite silent and\nuncomplaining.\n\nTowards night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as\nshe could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go\nto Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her.  He and the\nchild were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without\nrelinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the\nmessenger to follow as she might.\n\nThey stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at\nit with his hand.  It was opened without loss of time.  They entered a\nroom where a little group of women were gathered about one, older than\nthe rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands and\nrocking herself to and fro.\n\n'Oh, dame!' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, 'is it so\nbad as this?'\n\n'He's going fast,' cried the old woman; 'my grandson's dying.  It's all\nalong of you.  You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so earnest\non it.  This is what his learning has brought him to.  Oh dear, dear,\ndear, what can I do!'\n\n'Do not say that I am in any fault,' urged the gentle school-master.\n'I am not hurt, dame.  No, no.  You are in great distress of mind, and\ndon't mean what you say.  I am sure you don't.'\n\n'I do,' returned the old woman.  'I mean it all.  If he hadn't been\nporing over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and\nmerry now, I know he would.'\n\nThe schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat\nsome one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook their\nheads, and murmured to each other that they never thought there was\nmuch good in learning, and that this convinced them.  Without saying a\nword in reply, or giving them a look of reproach, he followed the old\nwoman who had summoned him (and who had now rejoined them) into another\nroom, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.\n\nHe was a very young boy; quite a little child.  His hair still hung in\ncurls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light\nwas of Heaven, not earth.  The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and\nstooping over the pillow, whispered his name.  The boy sprung up,\nstroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms round his\nneck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.\n\n'I hope I always was.  I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor\nschoolmaster.\n\n'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell.  'I am afraid to kiss her,\nlest I should make her ill.  Ask her to shake hands with me.'\n\nThe sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in\nhers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently\ndown.\n\n'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious\nto rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, 'and how\npleasant it used to be in the evening time?  You must make haste to\nvisit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are\nless gay than they used to be.  You will come soon, my dear, very soon\nnow--won't you?'\n\nThe boy smiled faintly--so very, very faintly--and put his hand upon\nhis friend's grey head.  He moved his lips too, but no voice came from\nthem; no, not a sound.\n\nIn the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon the\nevening air came floating through the open window.  'What's that?' said\nthe sick child, opening his eyes.\n\n'The boys at play upon the green.'\n\nHe took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his\nhead.  But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.\n\n'Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster.\n\n'Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply.  'Tie it to the\nlattice.  Some of them may see it there.  Perhaps they'll think of me,\nand look this way.'\n\nHe raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle\nbat, that lay with slate and book and other boyish property upon a\ntable in the room.  And then he laid him softly down once more, and\nasked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.\n\nShe stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the\ncoverlet.  The two old friends and companions--for such they were,\nthough they were man and child--held each other in a long embrace, and\nthen the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell\nasleep.\n\nThe poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold\nhand in his, and chafing it.  It was but the hand of a dead child.  He\nfelt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\nAlmost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the\nbedside and returned to his cottage.  In the midst of her grief and\ntears she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old man,\nfor the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative\nto mourn his premature decay.\n\nShe stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone,\ngave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was overcharged.\nBut the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without its lesson of\ncontent and gratitude; of content with the lot which left her health\nand freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to the one relative and\nfriend she loved, and to live and move in a beautiful world, when so\nmany young creatures--as young and full of hope as she--were stricken\ndown and gathered to their graves.  How many of the mounds in that old\nchurchyard where she had lately strayed, grew green above the graves of\nchildren!  And though she thought as a child herself, and did not\nperhaps sufficiently consider to what a bright and happy existence\nthose who die young are borne, and how in death they lose the pain of\nseeing others die around them, bearing to the tomb some strong\naffection of their hearts (which makes the old die many times in one\nlong life), still she thought wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy\nmoral from what she had seen that night, and to store it, deep in her\nmind.\n\nHer dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up, but\nmingling with angels, and smiling happily.  The sun darting his\ncheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but to\ntake leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.\n\nBy the time they were ready to depart, school had begun.  In the\ndarkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little\nsobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at all.\nThe schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.\n\nIt was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out to\nhim the money which the lady had given her at the races for her\nflowers: faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was,\nand blushing as she offered it.  But he bade her put it up, and\nstooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.\n\nThey had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again; the\nold man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the same.\n\n'Good fortune and happiness go with you!' said the poor schoolmaster.\n'I am quite a solitary man now.  If you ever pass this way again,\nyou'll not forget the little village-school.'\n\n'We shall never forget it, sir,' rejoined Nell; 'nor ever forget to be\ngrateful to you for your kindness to us.'\n\n'I have heard such words from the lips of children very often,' said\nthe schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully, 'but they\nwere soon forgotten.  I had attached one young friend to me, the better\nfriend for being young--but that's over--God bless you!'\n\nThey bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking slowly\nand often looking back, until they could see him no more.  At length\nthey had left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke\namong the trees.  They trudged onward now, at a quicker pace, resolving\nto keep the main road, and go wherever it might lead them.\n\nBut main roads stretch a long, long way.  With the exception of two or\nthree inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed, without\nstopping, and one lonely road-side public-house where they had some\nbread and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing--late in the\nafternoon--and still lengthened out, far in the distance, the same\ndull, tedious, winding course, that they had been pursuing all day.  As\nthey had no resource, however, but to go forward, they still kept on,\nthough at a much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued.\n\nThe afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived\nat a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common.\nOn the border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it\nfrom the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which,\nby reason of its situation, they came so suddenly that they could not\nhave avoided it if they would.\n\nIt was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon\nwheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and\nwindow-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in\nwhich happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant.\nNeither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated\nhorse, for a pair of horses in pretty good condition were released from\nthe shafts and grazing on the frouzy grass.  Neither was it a gipsy\ncaravan, for at the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat\na Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large\nbonnet trembling with bows.  And that it was not an unprovided or\ndestitute caravan was clear from this lady's occupation, which was the\nvery pleasant and refreshing one of taking tea.  The tea-things,\nincluding a bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold knuckle of\nham, were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and\nthere, as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat\nthis roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.\n\nIt happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup\n(which, that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable\nkind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted\nto the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of the tea, not\nunmingled possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam of something\nout of the suspicious bottle--but this is mere speculation and not\ndistinct matter of history--it happened that being thus agreeably\nengaged, she did not see the travellers when they first came up.  It\nwas not until she was in the act of getting down the cup, and drawing a\nlong breath after the exertion of causing its contents to disappear,\nthat the lady of the caravan beheld an old man and a young child\nwalking slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest\nbut hungry admiration.\n\n'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her\nlap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips.  'Yes, to be\nsure--Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?'\n\n'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell.\n\n'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that was run\nfor on the second day.'\n\n'On the second day, ma'am?'\n\n'Second day!  Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of\nimpatience.  'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when\nyou're asked the question civilly?'\n\n'I don't know, ma'am.'\n\n'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were there.\nI saw you with my own eyes.'\n\nNell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady\nmight be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but\nwhat followed tended to reassure her.\n\n'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see you in\ncompany with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people\nshould scorn to look at.'\n\n'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know our\nway, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them.\nDo you--do you know them, ma'am?'\n\n'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek.\n'Know them!  But you're young and inexperienced, and that's your excuse\nfor asking sich a question.  Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the\ncaravan look as if it know'd 'em?'\n\n'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some\ngrievous fault.  'I beg your pardon.'\n\nIt was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much ruffled\nand discomposed by the degrading supposition.  The child then explained\nthat they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to\nthe next town on that road, where they purposed to spend the night.  As\nthe countenance of the stout lady began to clear up, she ventured to\ninquire how far it was.  The reply--which the stout lady did not come\nto, until she had thoroughly explained that she went to the races on\nthe first day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that her\npresence there had no connexion with any matters of business or\nprofit--was, that the town was eight miles off.\n\nThis discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could\nscarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road.  Her\ngrandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he leaned upon\nhis staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty distance.\n\nThe lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea equipage\ntogether preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the child's\nanxious manner she hesitated and stopped.  The child curtseyed, thanked\nher for her information, and giving her hand to the old man had already\ngot some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to\nher to return.\n\n'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to ascend the\nsteps.  'Are you hungry, child?'\n\n'Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it IS a long way.'\n\n'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined her new\nacquaintance.  'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?'\n\nThe grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her.  The lady of\nthe caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the drum\nproving an inconvenient table for two, they descended again, and sat\nupon the grass, where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread\nand butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short everything of which she\nhad partaken herself, except the bottle which she had already embraced\nan opportunity of slipping into her pocket.\n\n'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,' said\ntheir friend, superintending the arrangements from above.  'Now hand up\nthe teapot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and\nthen both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare\nanything; that's all I ask of you.'\n\nThey might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been\nless freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all.\nBut as this direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or\nuneasiness, they made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.\n\nWhile they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted on the\nearth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large bonnet\ntrembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured tread and very\nstately manner, surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of\ncalm delight, and deriving particular gratification from the red panels\nand the brass knocker.  When she had taken this gentle exercise for\nsome time, she sat down upon the steps and called 'George'; whereupon a\nman in a carter's frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this\ntime as to see everything that passed without being seen himself,\nparted the twigs that concealed him, and appeared in a sitting\nattitude, supporting on his legs a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone\nbottle, and bearing in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.\n\n'Yes, Missus,' said George.\n\n'How did you find the cold pie, George?'\n\n'It warn't amiss, mum.'\n\n'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of\nbeing more interested in this question than the last; 'is it passable,\nGeorge?'\n\n'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it an't\nso bad for all that.'\n\nTo set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting in\nquantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and then\nsmacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head.  No doubt with\nthe same amiable desire, he immediately resumed his knife and fork, as\na practical assurance that the beer had wrought no bad effect upon his\nappetite.\n\nThe lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and then\nsaid,\n\n'Have you nearly finished?'\n\n'Wery nigh, mum.'  And indeed, after scraping the dish all round with\nhis knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and after\ntaking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by degrees\nalmost imperceptible to the sight, his head went further and further\nback until he lay nearly at his full length upon the ground, this\ngentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came forth from his\nretreat.\n\n'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who appeared\nto have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.\n\n'If you have,' returned the follower, wisely reserving himself for any\nfavourable contingency that might occur, 'we must make up for it next\ntime, that's all.'\n\n'We are not a heavy load, George?'\n\n'That's always what the ladies say,' replied the man, looking a long\nway round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general against such\nmonstrous propositions.  'If you see a woman a driving, you'll always\nperceive that she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go\nfast enough for her.  If cattle have got their proper load, you never\ncan persuade a woman that they'll not bear something more.  What is the\ncause of this here?'\n\n'Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses, if we\ntook them with us?' asked his mistress, offering no reply to the\nphilosophical inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the old man, who were\npainfully preparing to resume their journey on foot.\n\n'They'd make a difference in course,' said George doggedly.\n\n'Would they make much difference?' repeated his mistress.  'They can't\nbe very heavy.'\n\n'The weight o' the pair, mum,' said George, eyeing them with the look\nof a man who was calculating within half an ounce or so, 'would be a\ntrifle under that of Oliver Cromwell.'\n\nNell was very much surprised that the man should be so accurately\nacquainted with the weight of one whom she had read of in books as\nhaving lived considerably before their time, but speedily forgot the\nsubject in the joy of hearing that they were to go forward in the\ncaravan, for which she thanked its lady with unaffected earnestness.\nShe helped with great readiness and alacrity to put away the tea-things\nand other matters that were lying about, and, the horses being by that\ntime harnessed, mounted into the vehicle, followed by her delighted\ngrandfather.  Their patroness then shut the door and sat herself down\nby her drum at an open window; and, the steps being struck by George\nand stowed under the carriage, away they went, with a great noise of\nflapping and creaking and straining, and the bright brass knocker,\nwhich nobody ever knocked at, knocking one perpetual double knock of\nits own accord as they jolted heavily along.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\nWhen they had travelled slowly forward for some short distance, Nell\nventured to steal a look round the caravan and observe it more closely.\nOne half of it--that moiety in which the comfortable proprietress was\nthen seated--was carpeted, and so partitioned off at the further end as\nto accommodate a sleeping-place, constructed after the fashion of a\nberth on board ship, which was shaded, like the little windows, with\nfair white curtains, and looked comfortable enough, though by what kind\nof gymnastic exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get\ninto it, was an unfathomable mystery.  The other half served for a\nkitchen, and was fitted up with a stove whose small chimney passed\nthrough the roof.  It held also a closet or larder, several chests, a\ngreat pitcher of water, and a few cooking-utensils and articles of\ncrockery.  These latter necessaries hung upon the walls, which, in that\nportion of the establishment devoted to the lady of the caravan, were\nornamented with such gayer and lighter decorations as a triangle and a\ncouple of well-thumbed tambourines.\n\nThe lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the pride and poetry\nof the musical instruments, and little Nell and her grandfather sat at\nthe other in all the humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the\nmachine jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly.  At\nfirst the two travellers spoke little, and only in whispers, but as\nthey grew more familiar with the place they ventured to converse with\ngreater freedom, and talked about the country through which they were\npassing, and the different objects that presented themselves, until the\nold man fell asleep; which the lady of the caravan observing, invited\nNell to come and sit beside her.\n\n'Well, child,' she said, 'how do you like this way of travelling?'\n\nNell replied that she thought it was very pleasant indeed, to which the\nlady assented in the case of people who had their spirits.  For\nherself, she said, she was troubled with a lowness in that respect\nwhich required a constant stimulant; though whether the aforesaid\nstimulant was derived from the suspicious bottle of which mention has\nbeen already made or from other sources, she did not say.\n\n'That's the happiness of you young people,' she continued.  'You don't\nknow what it is to be low in your feelings.  You always have your\nappetites too, and what a comfort that is.'\n\nNell thought that she could sometimes dispense with her own appetite\nvery conveniently; and thought, moreover, that there was nothing either\nin the lady's personal appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to\nlead to the conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had\nat all failed her.  She silently assented, however, as in duty bound,\nto what the lady had said, and waited until she should speak again.\n\nInstead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the child for a long\ntime in silence, and then getting up, brought out from a corner a large\nroll of canvas about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and\nspread open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the\ncaravan to the other.\n\n'There, child,' she said, 'read that.'\n\nNell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the\ninscription, 'JARLEY'S WAX-WORK.'\n\n'Read it again,' said the lady, complacently.\n\n'Jarley's Wax-Work,' repeated Nell.\n\n'That's me,' said the lady.  'I am Mrs Jarley.'\n\nGiving the child an encouraging look, intended to reassure her and let\nher know, that, although she stood in the presence of the original\nJarley, she must not allow herself to be utterly overwhelmed and borne\ndown, the lady of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the\ninscription, 'One hundred figures the full size of life,' and then\nanother scroll, on which was written, 'The only stupendous collection\nof real wax-work in the world,' and then several smaller scrolls with\nsuch inscriptions as 'Now exhibiting within'--'The genuine and only\nJarley'--'Jarley's unrivalled collection'--'Jarley is the delight of\nthe Nobility and Gentry'--'The Royal Family are the patrons of Jarley.'\nWhen she had exhibited these leviathans of public announcement to the\nastonished child, she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in the\nshape of hand-bills, some of which were couched in the form of parodies\non popular melodies, as 'Believe me if all Jarley's wax-work so\nrare'--'I saw thy show in youthful prime'--'Over the water to Jarley;'\nwhile, to consult all tastes, others were composed with a view to the\nlighter and more facetious spirits, as a parody on the favourite air of\n'If I had a donkey,' beginning,\n\n  If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go\n  To see Mrs JARLEY'S wax-work show,\n  Do you think I'd acknowledge him?  Oh no no!\n  Then run to Jarley's--\n\n--besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues\nbetween the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of\nCanterbury and a dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all\nhaving the same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to\nJarley's, and that children and servants were admitted at half-price.\nWhen she had brought all these testimonials of her important position\nin society to bear upon her young companion, Mrs Jarley rolled them up,\nand having put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at the\nchild in triumph.\n\n'Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,' said Mrs\nJarley, 'after this.'\n\n'I never saw any wax-work, ma'am,' said Nell.  'Is it funnier than\nPunch?'\n\n'Funnier!' said Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice.  'It is not funny at all.'\n\n'Oh!' said Nell, with all possible humility.\n\n'It isn't funny at all,' repeated Mrs Jarley.  'It's calm and--what's\nthat word again--critical?--no--classical, that's it--it's calm and\nclassical.  No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and\nsqueakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a\nconstantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life,\nthat if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you'd hardly know the\ndifference.  I won't go so far as to say, that, as it is, I've seen\nwax-work quite like life, but I've certainly seen some life that was\nexactly like wax-work.'\n\n'Is it here, ma'am?' asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this\ndescription.\n\n'Is what here, child?'\n\n'The wax-work, ma'am.'\n\n'Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of?  How could such a\ncollection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one\nlittle cupboard and a few boxes?  It's gone on in the other wans to the\nassembly-rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day after to-morrow.\nYou are going to the same town, and you'll see it I dare say.  It's\nnatural to expect that you'll see it, and I've no doubt you will.  I\nsuppose you couldn't stop away if you was to try ever so much.'\n\n'I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am,' said the child.\n\n'Not there!' cried Mrs Jarley.  'Then where will you be?'\n\n'I--I--don't quite know.  I am not certain.'\n\n'You don't mean to say that you're travelling about the country without\nknowing where you're going to?' said the lady of the caravan.  'What\ncurious people you are!  What line are you in?  You looked to me at the\nraces, child, as if you were quite out of your element, and had got\nthere by accident.'\n\n'We were there quite by accident,' returned Nell, confused by this\nabrupt questioning.  'We are poor people, ma'am, and are only wandering\nabout.  We have nothing to do;--I wish we had.'\n\n'You amaze me more and more,' said Mrs Jarley, after remaining for some\ntime as mute as one of her own figures.  'Why, what do you call\nyourselves?  Not beggars?'\n\n'Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are,' returned the child.\n\n'Lord bless me,' said the lady of the caravan.  'I never heard of such\na thing.  Who'd have thought it!'\n\nShe remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell feared\nshe felt her having been induced to bestow her protection and\nconversation upon one so poor, to be an outrage upon her dignity that\nnothing could repair.  This persuasion was rather confirmed than\notherwise by the tone in which she at length broke silence and said,\n\n'And yet you can read.  And write too, I shouldn't wonder?'\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' said the child, fearful of giving new offence by the\nconfession.\n\n'Well, and what a thing that is,' returned Mrs Jarley.  'I can't!'\n\nNell said 'indeed' in a tone which might imply, either that she was\nreasonably surprised to find the genuine and only Jarley, who was the\ndelight of the Nobility and Gentry and the peculiar pet of the Royal\nFamily, destitute of these familiar arts; or that she presumed so great\na lady could scarcely stand in need of such ordinary accomplishments.\nIn whatever way Mrs Jarley received the response, it did not provoke\nher to further questioning, or tempt her into any more remarks at the\ntime, for she relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained in that\nstate so long that Nell withdrew to the other window and rejoined her\ngrandfather, who was now awake.\n\nAt length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of meditation, and,\nsummoning the driver to come under the window at which she was seated,\nheld a long conversation with him in a low tone of voice, as if she\nwere asking his advice on an important point, and discussing the pros\nand cons of some very weighty matter.  This conference at length\nconcluded, she drew in her head again, and beckoned Nell to approach.\n\n'And the old gentleman too,' said Mrs Jarley; 'for I want to have a\nword with him.  Do you want a good situation for your grand-daughter,\nmaster?  If you do, I can put her in the way of getting one.  What do\nyou say?'\n\n'I can't leave her,' answered the old man.  'We can't separate.  What\nwould become of me without her?'\n\n'I should have thought you were old enough to take care of yourself, if\nyou ever will be,' retorted Mrs Jarley sharply.\n\n'But he never will be,' said the child in an earnest whisper.  'I fear\nhe never will be again.  Pray do not speak harshly to him.  We are very\nthankful to you,' she added aloud; 'but neither of us could part from\nthe other if all the wealth of the world were halved between us.'\n\nMrs Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception of her proposal,\nand looked at the old man, who tenderly took Nell's hand and detained\nit in his own, as if she could have very well dispensed with his\ncompany or even his earthly existence.  After an awkward pause, she\nthrust her head out of the window again, and had another conference\nwith the driver upon some point on which they did not seem to agree\nquite so readily as on their former topic of discussion; but they\nconcluded at last, and she addressed the grandfather again.\n\n'If you're really disposed to employ yourself,' said Mrs Jarley, 'there\nwould be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust the\nfigures, and take the checks, and so forth.  What I want your\ngrand-daughter for, is to point 'em out to the company; they would be\nsoon learnt, and she has a way with her that people wouldn't think\nunpleasant, though she does come after me; for I've been always\naccustomed to go round with visitors myself, which I should keep on\ndoing now, only that my spirits make a little ease absolutely\nnecessary.  It's not a common offer, bear in mind,' said the lady,\nrising into the tone and manner in which she was accustomed to address\nher audiences; 'it's Jarley's wax-work, remember.  The duty's very\nlight and genteel, the company particularly select, the exhibition\ntakes place in assembly-rooms, town-halls, large rooms at inns, or\nauction galleries.  There is none of your open-air wagrancy at\nJarley's, recollect; there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's,\nremember.  Every expectation held out in the handbills is realised to\nthe utmost, and the whole forms an effect of imposing brilliancy\nhitherto unrivalled in this kingdom.  Remember that the price of\nadmission is only sixpence, and that this is an opportunity which may\nnever occur again!'\n\nDescending from the sublime when she had reached this point, to the\ndetails of common life, Mrs Jarley remarked that with reference to\nsalary she could pledge herself to no specific sum until she had\nsufficiently tested Nell's abilities, and narrowly watched her in the\nperformance of her duties.  But board and lodging, both for her and her\ngrandfather, she bound herself to provide, and she furthermore passed\nher word that the board should always be good in quality, and in\nquantity plentiful.\n\nNell and her grandfather consulted together, and while they were so\nengaged, Mrs Jarley with her hands behind her walked up and down the\ncaravan, as she had walked after tea on the dull earth, with uncommon\ndignity and self-esteem.  Nor will this appear so slight a circumstance\nas to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered that the caravan\nwas in uneasy motion all the time, and that none but a person of great\nnatural stateliness and acquired grace could have forborne to stagger.\n\n'Now, child?' cried Mrs Jarley, coming to a halt as Nell turned towards\nher.\n\n'We are very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Nell, 'and thankfully\naccept your offer.'\n\n'And you'll never be sorry for it,' returned Mrs Jarley.  'I'm pretty\nsure of that.  So as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper.'\n\nIn the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it too had been\ndrinking strong beer and was drowsy, and came at last upon the paved\nstreets of a town which were clear of passengers, and quiet, for it was\nby this time near midnight, and the townspeople were all abed.  As it\nwas too late an hour to repair to the exhibition room, they turned\naside into a piece of waste ground that lay just within the old\ntown-gate, and drew up there for the night, near to another caravan,\nwhich, notwithstanding that it bore on the lawful panel the great name\nof Jarley, and was employed besides in conveying from place to place\nthe wax-work which was its country's pride, was designated by a\ngrovelling stamp-office as a 'Common Stage Waggon,' and numbered\ntoo--seven thousand odd hundred--as though its precious freight were\nmere flour or coals!\n\nThis ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited its burden at\nthe place of exhibition, and lingered here until its services were\nagain required) was assigned to the old man as his sleeping-place for\nthe night; and within its wooden walls, Nell made him up the best bed\nshe could, from the materials at hand.  For herself, she was to sleep\nin Mrs Jarley's own travelling-carriage, as a signal mark of that\nlady's favour and confidence.\n\nShe had taken leave of her grandfather and was returning to the other\nwaggon, when she was tempted by the coolness of the night to linger for\na little while in the air.  The moon was shining down upon the old\ngateway of the town, leaving the low archway very black and dark; and\nwith a mingled sensation of curiosity and fear, she slowly approached\nthe gate, and stood still to look up at it, wondering to see how dark,\nand grim, and old, and cold, it looked.\n\nThere was an empty niche from which some old statue had fallen or been\ncarried away hundreds of years ago, and she was thinking what strange\npeople it must have looked down upon when it stood there, and how many\nhard struggles might have taken place, and how many murders might have\nbeen done, upon that silent spot, when there suddenly emerged from the\nblack shade of the arch, a man.  The instant he appeared, she\nrecognised him--Who could have failed to recognise, in that instant,\nthe ugly misshapen Quilp!\n\nThe street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of the houses on one\nside of the way so deep, that he seemed to have risen out of the earth.\nBut there he was.  The child withdrew into a dark corner, and saw him\npass close to her.  He had a stick in his hand, and, when he had got\nclear of the shadow of the gateway, he leant upon it, looked\nback--directly, as it seemed, towards where she stood--and beckoned.\n\nTo her?  oh no, thank God, not to her; for as she stood, in an\nextremity of fear, hesitating whether to scream for help, or come from\nher hiding-place and fly, before he should draw nearer, there issued\nslowly forth from the arch another figure--that of a boy--who carried\non his back a trunk.\n\n'Faster, sirrah!' cried Quilp, looking up at the old gateway, and\nshowing in the moonlight like some monstrous image that had come down\nfrom its niche and was casting a backward glance at its old house,\n'faster!'\n\n'It's a dreadful heavy load, Sir,' the boy pleaded.  'I've come on very\nfast, considering.'\n\n'_You_ have come fast, considering!' retorted Quilp; 'you creep, you dog,\nyou crawl, you measure distance like a worm.  There are the chimes now,\nhalf-past twelve.'\n\nHe stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy with a suddenness\nand ferocity that made him start, asked at what hour that London coach\npassed the corner of the road.  The boy replied, at one.\n\n'Come on then,' said Quilp, 'or I shall be too late.  Faster--do you\nhear me?  Faster.'\n\nThe boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led onward, constantly\nturning back to threaten him, and urge him to greater haste.  Nell did\nnot dare to move until they were out of sight and hearing, and then\nhurried to where she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the very\npassing of the dwarf so near him must have filled him with alarm and\nterror.  But he was sleeping soundly, and she softly withdrew.\n\nAs she was making her way to her own bed, she determined to say nothing\nof this adventure, as upon whatever errand the dwarf had come (and she\nfeared it must have been in search of them) it was clear by his inquiry\nabout the London coach that he was on his way homeward, and as he had\npassed through that place, it was but reasonable to suppose that they\nwere safer from his inquiries there, than they could be elsewhere.\nThese reflections did not remove her own alarm, for she had been too\nmuch terrified to be easily composed, and felt as if she were hemmed in\nby a legion of Quilps, and the very air itself were filled with them.\n\nThe delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patronised of Royalty\nhad, by some process of self-abridgment known only to herself, got into\nher travelling bed, where she was snoring peacefully, while the large\nbonnet, carefully disposed upon the drum, was revealing its glories by\nthe light of a dim lamp that swung from the roof.  The child's bed was\nalready made upon the floor, and it was a great comfort to her to hear\nthe steps removed as soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy\ncommunication between persons outside and the brass knocker was by this\nmeans effectually prevented.  Certain guttural sounds, too, which from\ntime to time ascended through the floor of the caravan, and a rustling\nof straw in the same direction, apprised her that the driver was\ncouched upon the ground beneath, and gave her an additional feeling of\nsecurity.\n\nNotwithstanding these protections, she could get none but broken sleep\nby fits and starts all night, for fear of Quilp, who throughout her\nuneasy dreams was somehow connected with the wax-work, or was wax-work\nhimself, or was Mrs Jarley and wax-work too, or was himself, Mrs\nJarley, wax-work, and a barrel organ all in one, and yet not exactly\nany of them either.  At length, towards break of day, that deep sleep\ncame upon her which succeeds to weariness and over-watching, and which\nhas no consciousness but one of overpowering and irresistible enjoyment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\nSleep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that, when she awoke,\nMrs Jarley was already decorated with her large bonnet, and actively\nengaged in preparing breakfast.  She received Nell's apology for being\nso late with perfect good humour, and said that she should not have\nroused her if she had slept on until noon.\n\n'Because it does you good,' said the lady of the caravan, 'when you're\ntired, to sleep as long as ever you can, and get the fatigue quite off;\nand that's another blessing of your time of life--you can sleep so very\nsound.'\n\n'Have you had a bad night, ma'am?' asked Nell.\n\n'I seldom have anything else, child,' replied Mrs Jarley, with the air\nof a martyr.  'I sometimes wonder how I bear it.'\n\nRemembering the snores which had proceeded from that cleft in the\ncaravan in which the proprietress of the wax-work passed the night,\nNell rather thought she must have been dreaming of lying awake.\nHowever, she expressed herself very sorry to hear such a dismal account\nof her state of health, and shortly afterwards sat down with her\ngrandfather and Mrs Jarley to breakfast.  The meal finished, Nell\nassisted to wash the cups and saucers, and put them in their proper\nplaces, and these household duties performed, Mrs Jarley arrayed\nherself in an exceedingly bright shawl for the purpose of making a\nprogress through the streets of the town.\n\n'The wan will come on to bring the boxes,' said Mrs Jarley, and you had\nbetter come in it, child.  I am obliged to walk, very much against my\nwill; but the people expect it of me, and public characters can't be\ntheir own masters and mistresses in such matters as these.  How do I\nlook, child?'\n\nNell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs Jarley, after sticking a\ngreat many pins into various parts of her figure, and making several\nabortive attempts to obtain a full view of her own back, was at last\nsatisfied with her appearance, and went forth majestically.\n\nThe caravan followed at no great distance.  As it went jolting through\nthe streets, Nell peeped from the window, curious to see in what kind\nof place they were, and yet fearful of encountering at every turn the\ndreaded face of Quilp.  It was a pretty large town, with an open square\nwhich they were crawling slowly across, and in the middle of which was\nthe Town-Hall, with a clock-tower and a weather-cock.  There were\nhouses of stone, houses of red brick, houses of yellow brick, houses of\nlath and plaster; and houses of wood, many of them very old, with\nwithered faces carved upon the beams, and staring down into the street.\nThese had very little winking windows, and low-arched doors, and, in\nsome of the narrower ways, quite overhung the pavement.  The streets\nwere very clean, very sunny, very empty, and very dull.  A few idle men\nlounged about the two inns, and the empty market-place, and the\ntradesmen's doors, and some old people were dozing in chairs outside an\nalms-house wall; but scarcely any passengers who seemed bent on going\nanywhere, or to have any object in view, went by; and if perchance some\nstraggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot bright pavement for\nminutes afterwards.  Nothing seemed to be going on but the clocks, and\nthey had such drowzy faces, such heavy lazy hands, and such cracked\nvoices that they surely must have been too slow.  The very dogs were\nall asleep, and the flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's shop,\nforgot their wings and briskness, and baked to death in dusty corners\nof the window.\n\nRumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan stopped at last at\nthe place of exhibition, where Nell dismounted amidst an admiring group\nof children, who evidently supposed her to be an important item of the\ncuriosities, and were fully impressed with the belief that her\ngrandfather was a cunning device in wax.  The chests were taken out\nwith all convenient despatch, and taken in to be unlocked by Mrs\nJarley, who, attended by George and another man in velveteen shorts and\na drab hat ornamented with turnpike tickets, were waiting to dispose\ntheir contents (consisting of red festoons and other ornamental devices\nin upholstery work) to the best advantage in the decoration of the room.\n\nThey all got to work without loss of time, and very busy they were.  As\nthe stupendous collection were yet concealed by cloths, lest the\nenvious dust should injure their complexions, Nell bestirred herself to\nassist in the embellishment of the room, in which her grandfather also\nwas of great service.  The two men being well used to it, did a great\ndeal in a short time; and Mrs Jarley served out the tin tacks from a\nlinen pocket like a toll-collector's which she wore for the purpose,\nand encouraged her assistants to renewed exertion.\n\nWhile they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman with a hook nose and\nblack hair, dressed in a military surtout very short and tight in the\nsleeves, and which had once been frogged and braided all over, but was\nnow sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare--dressed too in\nancient grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a pair of pumps\nin the winter of their existence--looked in at the door and smiled\naffably.  Mrs Jarley's back being then towards him, the military\ngentleman shook his forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to\napprise her of his presence, and stealing up close behind her, tapped\nher on the neck, and cried playfully 'Boh!'\n\n'What, Mr Slum!' cried the lady of the wax-work.  'Lot! who'd have\nthought of seeing you here!'\n\n''Pon my soul and honour,' said Mr Slum, 'that's a good remark.  'Pon\nmy soul and honour that's a wise remark.  Who would have thought it!\nGeorge, my faithful feller, how are you?'\n\nGeorge received this advance with a surly indifference, observing that\nhe was well enough for the matter of that, and hammering lustily all\nthe time.\n\n'I came here,' said the military gentleman turning to Mrs Jarley--''pon\nmy soul and honour I hardly know what I came here for.  It would\npuzzle me to tell you, it would by Gad.  I wanted a little inspiration,\na little freshening up, a little change of ideas, and-- 'Pon my soul\nand honour,' said the military gentleman, checking himself and looking\nround the room, 'what a devilish classical thing this is! by Gad, it's\nquite Minervian.'\n\n'It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished,' observed Mrs\nJarley.\n\n'Well enough!' said Mr Slum.  'Will you believe me when I say it's the\ndelight of my life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I've\nexercised my pen upon this charming theme?  By the way--any orders?  Is\nthere any little thing I can do for you?'\n\n'It comes so very expensive, sir,' replied Mrs Jarley, 'and I really\ndon't think it does much good.'\n\n'Hush!  No, no!' returned Mr Slum, elevating his hand.  'No fibs.  I'll\nnot hear it.  Don't say it don't do good.  Don't say it.  I know\nbetter!'\n\n'I don't think it does,' said Mrs Jarley.\n\n'Ha, ha!' cried Mr Slum, 'you're giving way, you're coming down.  Ask\nthe perfumers, ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask the old\nlottery-office-keepers--ask any man among 'em what my poetry has done\nfor him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum.  If he's an\nhonest man, he raises his eyes to heaven, and blesses the name of\nSlum--mark that!  You are acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs\nJarley?'\n\n'Yes, surely.'\n\n'Then upon my soul and honour, ma'am, you'll find in a certain angle of\nthat dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a few smaller names than Slum,'\nretorted that gentleman, tapping himself expressively on the forehead\nto imply that there was some slight quantity of brain behind it.  'I've\ngot a little trifle here, now,' said Mr Slum, taking off his hat which\nwas full of scraps of paper, 'a little trifle here, thrown off in the\nheat of the moment, which I should say was exactly the thing you wanted\nto set this place on fire with.  It's an acrostic--the name at this\nmoment is Warren, and the idea's a convertible one, and a positive\ninspiration for Jarley.  Have the acrostic.'\n\n'I suppose it's very dear,' said Mrs Jarley.\n\n'Five shillings,' returned Mr Slum, using his pencil as a toothpick.\n'Cheaper than any prose.'\n\n'I couldn't give more than three,' said Mrs Jarley.\n\n'--And six,' retorted Slum.  'Come.  Three-and-six.'\n\nMrs Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuating manner, and Mr\nSlum entered the order in a small note-book as a three-and-sixpenny\none.  Mr Slum then withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most\naffectionate leave of his patroness, and promising to return, as soon\nas he possibly could, with a fair copy for the printer.\n\nAs his presence had not interfered with or interrupted the\npreparations, they were now far advanced, and were completed shortly\nafter his departure.  When the festoons were all put up as tastily as\nthey might be, the stupendous collection was uncovered, and there were\ndisplayed, on a raised platform some two feet from the floor, running\nround the room and parted from the rude public by a crimson rope breast\nhigh, divers sprightly effigies of celebrated characters, singly and in\ngroups, clad in glittering dresses of various climes and times, and\nstanding more or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very\nwide open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of\ntheir legs and arms very strongly developed, and all their countenances\nexpressing great surprise.  All the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted\nand very blue about the beards; and all the ladies were miraculous\nfigures; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were looking\nintensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary earnestness at\nnothing.\n\nWhen Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight, Mrs\nJarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child,\nand, sitting herself down in an arm-chair in the centre, formally\ninvested Nell with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out\nthe characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty.\n\n'That,' said Mrs Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a\nfigure at the beginning of the platform, 'is an unfortunate Maid of\nHonour in the Time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her\nfinger in consequence of working upon a Sunday.  Observe the blood\nwhich is trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the\nperiod, with which she is at work.'\n\nAll this, Nell repeated twice or thrice: pointing to the finger and the\nneedle at the right times: and then passed on to the next.\n\n'That, ladies and gentlemen,' said Mrs Jarley, 'is Jasper Packlemerton\nof atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and\ndestroyed them all, by tickling the soles of their feet when they were\nsleeping in the consciousness of innocence and virtue.  On being\nbrought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what he had done,\nhe replied yes, he was sorry for having let 'em off so easy, and hoped\nall Christian husbands would pardon him the offence.  Let this be a\nwarning to all young ladies to be particular in the character of the\ngentlemen of their choice.  Observe that his fingers are curled as if\nin the act of tickling, and that his face is represented with a wink,\nas he appeared when committing his barbarous murders.'\n\nWhen Nell knew all about Mr Packlemerton, and could say it without\nfaltering, Mrs Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin\nman, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a\nhundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who\npoisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other historical\ncharacters and interesting but misguided individuals.  And so well did\nNell profit by her instructions, and so apt was she to remember them,\nthat by the time they had been shut up together for a couple of hours,\nshe was in full possession of the history of the whole establishment,\nand perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors.\n\nMrs Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy result,\nand carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the remaining\narrangements within doors, by virtue of which the passage had been\nalready converted into a grove of green-baize hung with the inscription\nshe had already seen (Mr Slum's productions), and a highly ornamented\ntable placed at the upper end for Mrs Jarley herself, at which she was\nto preside and take the money, in company with his Majesty King George\nthe Third, Mr Grimaldi as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous\ngentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and Mr Pitt holding in his hand a\ncorrect model of the bill for the imposition of the window duty.  The\npreparations without doors had not been neglected either; a nun of\ngreat personal attractions was telling her beads on the little portico\nover the door; and a brigand with the blackest possible head of hair,\nand the clearest possible complexion, was at that moment going round\nthe town in a cart, consulting the miniature of a lady.\n\nIt now only remained that Mr Slum's compositions should be judiciously\ndistributed; that the pathetic effusions should find their way to all\nprivate houses and tradespeople; and that the parody commencing 'If I\nknow'd a donkey,' should be confined to the taverns, and circulated\nonly among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits of the place.  When\nthis had been done, and Mrs Jarley had waited upon the boarding-schools\nin person, with a handbill composed expressly for them, in which it was\ndistinctly proved that wax-work refined the mind, cultivated the taste,\nand enlarged the sphere of the human understanding, that indefatigable\nlady sat down to dinner, and drank out of the suspicious bottle to a\nflourishing campaign.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\nUnquestionably Mrs Jarley had an inventive genius.  In the midst of the\nvarious devices for attracting visitors to the exhibition, little Nell\nwas not forgotten.  The light cart in which the Brigand usually made\nhis perambulations being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, and\nthe Brigand placed therein, contemplating the miniature of his beloved\nas usual, Nell was accommodated with a seat beside him, decorated with\nartificial flowers, and in this state and ceremony rode slowly through\nthe town every morning, dispersing handbills from a basket, to the\nsound of drum and trumpet.  The beauty of the child, coupled with her\ngentle and timid bearing, produced quite a sensation in the little\ncountry place.  The Brigand, heretofore a source of exclusive interest\nin the streets, became a mere secondary consideration, and to be\nimportant only as a part of the show of which she was the chief\nattraction.  Grown-up folks began to be interested in the bright-eyed\ngirl, and some score of little boys fell desperately in love, and\nconstantly left enclosures of nuts and apples, directed in small-text,\nat the wax-work door.\n\nThis desirable impression was not lost on Mrs Jarley, who, lest Nell\nshould become too cheap, soon sent the Brigand out alone again, and\nkept her in the exhibition room, where she described the figures every\nhalf-hour to the great satisfaction of admiring audiences.  And these\naudiences were of a very superior description, including a great many\nyoung ladies' boarding-schools, whose favour Mrs Jarley had been at\ngreat pains to conciliate, by altering the face and costume of Mr\nGrimaldi as clown to represent Mr Lindley Murray as he appeared when\nengaged in the composition of his English Grammar, and turning a\nmurderess of great renown into Mrs Hannah More--both of which\nlikenesses were admitted by Miss Monflathers, who was at the head of\nthe head Boarding and Day Establishment in the town, and who\ncondescended to take a Private View with eight chosen young ladies, to\nbe quite startling from their extreme correctness.  Mr Pitt in a\nnightcap and bedgown, and without his boots, represented the poet\nCowper with perfect exactness; and Mary Queen of Scots in a dark wig,\nwhite shirt-collar, and male attire, was such a complete image of Lord\nByron that the young ladies quite screamed when they saw it.  Miss\nMonflathers, however, rebuked this enthusiasm, and took occasion to\nreprove Mrs Jarley for not keeping her collection more select:\nobserving that His Lordship had held certain opinions quite\nincompatible with wax-work honours, and adding something about a Dean\nand Chapter, which Mrs Jarley did not understand.\n\nAlthough her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell found in the lady\nof the caravan a very kind and considerate person, who had not only a\npeculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but for making everybody\nabout her comfortable also; which latter taste, it may be remarked, is,\neven in persons who live in much finer places than caravans, a far more\nrare and uncommon one than the first, and is not by any means its\nnecessary consequence.  As her popularity procured her various little\nfees from the visitors on which her patroness never demanded any toll,\nand as her grandfather too was well-treated and useful, she had no\ncause of anxiety in connexion with the wax-work, beyond that which\nsprung from her recollection of Quilp, and her fears that he might\nreturn and one day suddenly encounter them.\n\nQuilp indeed was a perpetual night-mare to the child, who was\nconstantly haunted by a vision of his ugly face and stunted figure.\nShe slept, for their better security, in the room where the wax-work\nfigures were, and she never retired to this place at night but she\ntortured herself--she could not help it--with imagining a resemblance,\nin some one or other of their death-like faces, to the dwarf, and this\nfancy would sometimes so gain upon her that she would almost believe he\nhad removed the figure and stood within the clothes.  Then there were\nso many of them with their great glassy eyes--and, as they stood one\nbehind the other all about her bed, they looked so like living\ncreatures, and yet so unlike in their grim stillness and silence, that\nshe had a kind of terror of them for their own sakes, and would often\nlie watching their dusky figures until she was obliged to rise and\nlight a candle, or go and sit at the open window and feel a\ncompanionship in the bright stars.  At these times, she would recall\nthe old house and the window at which she used to sit alone; and then\nshe would think of poor Kit and all his kindness, until the tears came\ninto her eyes, and she would weep and smile together.\n\nOften and anxiously at this silent hour, her thoughts reverted to her\ngrandfather, and she would wonder how much he remembered of their\nformer life, and whether he was ever really mindful of the change in\ntheir condition and of their late helplessness and destitution.  When\nthey were wandering about, she seldom thought of this, but now she\ncould not help considering what would become of them if he fell sick,\nor her own strength were to fail her.  He was very patient and willing,\nhappy to execute any little task, and glad to be of use; but he was in\nthe same listless state, with no prospect of improvement--a mere\nchild--a poor, thoughtless, vacant creature--a harmless fond old man,\nsusceptible of tender love and regard for her, and of pleasant and\npainful impressions, but alive to nothing more.  It made her very sad\nto know that this was so--so sad to see it that sometimes when he sat\nidly by, smiling and nodding to her when she looked round, or when he\ncaressed some little child and carried it to and fro, as he was fond of\ndoing by the hour together, perplexed by its simple questions, yet\npatient under his own infirmity, and seeming almost conscious of it\ntoo, and humbled even before the mind of an infant--so sad it made her\nto see him thus, that she would burst into tears, and, withdrawing into\nsome secret place, fall down upon her knees and pray that he might be\nrestored.\n\nBut, the bitterness of her grief was not in beholding him in this\ncondition, when he was at least content and tranquil, nor in her\nsolitary meditations on his altered state, though these were trials for\na young heart.  Cause for deeper and heavier sorrow was yet to come.\n\nOne evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and her grandfather went\nout to walk.  They had been rather closely confined for some days, and\nthe weather being warm, they strolled a long distance.  Clear of the\ntown, they took a footpath which struck through some pleasant fields,\njudging that it would terminate in the road they quitted and enable\nthem to return that way.  It made, however, a much wider circuit than\nthey had supposed, and thus they were tempted onward until sunset, when\nthey reached the track of which they were in search, and stopped to\nrest.\n\nIt had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky was dark and\nlowering, save where the glory of the departing sun piled up masses of\ngold and burning fire, decaying embers of which gleamed here and there\nthrough the black veil, and shone redly down upon the earth.  The wind\nbegan to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went down carrying glad day\nelsewhere; and a train of dull clouds coming up against it, menaced\nthunder and lightning.  Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as\nthe storm clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the void they\nleft behind and spread over all the sky.  Then was heard the low\nrumbling of distant thunder, then the lightning quivered, and then the\ndarkness of an hour seemed to have gathered in an instant.\n\nFearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the old man and the\nchild hurried along the high road, hoping to find some house in which\nthey could seek a refuge from the storm, which had now burst forth in\nearnest, and every moment increased in violence.  Drenched with the\npelting rain, confused by the deafening thunder, and bewildered by the\nglare of the forked lightning, they would have passed a solitary house\nwithout being aware of its vicinity, had not a man, who was standing at\nthe door, called lustily to them to enter.\n\n'Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any rate, if you\nmake so little of the chance of being struck blind,' he said,\nretreating from the door and shading his eyes with his hands as the\njagged lightning came again.  'What were you going past for, eh?' he\nadded, as he closed the door and led the way along a passage to a room\nbehind.\n\n'We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard you calling,' Nell replied.\n\n'No wonder,' said the man, 'with this lightning in one's eyes,\nby-the-by.  You had better stand by the fire here, and dry yourselves a\nbit.  You can call for what you like if you want anything.  If you\ndon't want anything, you are not obliged to give an order.  Don't be\nafraid of that.  This is a public-house, that's all.  The Valiant\nSoldier is pretty well known hereabouts.'\n\n'Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, Sir?' asked Nell.\n\n'I thought everybody knew that,' replied the landlord.  'Where have you\ncome from, if you don't know the Valiant Soldier as well as the church\ncatechism?  This is the Valiant Soldier, by James Groves--Jem\nGroves--honest Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral character,\nand has a good dry skittle-ground.  If any man has got anything to say\nagain Jem Groves, let him say it TO Jem Groves, and Jem Groves can\naccommodate him with a customer on any terms from four pound a side to\nforty.\n\nWith these words, the speaker tapped himself on the waistcoat to\nintimate that he was the Jem Groves so highly eulogized; sparred\nscientifically at a counterfeit Jem Groves, who was sparring at society\nin general from a black frame over the chimney-piece; and, applying a\nhalf-emptied glass of spirits and water to his lips, drank Jem Groves's\nhealth.\n\nThe night being warm, there was a large screen drawn across the room,\nfor a barrier against the heat of the fire.  It seemed as if somebody\non the other side of this screen had been insinuating doubts of Mr\nGroves's prowess, and had thereby given rise to these egotistical\nexpressions, for Mr Groves wound up his defiance by giving a loud knock\nupon it with his knuckles and pausing for a reply from the other side.\n\n'There an't many men,' said Mr Groves, no answer being returned, 'who\nwould ventur' to cross Jem Groves under his own roof.  There's only one\nman, I know, that has nerve enough for that, and that man's not a\nhundred mile from here neither.  But he's worth a dozen men, and I let\nhim say of me whatever he likes in consequence--he knows that.'\n\nIn return for this complimentary address, a very gruff hoarse voice\nbade Mr Groves 'hold his noise and light a candle.'  And the same voice\nremarked that the same gentleman 'needn't waste his breath in brag, for\nmost people knew pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of.'\n\n'Nell, they're--they're playing cards,' whispered the old man, suddenly\ninterested.  'Don't you hear them?'\n\n'Look sharp with that candle,' said the voice; 'it's as much as I can\ndo to see the pips on the cards as it is; and get this shutter closed\nas quick as you can, will you?  Your beer will be the worse for\nto-night's thunder I expect.--Game!  Seven-and-sixpence to me, old\nIsaac.  Hand over.'\n\n'Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them?' whispered the old man again,\nwith increased earnestness, as the money chinked upon the table.\n\n'I haven't seen such a storm as this,' said a sharp cracked voice of\nmost disagreeable quality, when a tremendous peal of thunder had died\naway, 'since the night when old Luke Withers won thirteen times running\non the red.  We all said he had the Devil's luck and his own, and as it\nwas the kind of night for the Devil to be out and busy, I suppose he\nwas looking over his shoulder, if anybody could have seen him.'\n\n'Ah!' returned the gruff voice; 'for all old Luke's winning through\nthick and thin of late years, I remember the time when he was the\nunluckiest and unfortunatest of men.  He never took a dice-box in his\nhand, or held a card, but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out\ncompletely.'\n\n'Do you hear what he says?' whispered the old man.  'Do you hear that,\nNell?'\n\nThe child saw with astonishment and alarm that his whole appearance had\nundergone a complete change.  His face was flushed and eager, his eyes\nwere strained, his teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the\nhand he laid upon her arm trembled so violently that she shook beneath\nits grasp.\n\n'Bear witness,' he muttered, looking upward, 'that I always said it;\nthat I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was the truth, and that it must\nbe so!  What money have we, Nell?  Come!  I saw you with money\nyesterday.  What money have we?  Give it to me.'\n\n'No, no, let me keep it, grandfather,' said the frightened child.  'Let\nus go away from here.  Do not mind the rain.  Pray let us go.'\n\n'Give it to me, I say,' returned the old man fiercely.  'Hush, hush,\ndon't cry, Nell.  If I spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it.  It's for\nthy good.  I have wronged thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet, I will\nindeed.  Where is the money?'\n\n'Do not take it,' said the child.  'Pray do not take it, dear.  For\nboth our sakes let me keep it, or let me throw it away--better let me\nthrow it away, than you take it now.  Let us go; do let us go.'\n\n'Give me the money,' returned the old man, 'I must have it.\nThere--there--that's my dear Nell.  I'll right thee one day, child,\nI'll right thee, never fear!'\n\nShe took from her pocket a little purse.  He seized it with the same\nrapid impatience which had characterised his speech, and hastily made\nhis way to the other side of the screen.  It was impossible to restrain\nhim, and the trembling child followed close behind.\n\nThe landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was engaged in\ndrawing the curtain of the window.  The speakers whom they had heard\nwere two men, who had a pack of cards and some silver money between\nthem, while upon the screen itself the games they had played were\nscored in chalk.  The man with the rough voice was a burly fellow of\nmiddle age, with large black whiskers, broad cheeks, a coarse wide\nmouth, and bull neck, which was pretty freely displayed as his shirt\ncollar was only confined by a loose red neckerchief.  He wore his hat,\nwhich was of a brownish-white, and had beside him a thick knotted\nstick.  The other man, whom his companion had called Isaac, was of a\nmore slender figure--stooping, and high in the shoulders--with a very\nill-favoured face, and a most sinister and villainous squint.\n\n'Now old gentleman,' said Isaac, looking round.  'Do you know either of\nus?  This side of the screen is private, sir.'\n\n'No offence, I hope,' returned the old man.\n\n'But by G--, sir, there is offence,' said the other, interrupting him,\n'when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen who are\nparticularly engaged.'\n\n'I had no intention to offend,' said the old man, looking anxiously at\nthe cards.  'I thought that--'\n\n'But you had no right to think, sir,' retorted the other.  'What the\ndevil has a man at your time of life to do with thinking?'\n\n'Now bully boy,' said the stout man, raising his eyes from his cards\nfor the first time, 'can't you let him speak?'\n\nThe landlord, who had apparently resolved to remain neutral until he\nknew which side of the question the stout man would espouse, chimed in\nat this place with 'Ah, to be sure, can't you let him speak, Isaac\nList?'\n\n'Can't I let him speak,' sneered Isaac in reply, mimicking as nearly as\nhe could, in his shrill voice, the tones of the landlord.  'Yes, I can\nlet him speak, Jemmy Groves.'\n\n'Well then, do it, will you?' said the landlord.\n\nMr List's squint assumed a portentous character, which seemed to\nthreaten a prolongation of this controversy, when his companion, who\nhad been looking sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to it.\n\n'Who knows,' said he, with a cunning look, 'but the gentleman may have\ncivilly meant to ask if he might have the honour to take a hand with\nus!'\n\n'I did mean it,' cried the old man.  'That is what I mean.  That is\nwhat I want now!'\n\n'I thought so,' returned the same man.  'Then who knows but the\ngentleman, anticipating our objection to play for love, civilly desired\nto play for money?'\n\nThe old man replied by shaking the little purse in his eager hand, and\nthen throwing it down upon the table, and gathering up the cards as a\nmiser would clutch at gold.\n\n'Oh!  That indeed,' said Isaac; 'if that's what the gentleman meant, I\nbeg the gentleman's pardon.  Is this the gentleman's little purse?  A\nvery pretty little purse.  Rather a light purse,' added Isaac, throwing\nit into the air and catching it dexterously, 'but enough to amuse a\ngentleman for half an hour or so.'\n\n'We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in Groves,' said the\nstout man.  'Come, Jemmy.'\n\nThe landlord, who conducted himself like one who was well used to such\nlittle parties, approached the table and took his seat.  The child, in\na perfect agony, drew her grandfather aside, and implored him, even\nthen, to come away.\n\n'Come; and we may be so happy,' said the child.\n\n'We WILL be happy,' replied the old man hastily.  'Let me go, Nell.\nThe means of happiness are on the cards and the dice.  We must rise\nfrom little winnings to great.  There's little to be won here; but\ngreat will come in time.  I shall but win back my own, and it's all for\nthee, my darling.'\n\n'God help us!' cried the child.  'Oh! what hard fortune brought us\nhere?'\n\n'Hush!' rejoined the old man laying his hand upon her mouth, 'Fortune\nwill not bear chiding.  We must not reproach her, or she shuns us; I\nhave found that out.'\n\n'Now, mister,' said the stout man.  'If you're not coming yourself,\ngive us the cards, will you?'\n\n'I am coming,' cried the old man.  'Sit thee down, Nell, sit thee down\nand look on.  Be of good heart, it's all for thee--all--every penny.\nI don't tell them, no, no, or else they wouldn't play, dreading the\nchance that such a cause must give me.  Look at them.  See what they\nare and what thou art.  Who doubts that we must win!'\n\n'The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't coming,' said Isaac,\nmaking as though he would rise from the table.  'I'm sorry the\ngentleman's daunted--nothing venture, nothing have--but the gentleman\nknows best.'\n\n'Why I am ready.  You have all been slow but me,' said the old man.  'I\nwonder who is more anxious to begin than I.'\n\nAs he spoke he drew a chair to the table; and the other three closing\nround it at the same time, the game commenced.\n\nThe child sat by, and watched its progress with a troubled mind.\nRegardless of the run of luck, and mindful only of the desperate\npassion which had its hold upon her grandfather, losses and gains were\nto her alike.  Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by a\ndefeat, there he sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and intensely\nanxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous for the paltry stakes, that she\ncould have almost better borne to see him dead.  And yet she was the\ninnocent cause of all this torture, and he, gambling with such a savage\nthirst for gain as the most insatiable gambler never felt, had not one\nselfish thought!\n\nOn the contrary, the other three--knaves and gamesters by their\ntrade--while intent upon their game, were yet as cool and quiet as if\nevery virtue had been centered in their breasts.  Sometimes one would\nlook up to smile to another, or to snuff the feeble candle, or to\nglance at the lightning as it shot through the open window and\nfluttering curtain, or to listen to some louder peal of thunder than\nthe rest, with a kind of momentary impatience, as if it put him out;\nbut there they sat, with a calm indifference to everything but their\ncards, perfect philosophers in appearance, and with no greater show of\npassion or excitement than if they had been made of stone.\n\nThe storm had raged for full three hours; the lightning had grown\nfainter and less frequent; the thunder, from seeming to roll and break\nabove their heads, had gradually died away into a deep hoarse distance;\nand still the game went on, and still the anxious child was quite\nforgotten.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\nAt length the play came to an end, and Mr Isaac List rose the only\nwinner.  Mat and the landlord bore their losses with professional\nfortitude.  Isaac pocketed his gains with the air of a man who had\nquite made up his mind to win, all along, and was neither surprised nor\npleased.\n\nNell's little purse was exhausted; but although it lay empty by his\nside, and the other players had now risen from the table, the old man\nsat poring over the cards, dealing them as they had been dealt before,\nand turning up the different hands to see what each man would have held\nif they had still been playing.  He was quite absorbed in this\noccupation, when the child drew near and laid her hand upon his\nshoulder, telling him it was near midnight.\n\n'See the curse of poverty, Nell,' he said, pointing to the packs he had\nspread out upon the table.  'If I could have gone on a little longer,\nonly a little longer, the luck would have turned on my side.  Yes, it's\nas plain as the marks upon the cards.  See here--and there--and here\nagain.'\n\n'Put them away,' urged the child.  'Try to forget them.'\n\n'Try to forget them!' he rejoined, raising his haggard face to hers,\nand regarding her with an incredulous stare.  'To forget them!  How are\nwe ever to grow rich if I forget them?'\n\nThe child could only shake her head.\n\n'No, no, Nell,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'they must not be\nforgotten.  We must make amends for this as soon as we can.\nPatience--patience, and we'll right thee yet, I promise thee.  Lose\nto-day, win to-morrow.  And nothing can be won without anxiety and\ncare--nothing.  Come, I am ready.'\n\n'Do you know what the time is?' said Mr Groves, who was smoking with\nhis friends.  'Past twelve o'clock--'\n\n'--And a rainy night,' added the stout man.\n\n'The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves.  Good beds.  Cheap entertainment\nfor man and beast,' said Mr Groves, quoting his sign-board.  'Half-past\ntwelve o'clock.'\n\n'It's very late,' said the uneasy child.  'I wish we had gone before.\nWhat will they think of us!  It will be two o'clock by the time we get\nback.  What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?'\n\n'Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer one shilling; total\ntwo shillings and sixpence,' replied the Valiant Soldier.\n\nNow, Nell had still the piece of gold sewn in her dress; and when she\ncame to consider the lateness of the hour, and the somnolent habits of\nMrs Jarley, and to imagine the state of consternation in which they\nwould certainly throw that good lady by knocking her up in the middle\nof the night--and when she reflected, on the other hand, that if they\nremained where they were, and rose early in the morning, they might get\nback before she awoke, and could plead the violence of the storm by\nwhich they had been overtaken, as a good apology for their absence--she\ndecided, after a great deal of hesitation, to remain.  She therefore\ntook her grandfather aside, and telling him that she had still enough\nleft to defray the cost of their lodging, proposed that they should\nstay there for the night.\n\n'If I had had but that money before--If I had only known of it a few\nminutes ago!' muttered the old man.\n\n'We will decide to stop here if you please,' said Nell, turning hastily\nto the landlord.\n\n'I think that's prudent,' returned Mr Groves.  'You shall have your\nsuppers directly.'\n\nAccordingly, when Mr Groves had smoked his pipe out, knocked out the\nashes, and placed it carefully in a corner of the fire-place, with the\nbowl downwards, he brought in the bread and cheese, and beer, with many\nhigh encomiums upon their excellence, and bade his guests fall to, and\nmake themselves at home.  Nell and her grandfather ate sparingly, for\nboth were occupied with their own reflections; the other gentlemen, for\nwhose constitutions beer was too weak and tame a liquid, consoled\nthemselves with spirits and tobacco.\n\nAs they would leave the house very early in the morning, the child was\nanxious to pay for their entertainment before they retired to bed.  But\nas she felt the necessity of concealing her little hoard from her\ngrandfather, and had to change the piece of gold, she took it secretly\nfrom its place of concealment, and embraced an opportunity of following\nthe landlord when he went out of the room, and tendered it to him in\nthe little bar.\n\n'Will you give me the change here, if you please?' said the child.\n\nMr James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked at the money, and\nrang it, and looked at the child, and at the money again, as though he\nhad a mind to inquire how she came by it.  The coin being genuine,\nhowever, and changed at his house, he probably felt, like a wise\nlandlord, that it was no business of his.  At any rate, he counted out\nthe change, and gave it her.  The child was returning to the room where\nthey had passed the evening, when she fancied she saw a figure just\ngliding in at the door.  There was nothing but a long dark passage\nbetween this door and the place where she had changed the money, and,\nbeing very certain that no person had passed in or out while she stood\nthere, the thought struck her that she had been watched.\n\nBut by whom?  When she re-entered the room, she found its inmates\nexactly as she had left them.  The stout fellow lay upon two chairs,\nresting his head on his hand, and the squinting man reposed in a\nsimilar attitude on the opposite side of the table.  Between them sat\nher grandfather, looking intently at the winner with a kind of hungry\nadmiration, and hanging upon his words as if he were some superior\nbeing.  She was puzzled for a moment, and looked round to see if any\nelse were there.  No.  Then she asked her grandfather in a whisper\nwhether anybody had left the room while she was absent.  'No,' he said,\n'nobody.'\n\nIt must have been her fancy then; and yet it was strange, that, without\nanything in her previous thoughts to lead to it, she should have\nimagined this figure so very distinctly.  She was still wondering and\nthinking of it, when a girl came to light her to bed.\n\nThe old man took leave of the company at the same time, and they went\nup stairs together.  It was a great, rambling house, with dull\ncorridors and wide staircases which the flaring candles seemed to make\nmore gloomy.  She left her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her\nguide to another, which was at the end of a passage, and approached by\nsome half-dozen crazy steps.  This was prepared for her.  The girl\nlingered a little while to talk, and tell her grievances.  She had not\na good place, she said; the wages were low, and the work was hard.  She\nwas going to leave it in a fortnight; the child couldn't recommend her\nto another, she supposed?  Instead she was afraid another would be\ndifficult to get after living there, for the house had a very\nindifferent character; there was far too much card-playing, and such\nlike.  She was very much mistaken if some of the people who came there\noftenest were quite as honest as they might be, but she wouldn't have\nit known that she had said so, for the world.  Then there were some\nrambling allusions to a rejected sweetheart, who had threatened to go a\nsoldiering--a final promise of knocking at the door early in the\nmorning--and 'Good night.'\n\nThe child did not feel comfortable when she was left alone.  She could\nnot help thinking of the figure stealing through the passage down\nstairs; and what the girl had said did not tend to reassure her.  The\nmen were very ill-looking.  They might get their living by robbing and\nmurdering travellers.  Who could tell?\n\nReasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of them for a\nlittle while, there came the anxiety to which the adventures of the\nnight gave rise.  Here was the old passion awakened again in her\ngrandfather's breast, and to what further distraction it might tempt\nhim Heaven only knew.  What fears their absence might have occasioned\nalready!  Persons might be seeking for them even then.  Would they be\nforgiven in the morning, or turned adrift again!  Oh!  why had they\nstopped in that strange place?  It would have been better, under any\ncircumstances, to have gone on!\n\nAt last, sleep gradually stole upon her--a broken, fitful sleep,\ntroubled by dreams of falling from high towers, and waking with a start\nand in great terror.  A deeper slumber followed this--and then--What!\nThat figure in the room.\n\nA figure was there.  Yes, she had drawn up the blind to admit the light\nwhen it should be dawn, and there, between the foot of the bed and the\ndark casement, it crouched and slunk along, groping its way with\nnoiseless hands, and stealing round the bed.  She had no voice to cry\nfor help, no power to move, but lay still, watching it.\n\nOn it came--on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's head.  The breath\nso near her pillow, that she shrunk back into it, lest those wandering\nhands should light upon her face.  Back again it stole to the\nwindow--then turned its head towards her.\n\nThe dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter darkness of the room,\nbut she saw the turning of the head, and felt and knew how the eyes\nlooked and the ears listened.  There it remained, motionless as she.\nAt length, still keeping the face towards her, it busied its hands in\nsomething, and she heard the chink of money.\n\nThen, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before, and replacing\nthe garments it had taken from the bedside, dropped upon its hands and\nknees, and crawled away.  How slowly it seemed to move, now that she\ncould hear but not see it, creeping along the floor!  It reached the\ndoor at last, and stood upon its feet.  The steps creaked beneath its\nnoiseless tread, and it was gone.\n\nThe first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror of being by\nherself in that room--to have somebody by--not to be alone--and then\nher power of speech would be restored.  With no consciousness of having\nmoved, she gained the door.\n\nThere was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom of the steps.\n\nShe could not pass it; she might have done so, perhaps, in the darkness\nwithout being seized, but her blood curdled at the thought.  The figure\nstood quite still, and so did she; not boldly, but of necessity; for\ngoing back into the room was hardly less terrible than going on.\n\nThe rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down in plashing\nstreams from the thatched roof.  Some summer insect, with no escape\ninto the air, flew blindly to and fro, beating its body against the\nwalls and ceiling, and filling the silent place with murmurs.  The\nfigure moved again.  The child involuntarily did the same.  Once in her\ngrandfather's room, she would be safe.\n\nIt crept along the passage until it came to the very door she longed so\nardently to reach.  The child, in the agony of being so near, had\nalmost darted forward with the design of bursting into the room and\nclosing it behind her, when the figure stopped again.\n\nThe idea flashed suddenly upon her--what if it entered there, and had a\ndesign upon the old man's life!  She turned faint and sick.  It did.\nIt went in.  There was a light inside.  The figure was now within the\nchamber, and she, still dumb--quite dumb, and almost senseless--stood\nlooking on.\n\nThe door was partly open.  Not knowing what she meant to do, but\nmeaning to preserve him or be killed herself, she staggered forward and\nlooked in. What sight was that which met her view!\n\nThe bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and empty.  And at a table\nsat the old man himself; the only living creature there; his white face\npinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally\nbright--counting the money of which his hands had robbed her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\nWith steps more faltering and unsteady than those with which she had\napproached the room, the child withdrew from the door, and groped her\nway back to her own chamber.  The terror she had lately felt was\nnothing compared with that which now oppressed her.  No strange robber,\nno treacherous host conniving at the plunder of his guests, or stealing\nto their beds to kill them in their sleep, no nightly prowler, however\nterrible and cruel, could have awakened in her bosom half the dread\nwhich the recognition of her silent visitor inspired.  The grey-headed\nold man gliding like a ghost into her room and acting the thief while\nhe supposed her fast asleep, then bearing off his prize and hanging\nover it with the ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was\nworse--immeasurably worse, and far more dreadful, for the moment, to\nreflect upon--than anything her wildest fancy could have suggested.\nIf he should return--there was no lock or bolt upon the door, and if,\ndistrustful of having left some money yet behind, he should come back\nto seek for more--a vague awe and horror surrounded the idea of his\nslinking in again with stealthy tread, and turning his face toward the\nempty bed, while she shrank down close at his feet to avoid his touch,\nwhich was almost insupportable.  She sat and listened.  Hark!  A\nfootstep on the stairs, and now the door was slowly opening.  It was\nbut imagination, yet imagination had all the terrors of reality; nay,\nit was worse, for the reality would have come and gone, and there an\nend, but in imagination it was always coming, and never went away.\n\nThe feeling which beset the child was one of dim uncertain horror.  She\nhad no fear of the dear old grandfather, in whose love for her this\ndisease of the brain had been engendered; but the man she had seen that\nnight, wrapt in the game of chance, lurking in her room, and counting\nthe money by the glimmering light, seemed like another creature in his\nshape, a monstrous distortion of his image, a something to recoil from,\nand be the more afraid of, because it bore a likeness to him, and kept\nclose about her, as he did.  She could scarcely connect her own\naffectionate companion, save by his loss, with this old man, so like\nyet so unlike him.  She had wept to see him dull and quiet.  How much\ngreater cause she had for weeping now!\n\nThe child sat watching and thinking of these things, until the phantom\nin her mind so increased in gloom and terror, that she felt it would be\na relief to hear the old man's voice, or, if he were asleep, even to\nsee him, and banish some of the fears that clustered round his image.\nShe stole down the stairs and passage again.  The door was still ajar\nas she had left it, and the candle burning as before.\n\nShe had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if he were waking,\nthat she was uneasy and could not rest, and had come to see if his were\nstill alight.  Looking into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his\nbed, and so took courage to enter.\n\nFast asleep.  No passion in the face, no avarice, no anxiety, no wild\ndesire; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace.  This was not the gambler,\nor the shadow in her room; this was not even the worn and jaded man\nwhose face had so often met her own in the grey morning light; this was\nher dear old friend, her harmless fellow-traveller, her good, kind\ngrandfather.\n\nShe had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering features, but she had\na deep and weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears.\n\n'God bless him!' said the child, stooping softly to kiss his placid\ncheek.  'I see too well now, that they would indeed part us if they\nfound us out, and shut him up from the light of the sun and sky.  He\nhas only me to help him.  God bless us both!'\n\nLighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come, and,\ngaining her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of that\nlong, long, miserable night.\n\nAt last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she fell asleep.\nShe was quickly roused by the girl who had shown her up to bed; and, as\nsoon as she was dressed, prepared to go down to her grandfather.  But\nfirst she searched her pocket and found that her money was all\ngone--not a sixpence remained.\n\nThe old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were on their road.\nThe child thought he rather avoided her eye, and appeared to expect\nthat she would tell him of her loss.  She felt she must do that, or he\nmight suspect the truth.\n\n'Grandfather,' she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked\nabout a mile in silence, 'do you think they are honest people at the\nhouse yonder?'\n\n'Why?' returned the old man trembling.  'Do I think them honest--yes,\nthey played honestly.'\n\n'I'll tell you why I ask,' rejoined Nell.  'I lost some money last\nnight--out of my bedroom, I am sure.  Unless it was taken by somebody\nin jest--only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh\nheartily if I could but know it--'\n\n'Who would take money in jest?' returned the old man in a hurried\nmanner.  'Those who take money, take it to keep.  Don't talk of jest.'\n\n'Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,' said the child, whose last\nhope was destroyed by the manner of this reply.\n\n'But is there no more, Nell?' said the old man; 'no more anywhere?  Was\nit all taken--every farthing of it--was there nothing left?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied the child.\n\n'We must get more,' said the old man, 'we must earn it, Nell, hoard it\nup, scrape it together, come by it somehow.  Never mind this loss.\nTell nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it.  Don't ask how;--we\nmay regain it, and a great deal more;--but tell nobody, or trouble may\ncome of it.  And so they took it out of thy room, when thou wert\nasleep!' he added in a compassionate tone, very different from the\nsecret, cunning way in which he had spoken until now.  'Poor Nell, poor\nlittle Nell!'\n\nThe child hung down her head and wept.  The sympathising tone in which\nhe spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that.  It was not the\nlightest part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her.\n\n'Not a word about it to any one but me,' said the old man, 'no, not\neven to me,' he added hastily, 'for it can do no good.  All the losses\nthat ever were, are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling.  Why should\nthey be, when we will win them back?'\n\n'Let them go,' said the child looking up.  'Let them go, once and for\never, and I would never shed another tear if every penny had been a\nthousand pounds.'\n\n'Well, well,' returned the old man, checking himself as some impetuous\nanswer rose to his lips, 'she knows no better.  I ought to be thankful\nof it.'\n\n'But listen to me,' said the child earnestly, 'will you listen to me?'\n\n'Aye, aye, I'll listen,' returned the old man, still without looking at\nher; 'a pretty voice.  It has always a sweet sound to me.  It always\nhad when it was her mother's, poor child.'\n\n'Let me persuade you, then--oh, do let me persuade you,' said the\nchild, 'to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no fortune but\nthe fortune we pursue together.'\n\n'We pursue this aim together,' retorted her grandfather, still looking\naway and seeming to confer with himself.  'Whose image sanctifies the\ngame?'\n\n'Have we been worse off,' resumed the child, 'since you forgot these\ncares, and we have been travelling on together?  Have we not been much\nbetter and happier without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in\nthat unhappy house, when they were on your mind?'\n\n'She speaks the truth,' murmured the old man in the same tone as\nbefore.  'It must not turn me, but it is the truth; no doubt it is.'\n\n'Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we\nturned our backs upon it for the last time,' said Nell, 'only remember\nwhat we have been since we have been free of all those miseries--what\npeaceful days and quiet nights we have had--what pleasant times we have\nknown--what happiness we have enjoyed.  If we have been tired or\nhungry, we have been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it.\nThink what beautiful things we have seen, and how contented we have\nfelt.  And why was this blessed change?'\n\nHe stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no\nmore just then, for he was busy.  After a time he kissed her cheek,\nstill motioning her to silence, and walked on, looking far before him,\nand sometimes stopping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground,\nas if he were painfully trying to collect his disordered thoughts.\nOnce she saw tears in his eyes.  When he had gone on thus for some\ntime, he took her hand in his as he was accustomed to do, with nothing\nof the violence or animation of his late manner; and so, by degrees so\nfine that the child could not trace them, he settled down into his\nusual quiet way, and suffered her to lead him where she would.\n\nWhen they presented themselves in the midst of the stupendous\ncollection, they found, as Nell had anticipated, that Mrs Jarley was\nnot yet out of bed, and that, although she had suffered some uneasiness\non their account overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past\neleven o'clock, she had retired in the persuasion, that, being\novertaken by storm at some distance from home, they had sought the\nnearest shelter, and would not return before morning.  Nell immediately\napplied herself with great assiduity to the decoration and preparation\nof the room, and had the satisfaction of completing her task, and\ndressing herself neatly, before the beloved of the Royal Family came\ndown to breakfast.\n\n'We haven't had,' said Mrs Jarley when the meal was over, 'more than\neight of Miss Monflathers's young ladies all the time we've been here,\nand there's twenty-six of 'em, as I was told by the cook when I asked\nher a question or two and put her on the free-list.  We must try 'em\nwith a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear, and see\nwhat effect that has upon 'em.'\n\nThe proposed expedition being one of paramount importance, Mrs Jarley\nadjusted Nell's bonnet with her own hands, and declaring that she\ncertainly did look very pretty, and reflected credit on the\nestablishment, dismissed her with many commendations, and certain\nneedful directions as to the turnings on the right which she was to\ntake, and the turnings on the left which she was to avoid.  Thus\ninstructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding out Miss Monflathers's\nBoarding and Day Establishment, which was a large house, with a high\nwall, and a large garden-gate with a large brass plate, and a small\ngrating through which Miss Monflathers's parlour-maid inspected all\nvisitors before admitting them; for nothing in the shape of a man--no,\nnot even a milkman--was suffered, without special license, to pass that\ngate.  Even the tax-gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a\nbroad-brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating.  More\nobdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate of Miss Monflathers's\nfrowned on all mankind.  The very butcher respected it as a gate of\nmystery, and left off whistling when he rang the bell.\n\nAs Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges\nwith a creaking noise, and, forth from the solemn grove beyond, came a\nlong file of young ladies, two and two, all with open books in their\nhands, and some with parasols likewise.  And last of the goodly\nprocession came Miss Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac\nsilk, and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally envious of\nthe other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers.\n\nConfused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell stood with\ndowncast eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until Miss\nMonflathers, bringing up the rear, approached her, when she curtseyed\nand presented her little packet; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers\ncommanded that the line should halt.\n\n'You're the wax-work child, are you not?' said Miss Monflathers.\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' replied Nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies had\ncollected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes were\nfixed.\n\n'And don't you think you must be a very wicked little child,' said Miss\nMonflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no\nopportunity of impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of the\nyoung ladies, 'to be a wax-work child at all?'\n\nPoor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not knowing\nwhat to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than before.\n\n'Don't you know,' said Miss Monflathers, 'that it's very naughty and\nunfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and benignantly\ntransmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused from their\ndormant state through the medium of cultivation?'\n\nThe two teachers murmured their respectful approval of this\nhome-thrust, and looked at Nell as though they would have said that\nthere indeed Miss Monflathers had hit her very hard.  Then they smiled\nand glanced at Miss Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they\nexchanged looks which plainly said that each considered herself smiler\nin ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and regarded the other as having no\nright to smile, and that her so doing was an act of presumption and\nimpertinence.\n\n'Don't you feel how naughty it is of you,' resumed Miss Monflathers,\n'to be a wax-work child, when you might have the proud consciousness of\nassisting, to the extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of\nyour country; of improving your mind by the constant contemplation of\nthe steam-engine; and of earning a comfortable and independent\nsubsistence of from two-and-ninepence to three shillings per week?\nDon't you know that the harder you are at work, the happier you are?'\n\n'\"How doth the little--\"' murmured one of the teachers, in quotation\nfrom Doctor Watts.\n\n'Eh?' said Miss Monflathers, turning smartly round.  'Who said that?'\n\nOf course the teacher who had not said it, indicated the rival who had,\nwhom Miss Monflathers frowningly requested to hold her peace; by that\nmeans throwing the informing teacher into raptures of joy.\n\n'The little busy bee,' said Miss Monflathers, drawing herself up, 'is\napplicable only to genteel children.\n\n  \"In books, or work, or healthful play\"\n\nis quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means\npainting on velvet, fancy needle-work, or embroidery.  In such cases as\nthese,' pointing to Nell, with her parasol, 'and in the case of all\npoor people's children, we should read it thus:\n\n\n  \"In work, work, work.  In work alway\n  Let my first years be past,\n  That I may give for ev'ry day\n  Some good account at last.\"'\n\n\nA deep hum of applause rose not only from the two teachers, but from\nall the pupils, who were equally astonished to hear Miss Monflathers\nimprovising after this brilliant style; for although she had been long\nknown as a politician, she had never appeared before as an original\npoet.  Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell was crying,\nand all eyes were again turned towards her.\n\nThere were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her handkerchief\nto brush them away, she happened to let it fall.  Before she could\nstoop to pick it up, one young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who\nhad been standing a little apart from the others, as though she had no\nrecognised place among them, sprang forward and put it in her hand.\nShe was gliding timidly away again, when she was arrested by the\ngoverness.\n\n'It was Miss Edwards who did that, I KNOW,' said Miss Monflathers\npredictively.  'Now I am sure that was Miss Edwards.'\n\nIt was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss Edwards, and Miss\nEdwards herself admitted that it was.\n\n'Is it not,' said Miss Monflathers, putting down her parasol to take a\nseverer view of the offender, 'a most remarkable thing, Miss Edwards,\nthat you have an attachment to the lower classes which always draws you\nto their sides; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing that\nall I say and do will not wean you from propensities which your\noriginal station in life have unhappily rendered habitual to you, you\nextremely vulgar-minded girl?'\n\n'I really intended no harm, ma'am,' said a sweet voice.  'It was a\nmomentary impulse, indeed.'\n\n'An impulse!' repeated Miss Monflathers scornfully.  'I wonder that you\npresume to speak of impulses to me'--both the teachers assented--'I am\nastonished'--both the teachers were astonished--'I suppose it is an\nimpulse which induces you to take the part of every grovelling and\ndebased person that comes in your way'--both the teachers supposed so\ntoo.\n\n'But I would have you know, Miss Edwards,' resumed the governess in a\ntone of increased severity, 'that you cannot be permitted--if it be\nonly for the sake of preserving a proper example and decorum in this\nestablishment--that you cannot be permitted, and that you shall not be\npermitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in this exceedingly\ngross manner.  If you have no reason to feel a becoming pride before\nwax-work children, there are young ladies here who have, and you must\neither defer to those young ladies or leave the establishment, Miss\nEdwards.'\n\nThis young lady, being motherless and poor, was apprenticed at the\nschool--taught for nothing--teaching others what she learnt, for\nnothing--boarded for nothing--lodged for nothing--and set down and\nrated as something immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers\nin the house.  The servant-maids felt her inferiority, for they were\nbetter treated; free to come and go, and regarded in their stations\nwith much more respect.  The teachers were infinitely superior, for\nthey had paid to go to school in their time, and were paid now.  The\npupils cared little for a companion who had no grand stories to tell\nabout home; no friends to come with post-horses, and be received in all\nhumility, with cake and wine, by the governess; no deferential servant\nto attend and bear her home for the holidays; nothing genteel to talk\nabout, and nothing to display.  But why was Miss Monflathers always\nvexed and irritated with the poor apprentice--how did that come to pass?\n\nWhy, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap, and the brightest\nglory of Miss Monflathers's school, was a baronet's daughter--the real\nlive daughter of a real live baronet--who, by some extraordinary\nreversal of the Laws of Nature, was not only plain in features but dull\nin intellect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit, and a\nhandsome face and figure.  It seems incredible.  Here was Miss Edwards,\nwho only paid a small premium which had been spent long ago, every day\noutshining and excelling the baronet's daughter, who learned all the\nextras (or was taught them all) and whose half-yearly bill came to\ndouble that of any other young lady's in the school, making no account\nof the honour and reputation of her pupilage.  Therefore, and because\nshe was a dependent, Miss Monflathers had a great dislike to Miss\nEdwards, and was spiteful to her, and aggravated by her, and, when she\nhad compassion on little Nell, verbally fell upon and maltreated her as\nwe have already seen.\n\n'You will not take the air to-day, Miss Edwards,' said Miss\nMonflathers.  'Have the goodness to retire to your own room, and not to\nleave it without permission.'\n\nThe poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was suddenly, in\nnautical phrase, 'brought to' by a subdued shriek from Miss Monflathers.\n\n'She has passed me without any salute!' cried the governess, raising\nher eyes to the sky.  'She has actually passed me without the slightest\nacknowledgment of my presence!'\n\nThe young lady turned and curtsied.  Nell could see that she raised her\ndark eyes to the face of her superior, and that their expression, and\nthat of her whole attitude for the instant, was one of mute but most\ntouching appeal against this ungenerous usage.  Miss Monflathers only\ntossed her head in reply, and the great gate closed upon a bursting\nheart.\n\n'As for you, you wicked child,' said Miss Monflathers, turning to Nell,\n'tell your mistress that if she presumes to take the liberty of sending\nto me any more, I will write to the legislative authorities and have\nher put in the stocks, or compelled to do penance in a white sheet; and\nyou may depend upon it that you shall certainly experience the\ntreadmill if you dare to come here again.  Now ladies, on.'\n\nThe procession filed off, two and two, with the books and parasols, and\nMiss Monflathers, calling the Baronet's daughter to walk with her and\nsmooth her ruffled feelings, discarded the two teachers--who by this\ntime had exchanged their smiles for looks of sympathy--and left them\nto bring up the rear, and hate each other a little more for being\nobliged to walk together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32\n\nMrs Jarley's wrath on first learning that she had been threatened with\nthe indignity of Stocks and Penance, passed all description.  The\ngenuine and only Jarley exposed to public scorn, jeered by children,\nand flouted by beadles!  The delight of the Nobility and Gentry shorn\nof a bonnet which a Lady Mayoress might have sighed to wear, and\narrayed in a white sheet as a spectacle of mortification and humility!\nAnd Miss Monflathers, the audacious creature who presumed, even in the\ndimmest and remotest distance of her imagination, to conjure up the\ndegrading picture, 'I am a'most inclined,' said Mrs Jarley, bursting\nwith the fulness of her anger and the weakness of her means of revenge,\n'to turn atheist when I think of it!'\n\nBut instead of adopting this course of retaliation, Mrs Jarley, on\nsecond thoughts, brought out the suspicious bottle, and ordering\nglasses to be set forth upon her favourite drum, and sinking into a\nchair behind it, called her satellites about her, and to them several\ntimes recounted, word for word, the affronts she had received.  This\ndone, she begged them in a kind of deep despair to drink; then laughed,\nthen cried, then took a little sip herself, then laughed and cried\nagain, and took a little more; and so, by degrees, the worthy lady went\non, increasing in smiles and decreasing in tears, until at last she\ncould not laugh enough at Miss Monflathers, who, from being an object\nof dire vexation, became one of sheer ridicule and absurdity.\n\n'For which of us is best off, I wonder,' quoth Mrs Jarley, 'she or me!\nIt's only talking, when all is said and done, and if she talks of me in\nthe stocks, why I can talk of her in the stocks, which is a good deal\nfunnier if we come to that.  Lord, what does it matter, after all!'\n\nHaving arrived at this comfortable frame of mind (to which she had been\ngreatly assisted by certain short interjectional remarks of the\nphilosophical George), Mrs Jarley consoled Nell with many kind words,\nand requested as a personal favour that whenever she thought of Miss\nMonflathers, she would do nothing else but laugh at her, all the days\nof her life.\n\nSo ended Mrs Jarley's wrath, which subsided long before the going down\nof the sun.  Nell's anxieties, however, were of a deeper kind, and the\nchecks they imposed upon her cheerfulness were not so easily removed.\n\nThat evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole away, and did\nnot come back until the night was far spent.  Worn out as she was, and\nfatigued in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes,\nuntil he returned--penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still\nhotly bent upon his infatuation.\n\n'Get me money,' he said wildly, as they parted for the night.  'I must\nhave money, Nell.  It shall be paid thee back with gallant interest one\nday, but all the money that comes into thy hands, must be mine--not for\nmyself, but to use for thee.  Remember, Nell, to use for thee!'\n\nWhat could the child do with the knowledge she had, but give him every\npenny that came into her hands, lest he should be tempted on to rob\ntheir benefactress?  If she told the truth (so thought the child) he\nwould be treated as a madman; if she did not supply him with money, he\nwould supply himself; supplying him, she fed the fire that burnt him\nup, and put him perhaps beyond recovery.  Distracted by these thoughts,\nborne down by the weight of the sorrow which she dared not tell,\ntortured by a crowd of apprehensions whenever the old man was absent,\nand dreading alike his stay and his return, the colour forsook her\ncheek, her eye grew dim, and her heart was oppressed and heavy.  All\nher old sorrows had come back upon her, augmented by new fears and\ndoubts; by day they were ever present to her mind; by night they\nhovered round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams.\n\nIt was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she should often\nrevert to that sweet young lady of whom she had only caught a hasty\nglance, but whose sympathy, expressed in one slight brief action, dwelt\nin her memory like the kindnesses of years.  She would often think, if\nshe had such a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs, how much\nlighter her heart would be--that if she were but free to hear that\nvoice, she would be happier.  Then she would wish that she were\nsomething better, that she were not quite so poor and humble, that she\ndared address her without fearing a repulse; and then feel that there\nwas an immeasurable distance between them, and have no hope that the\nyoung lady thought of her any more.\n\nIt was now holiday-time at the schools, and the young ladies had gone\nhome, and Miss Monflathers was reported to be flourishing in London,\nand damaging the hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but nobody said\nanything about Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home, or whether she\nhad any home to go to, whether she was still at the school, or anything\nabout her.  But one evening, as Nell was returning from a lonely walk,\nshe happened to pass the inn where the stage-coaches stopped, just as\none drove up, and there was the beautiful girl she so well remembered,\npressing forward to embrace a young child whom they were helping down\nfrom the roof.\n\nWell, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger than Nell,\nwhom she had not seen (so the story went afterwards) for five years,\nand to bring whom to that place on a short visit, she had been saving\nher poor means all that time.  Nell felt as if her heart would break\nwhen she saw them meet.  They went a little apart from the knot of\npeople who had congregated about the coach, and fell upon each other's\nneck, and sobbed, and wept with joy.  Their plain and simple dress, the\ndistance which the child had come alone, their agitation and delight,\nand the tears they shed, would have told their history by themselves.\n\nThey became a little more composed in a short time, and went away, not\nso much hand in hand as clinging to each other.  'Are you sure you're\nhappy, sister?' said the child as they passed where Nell was standing.\n'Quite happy now,' she answered.  'But always?' said the child.  'Ah,\nsister, why do you turn away your face?'\n\nNell could not help following at a little distance.  They went to the\nhouse of an old nurse, where the elder sister had engaged a bed-room\nfor the child.  'I shall come to you early every morning,' she said,\n'and we can be together all the day.'\n\n'Why not at night-time too? Dear sister, would they be angry with you\nfor that?'\n\nWhy were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with tears like those\nof the two sisters?  Why did she bear a grateful heart because they had\nmet, and feel it pain to think that they would shortly part?  Let us\nnot believe that any selfish reference--unconscious though it might\nhave been--to her own trials awoke this sympathy, but thank God that\nthe innocent joys of others can strongly move us, and that we, even in\nour fallen nature, have one source of pure emotion which must be prized\nin Heaven!\n\nBy morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by evening's gentle\nlight, the child, with a respect for the short and happy intercourse of\nthese two sisters which forbade her to approach and say a thankful\nword, although she yearned to do so, followed them at a distance in\ntheir walks and rambles, stopping when they stopped, sitting on the\ngrass when they sat down, rising when they went on, and feeling it a\ncompanionship and delight to be so near them.  Their evening walk was\nby a river's side.  Here, every night, the child was too, unseen by\nthem, unthought of, unregarded; but feeling as if they were her\nfriends, as if they had confidences and trusts together, as if her load\nwere lightened and less hard to bear; as if they mingled their sorrows,\nand found mutual consolation.  It was a weak fancy perhaps, the\nchildish fancy of a young and lonely creature; but night after night,\nand still the sisters loitered in the same place, and still the child\nfollowed with a mild and softened heart.\n\nShe was much startled, on returning home one night, to find that Mrs\nJarley had commanded an announcement to be prepared, to the effect that\nthe stupendous collection would only remain in its present quarters one\nday longer; in fulfilment of which threat (for all announcements\nconnected with public amusements are well known to be irrevocable and\nmost exact), the stupendous collection shut up next day.\n\n'Are we going from this place directly, ma'am?' said Nell.\n\n'Look here, child,' returned Mrs Jarley.  'That'll inform you.' And so\nsaying Mrs Jarley produced another announcement, wherein it was stated,\nthat, in consequence of numerous inquiries at the wax-work door, and in\nconsequence of crowds having been disappointed in obtaining admission,\nthe Exhibition would be continued for one week longer, and would\nre-open next day.\n\n'For now that the schools are gone, and the regular sight-seers\nexhausted,' said Mrs Jarley, 'we come to the General Public, and they\nwant stimulating.'\n\nUpon the following day at noon, Mrs Jarley established herself behind\nthe highly-ornamented table, attended by the distinguished effigies\nbefore mentioned, and ordered the doors to be thrown open for the\nreadmission of a discerning and enlightened public.  But the first\nday's operations were by no means of a successful character, inasmuch\nas the general public, though they manifested a lively interest in Mrs\nJarley personally, and such of her waxen satellites as were to be seen\nfor nothing, were not affected by any impulses moving them to the\npayment of sixpence a head.  Thus, notwithstanding that a great many\npeople continued to stare at the entry and the figures therein\ndisplayed; and remained there with great perseverance, by the hour at a\ntime, to hear the barrel-organ played and to read the bills; and\nnotwithstanding that they were kind enough to recommend their friends\nto patronise the exhibition in the like manner, until the door-way was\nregularly blockaded by half the population of the town, who, when they\nwent off duty, were relieved by the other half; it was not found that\nthe treasury was any the richer, or that the prospects of the\nestablishment were at all encouraging.\n\nIn this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs Jarley made\nextraordinary efforts to stimulate the popular taste, and whet the\npopular curiosity.  Certain machinery in the body of the nun on the\nleads over the door was cleaned up and put in motion, so that the\nfigure shook its head paralytically all day long, to the great\nadmiration of a drunken, but very Protestant, barber over the way, who\nlooked upon the said paralytic motion as typical of the degrading\neffect wrought upon the human mind by the ceremonies of the Romish\nChurch and discoursed upon that theme with great eloquence and\nmorality.  The two carters constantly passed in and out of the\nexhibition-room, under various disguises, protesting aloud that the\nsight was better worth the money than anything they had beheld in all\ntheir lives, and urging the bystanders, with tears in their eyes, not\nto neglect such a brilliant gratification.  Mrs Jarley sat in the\npay-place, chinking silver moneys from noon till night, and solemnly\ncalling upon the crowd to take notice that the price of admission was\nonly sixpence, and that the departure of the whole collection, on a\nshort tour among the Crowned Heads of Europe, was positively fixed for\nthat day week.\n\n'So be in time, be in time, be in time,' said Mrs Jarley at the close\nof every such address.  'Remember that this is Jarley's stupendous\ncollection of upwards of One Hundred Figures, and that it is the only\ncollection in the world; all others being imposters and deceptions.  Be\nin time, be in time, be in time!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 33\n\nAs the course of this tale requires that we should become acquainted,\nsomewhere hereabouts, with a few particulars connected with the\ndomestic economy of Mr Sampson Brass, and as a more convenient place\nthan the present is not likely to occur for that purpose, the historian\ntakes the friendly reader by the hand, and springing with him into the\nair, and cleaving the same at a greater rate than ever Don Cleophas\nLeandro Perez Zambullo and his familiar travelled through that pleasant\nregion in company, alights with him upon the pavement of Bevis Marks.\n\nThe intrepid aeronauts alight before a small dark house, once the\nresidence of Mr Sampson Brass.\n\nIn the parlour window of this little habitation, which is so close upon\nthe footway that the passenger who takes the wall brushes the dim glass\nwith his coat sleeve--much to its improvement, for it is very dirty--in\nthis parlour window in the days of its occupation by Sampson Brass,\nthere hung, all awry and slack, and discoloured by the sun, a curtain\nof faded green, so threadbare from long service as by no means to\nintercept the view of the little dark room, but rather to afford a\nfavourable medium through which to observe it accurately.  There was\nnot much to look at.  A rickety table, with spare bundles of papers,\nyellow and ragged from long carriage in the pocket, ostentatiously\ndisplayed upon its top; a couple of stools set face to face on opposite\nsides of this crazy piece of furniture; a treacherous old chair by the\nfire-place, whose withered arms had hugged full many a client and\nhelped to squeeze him dry; a second-hand wig box, used as a depository\nfor blank writs and declarations and other small forms of law, once the\nsole contents of the head which belonged to the wig which belonged to\nthe box, as they were now of the box itself; two or three common books\nof practice; a jar of ink, a pounce box, a stunted hearth-broom, a\ncarpet trodden to shreds but still clinging with the tightness of\ndesperation to its tacks--these, with the yellow wainscot of the walls,\nthe smoke-discoloured ceiling, the dust and cobwebs, were among the\nmost prominent decorations of the office of Mr Sampson Brass.\n\nBut this was mere still-life, of no greater importance than the plate,\n'BRASS, Solicitor,' upon the door, and the bill, 'First floor to let to\na single gentleman,' which was tied to the knocker.  The office\ncommonly held two examples of animated nature, more to the purpose of\nthis history, and in whom it has a stronger interest and more\nparticular concern.\n\nOf these, one was Mr Brass himself, who has already appeared in these\npages.  The other was his clerk, assistant, housekeeper, secretary,\nconfidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill of cost increaser,\nMiss Brass--a kind of amazon at common law, of whom it may be desirable\nto offer a brief description.\n\nMiss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-five or thereabouts, of a\ngaunt and bony figure, and a resolute bearing, which if it repressed\nthe softer emotions of love, and kept admirers at a distance, certainly\ninspired a feeling akin to awe in the breasts of those male strangers\nwho had the happiness to approach her.  In face she bore a striking\nresemblance to her brother, Sampson--so exact, indeed, was the likeness\nbetween them, that had it consorted with Miss Brass's maiden modesty\nand gentle womanhood to have assumed her brother's clothes in a frolic\nand sat down beside him, it would have been difficult for the oldest\nfriend of the family to determine which was Sampson and which Sally,\nespecially as the lady carried upon her upper lip certain reddish\ndemonstrations, which, if the imagination had been assisted by her\nattire, might have been mistaken for a beard.  These were, however, in\nall probability, nothing more than eyelashes in a wrong place, as the\neyes of Miss Brass were quite free from any such natural\nimpertinencies.  In complexion Miss Brass was sallow--rather a dirty\nsallow, so to speak--but this hue was agreeably relieved by the healthy\nglow which mantled in the extreme tip of her laughing nose.  Her voice\nwas exceedingly impressive--deep and rich in quality, and, once heard,\nnot easily forgotten.  Her usual dress was a green gown, in colour not\nunlike the curtain of the office window, made tight to the figure, and\nterminating at the throat, where it was fastened behind by a peculiarly\nlarge and massive button.  Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity and\nplainness are the soul of elegance, Miss Brass wore no collar or\nkerchief except upon her head, which was invariably ornamented with a\nbrown gauze scarf, like the wing of the fabled vampire, and which,\ntwisted into any form that happened to suggest itself, formed an easy\nand graceful head-dress.\n\nSuch was Miss Brass in person.  In mind, she was of a strong and\nvigorous turn, having from her earliest youth devoted herself with\nuncommon ardour to the study of law; not wasting her speculations upon\nits eagle flights, which are rare, but tracing it attentively through\nall the slippery and eel-like crawlings in which it commonly pursues\nits way.  Nor had she, like many persons of great intellect, confined\nherself to theory, or stopped short where practical usefulness begins;\ninasmuch as she could ingross, fair-copy, fill up printed forms with\nperfect accuracy, and, in short, transact any ordinary duty of the\noffice down to pouncing a skin of parchment or mending a pen.  It is\ndifficult to understand how, possessed of these combined attractions,\nshe should remain Miss Brass; but whether she had steeled her heart\nagainst mankind, or whether those who might have wooed and won her,\nwere deterred by fears that, being learned in the law, she might have\ntoo near her fingers' ends those particular statutes which regulate\nwhat are familiarly termed actions for breach, certain it is that she\nwas still in a state of celibacy, and still in daily occupation of her\nold stool opposite to that of her brother Sampson.  And equally certain\nit is, by the way, that between these two stools a great many people\nhad come to the ground.\n\nOne morning Mr Sampson Brass sat upon his stool copying some legal\nprocess, and viciously digging his pen deep into the paper, as if he\nwere writing upon the very heart of the party against whom it was\ndirected; and Miss Sally Brass sat upon her stool making a new pen\npreparatory to drawing out a little bill, which was her favourite\noccupation; and so they sat in silence for a long time, until Miss\nBrass broke silence.\n\n'Have you nearly done, Sammy?' said Miss Brass; for in her mild and\nfeminine lips, Sampson became Sammy, and all things were softened down.\n\n'No,' returned her brother.  'It would have been all done though, if\nyou had helped at the right time.'\n\n'Oh yes, indeed,' cried Miss Sally; 'you want my help, don't you?--YOU,\ntoo, that are going to keep a clerk!'\n\n'Am I going to keep a clerk for my own pleasure, or because of my own\nwish, you provoking rascal!' said Mr Brass, putting his pen in his\nmouth, and grinning spitefully at his sister.  'What do you taunt me\nabout going to keep a clerk for?'\n\nIt may be observed in this place, lest the fact of Mr Brass calling a\nlady a rascal, should occasion any wonderment or surprise, that he was\nso habituated to having her near him in a man's capacity, that he had\ngradually accustomed himself to talk to her as though she were really a\nman.  And this feeling was so perfectly reciprocal, that not only did\nMr Brass often call Miss Brass a rascal, or even put an adjective\nbefore the rascal, but Miss Brass looked upon it as quite a matter of\ncourse, and was as little moved as any other lady would be by being\ncalled an angel.\n\n'What do you taunt me, after three hours' talk last night, with going\nto keep a clerk for?' repeated Mr Brass, grinning again with the pen in\nhis mouth, like some nobleman's or gentleman's crest.  'Is it my fault?'\n\n'All I know is,' said Miss Sally, smiling drily, for she delighted in\nnothing so much as irritating her brother, 'that if every one of your\nclients is to force us to keep a clerk, whether we want to or not, you\nhad better leave off business, strike yourself off the roll, and get\ntaken in execution, as soon as you can.'\n\n'Have we got any other client like him?' said Brass.  'Have we got\nanother client like him now--will you answer me that?'\n\n'Do you mean in the face!' said his sister.\n\n'Do I mean in the face!' sneered Sampson Brass, reaching over to take\nup the bill-book, and fluttering its leaves rapidly.  'Look\nhere--Daniel Quilp, Esquire--Daniel Quilp, Esquire--Daniel Quilp,\nEsquire--all through.  Whether should I take a clerk that he\nrecommends, and says, \"this is the man for you,\" or lose all this, eh?'\n\nMiss Sally deigned to make no reply, but smiled again, and went on with\nher work.\n\n'But I know what it is,' resumed Brass after a short silence.  'You're\nafraid you won't have as long a finger in the business as you've been\nused to have.  Do you think I don't see through that?'\n\n'The business wouldn't go on very long, I expect, without me,' returned\nhis sister composedly.  'Don't you be a fool and provoke me, Sammy, but\nmind what you're doing, and do it.'\n\nSampson Brass, who was at heart in great fear of his sister, sulkily\nbent over his writing again, and listened as she said:\n\n'If I determined that the clerk ought not to come, of course he\nwouldn't be allowed to come.  You know that well enough, so don't talk\nnonsense.'\n\nMr Brass received this observation with increased meekness, merely\nremarking, under his breath, that he didn't like that kind of joking,\nand that Miss Sally would be 'a much better fellow' if she forbore to\naggravate him.  To this compliment Miss Sally replied, that she had a\nrelish for the amusement, and had no intention to forego its\ngratification.  Mr Brass not caring, as it seemed, to pursue the\nsubject any further, they both plied their pens at a great pace, and\nthere the discussion ended.\n\nWhile they were thus employed, the window was suddenly darkened, as by\nsome person standing close against it.  As Mr Brass and Miss Sally\nlooked up to ascertain the cause, the top sash was nimbly lowered from\nwithout, and Quilp thrust in his head.\n\n'Hallo!' he said, standing on tip-toe on the window-sill, and looking\ndown into the room.  'Is there anybody at home?  Is there any of the\nDevil's ware here?  Is Brass at a premium, eh?'\n\n'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the lawyer in an affected ecstasy.  'Oh, very\ngood, Sir!  Oh, very good indeed!  Quite eccentric!  Dear me, what\nhumour he has!'\n\n'Is that my Sally?' croaked the dwarf, ogling the fair Miss Brass.  'Is\nit Justice with the bandage off her eyes, and without the sword and\nscales?  Is it the Strong Arm of the Law?  Is it the Virgin of Bevis?'\n\n'What an amazing flow of spirits!' cried Brass.  'Upon my word, it's\nquite extraordinary!'\n\n'Open the door,' said Quilp, 'I've got him here.  Such a clerk for you,\nBrass, such a prize, such an ace of trumps.  Be quick and open the\ndoor, or if there's another lawyer near and he should happen to look\nout of window, he'll snap him up before your eyes, he will.'\n\nIt is probable that the loss of the phoenix of clerks, even to a rival\npractitioner, would not have broken Mr Brass's heart; but, pretending\ngreat alacrity, he rose from his seat, and going to the door, returned,\nintroducing his client, who led by the hand no less a person than Mr\nRichard Swiveller.\n\n'There she is,' said Quilp, stopping short at the door, and wrinkling\nup his eyebrows as he looked towards Miss Sally; 'there is the woman I\nought to have married--there is the beautiful Sarah--there is the\nfemale who has all the charms of her sex and none of their weaknesses.\nOh Sally, Sally!'\n\nTo this amorous address Miss Brass briefly responded 'Bother!'\n\n'Hard-hearted as the metal from which she takes her name,' said Quilp.\n'Why don't she change it--melt down the brass, and take another name?'\n\n'Hold your nonsense, Mr Quilp, do,' returned Miss Sally, with a grim\nsmile.  'I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself before a strange young\nman.'\n\n'The strange young man,' said Quilp, handing Dick Swiveller forward,\n'is too susceptible himself not to understand me well.  This is Mr\nSwiveller, my intimate friend--a gentleman of good family and great\nexpectations, but who, having rather involved himself by youthful\nindiscretion, is content for a time to fill the humble station of a\nclerk--humble, but here most enviable.  What a delicious atmosphere!'\n\nIf Mr Quilp spoke figuratively, and meant to imply that the air\nbreathed by Miss Sally Brass was sweetened and rarefied by that dainty\ncreature, he had doubtless good reason for what he said.  But if he\nspoke of the delights of the atmosphere of Mr Brass's office in a\nliteral sense, he had certainly a peculiar taste, as it was of a close\nand earthy kind, and, besides being frequently impregnated with strong\nwhiffs of the second-hand wearing apparel exposed for sale in Duke's\nPlace and Houndsditch, had a decided flavour of rats and mice, and a\ntaint of mouldiness.  Perhaps some doubts of its pure delight presented\nthemselves to Mr Swiveller, as he gave vent to one or two short abrupt\nsniffs, and looked incredulously at the grinning dwarf.\n\n'Mr Swiveller,' said Quilp, 'being pretty well accustomed to the\nagricultural pursuits of sowing wild oats, Miss Sally, prudently\nconsiders that half a loaf is better than no bread.  To be out of\nharm's way he prudently thinks is something too, and therefore he\naccepts your brother's offer.  Brass, Mr Swiveller is yours.'\n\n'I am very glad, Sir,' said Mr Brass, 'very glad indeed.  Mr Swiveller,\nSir, is fortunate enough to have your friendship.  You may be very\nproud, Sir, to have the friendship of Mr Quilp.'\n\nDick murmured something about never wanting a friend or a bottle to\ngive him, and also gasped forth his favourite allusion to the wing of\nfriendship and its never moulting a feather; but his faculties appeared\nto be absorbed in the contemplation of Miss Sally Brass, at whom he\nstared with blank and rueful looks, which delighted the watchful dwarf\nbeyond measure.  As to the divine Miss Sally herself, she rubbed her\nhands as men of business do, and took a few turns up and down the\noffice with her pen behind her ear.\n\n'I suppose,' said the dwarf, turning briskly to his legal friend, 'that\nMr Swiveller enters upon his duties at once?  It's Monday morning.'\n\n'At once, if you please, Sir, by all means,' returned Brass.\n\n'Miss Sally will teach him law, the delightful study of the law,' said\nQuilp; 'she'll be his guide, his friend, his companion, his Blackstone,\nhis Coke upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer's Best Companion.'\n\n'He is exceedingly eloquent,' said Brass, like a man abstracted, and\nlooking at the roofs of the opposite houses, with his hands in his\npockets; 'he has an extraordinary flow of language.  Beautiful, really.'\n\n'With Miss Sally,' Quilp went on, 'and the beautiful fictions of the\nlaw, his days will pass like minutes.  Those charming creations of the\npoet, John Doe and Richard Roe, when they first dawn upon him, will\nopen a new world for the enlargement of his mind and the improvement of\nhis heart.'\n\n'Oh, beautiful, beautiful!  Beau-ti-ful indeed!' cried Brass.  'It's a\ntreat to hear him!'\n\n'Where will Mr Swiveller sit?' said Quilp, looking round.\n\n'Why, we'll buy another stool, sir,' returned Brass.  'We hadn't any\nthoughts of having a gentleman with us, sir, until you were kind enough\nto suggest it, and our accommodation's not extensive.  We'll look about\nfor a second-hand stool, sir.  In the meantime, if Mr Swiveller will\ntake my seat, and try his hand at a fair copy of this ejectment, as I\nshall be out pretty well all the morning--'\n\n'Walk with me,' said Quilp.  'I have a word or two to say to you on\npoints of business.  Can you spare the time?'\n\n'Can I spare the time to walk with you, sir?  You're joking, sir,\nyou're joking with me,' replied the lawyer, putting on his hat.  'I'm\nready, sir, quite ready.  My time must be fully occupied indeed, sir,\nnot to leave me time to walk with you.  It's not everybody, sir, who\nhas an opportunity of improving himself by the conversation of Mr\nQuilp.'\n\nThe dwarf glanced sarcastically at his brazen friend, and, with a short\ndry cough, turned upon his heel to bid adieu to Miss Sally.  After a\nvery gallant parting on his side, and a very cool and gentlemanly sort\nof one on hers, he nodded to Dick Swiveller, and withdrew with the\nattorney.\n\nDick stood at the desk in a state of utter stupefaction, staring with\nall his might at the beauteous Sally, as if she had been some curious\nanimal whose like had never lived.  When the dwarf got into the street,\nhe mounted again upon the window-sill, and looked into the office for a\nmoment with a grinning face, as a man might peep into a cage.  Dick\nglanced upward at him, but without any token of recognition; and long\nafter he had disappeared, still stood gazing upon Miss Sally Brass,\nseeing or thinking of nothing else, and rooted to the spot.\n\nMiss Brass being by this time deep in the bill of costs, took no notice\nwhatever of Dick, but went scratching on, with a noisy pen, scoring\ndown the figures with evident delight, and working like a steam-engine.\nThere stood Dick, gazing now at the green gown, now at the brown\nhead-dress, now at the face, and now at the rapid pen, in a state of\nstupid perplexity, wondering how he got into the company of that\nstrange monster, and whether it was a dream and he would ever wake.  At\nlast he heaved a deep sigh, and began slowly pulling off his coat.\n\nMr Swiveller pulled off his coat, and folded it up with great\nelaboration, staring at Miss Sally all the time; then put on a blue\njacket with a double row of gilt buttons, which he had originally\nordered for aquatic expeditions, but had brought with him that morning\nfor office purposes; and, still keeping his eye upon her, suffered\nhimself to drop down silently upon Mr Brass's stool.  Then he underwent\na relapse, and becoming powerless again, rested his chin upon his hand,\nand opened his eyes so wide, that it appeared quite out of the question\nthat he could ever close them any more.\n\nWhen he had looked so long that he could see nothing, Dick took his\neyes off the fair object of his amazement, turned over the leaves of\nthe draft he was to copy, dipped his pen into the inkstand, and at\nlast, and by slow approaches, began to write.  But he had not written\nhalf-a-dozen words when, reaching over to the inkstand to take a fresh\ndip, he happened to raise his eyes.  There was the intolerable brown\nhead-dress--there was the green gown--there, in short, was Miss Sally\nBrass, arrayed in all her charms, and more tremendous than ever.\n\nThis happened so often, that Mr Swiveller by degrees began to feel\nstrange influences creeping over him--horrible desires to annihilate\nthis Sally Brass--mysterious promptings to knock her head-dress off and\ntry how she looked without it.  There was a very large ruler on the\ntable; a large, black, shining ruler.  Mr Swiveller took it up and\nbegan to rub his nose with it.\n\nFrom rubbing his nose with the ruler, to poising it in his hand and\ngiving it an occasional flourish after the tomahawk manner, the\ntransition was easy and natural.  In some of these flourishes it went\nclose to Miss Sally's head; the ragged edges of the head-dress\nfluttered with the wind it raised; advance it but an inch, and that\ngreat brown knot was on the ground: yet still the unconscious maiden\nworked away, and never raised her eyes.\n\nWell, this was a great relief.  It was a good thing to write doggedly\nand obstinately until he was desperate, and then snatch up the ruler\nand whirl it about the brown head-dress with the consciousness that he\ncould have it off if he liked.  It was a good thing to draw it back,\nand rub his nose very hard with it, if he thought Miss Sally was going\nto look up, and to recompense himself with more hardy flourishes when\nhe found she was still absorbed.  By these means Mr Swiveller calmed\nthe agitation of his feelings, until his applications to the ruler\nbecame less fierce and frequent, and he could even write as many as\nhalf-a-dozen consecutive lines without having recourse to it--which was\na great victory.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 34\n\nIn course of time, that is to say, after a couple of hours or so, of\ndiligent application, Miss Brass arrived at the conclusion of her task,\nand recorded the fact by wiping her pen upon the green gown, and taking\na pinch of snuff from a little round tin box which she carried in her\npocket.  Having disposed of this temperate refreshment, she arose from\nher stool, tied her papers into a formal packet with red tape, and\ntaking them under her arm, marched out of the office.\n\nMr Swiveller had scarcely sprung off his seat and commenced the\nperformance of a maniac hornpipe, when he was interrupted, in the\nfulness of his joy at being again alone, by the opening of the door,\nand the reappearance of Miss Sally's head.\n\n'I am going out,' said Miss Brass.\n\n'Very good, ma'am,' returned Dick.  'And don't hurry yourself on my\naccount to come back, ma'am,' he added inwardly.\n\n'If anybody comes on office business, take their messages, and say that\nthe gentleman who attends to that matter isn't in at present, will\nyou?' said Miss Brass.\n\n'I will, ma'am,' replied Dick.\n\n'I shan't be very long,' said Miss Brass, retiring.\n\n'I'm sorry to hear it, ma'am,' rejoined Dick when she had shut the\ndoor.  'I hope you may be unexpectedly detained, ma'am.  If you could\nmanage to be run over, ma'am, but not seriously, so much the better.'\n\nUttering these expressions of good-will with extreme gravity, Mr\nSwiveller sat down in the client's chair and pondered; then took a few\nturns up and down the room and fell into the chair again.\n\n'So I'm Brass's clerk, am I?' said Dick.  'Brass's clerk, eh?  And the\nclerk of Brass's sister--clerk to a female Dragon.  Very good, very\ngood!  What shall I be next?  Shall I be a convict in a felt hat and a\ngrey suit, trotting about a dockyard with my number neatly embroidered\non my uniform, and the order of the garter on my leg, restrained from\nchafing my ankle by a twisted belcher handkerchief?  Shall I be that?\nWill that do, or is it too genteel?  Whatever you please, have it your\nown way, of course.'\n\nAs he was entirely alone, it may be presumed that, in these remarks, Mr\nSwiveller addressed himself to his fate or destiny, whom, as we learn\nby the precedents, it is the custom of heroes to taunt in a very bitter\nand ironical manner when they find themselves in situations of an\nunpleasant nature.  This is the more probable from the circumstance of\nMr Swiveller directing his observations to the ceiling, which these\nbodily personages are usually supposed to inhabit--except in theatrical\ncases, when they live in the heart of the great chandelier.\n\n'Quilp offers me this place, which he says he can insure me,' resumed\nDick after a thoughtful silence, and telling off the circumstances of\nhis position, one by one, upon his fingers; 'Fred, who, I could have\ntaken my affidavit, would not have heard of such a thing, backs Quilp\nto my astonishment, and urges me to take it also--staggerer, number\none!  My aunt in the country stops the supplies, and writes an\naffectionate note to say that she has made a new will, and left me out\nof it--staggerer, number two.  No money; no credit; no support from\nFred, who seems to turn steady all at once; notice to quit the old\nlodgings--staggerers, three, four, five, and six!  Under an\naccumulation of staggerers, no man can be considered a free agent.  No\nman knocks himself down; if his destiny knocks him down, his destiny\nmust pick him up again.  Then I'm very glad that mine has brought all\nthis upon itself, and I shall be as careless as I can, and make myself\nquite at home to spite it.  So go on my buck,' said Mr Swiveller,\ntaking his leave of the ceiling with a significant nod, 'and let us see\nwhich of us will be tired first!'\n\nDismissing the subject of his downfall with these reflections, which\nwere no doubt very profound, and are indeed not altogether unknown in\ncertain systems of moral philosophy, Mr Swiveller shook off his\ndespondency and assumed the cheerful ease of an irresponsible clerk.\n\nAs a means towards his composure and self-possession, he entered into a\nmore minute examination of the office than he had yet had time to make;\nlooked into the wig-box, the books, and ink-bottle; untied and\ninspected all the papers; carved a few devices on the table with a\nsharp blade of Mr Brass's penknife; and wrote his name on the inside of\nthe wooden coal-scuttle.  Having, as it were, taken formal possession\nof his clerkship in virtue of these proceedings, he opened the window\nand leaned negligently out of it until a beer-boy happened to pass,\nwhom he commanded to set down his tray and to serve him with a pint of\nmild porter, which he drank upon the spot and promptly paid for, with\nthe view of breaking ground for a system of future credit and opening a\ncorrespondence tending thereto, without loss of time.  Then, three or\nfour little boys dropped in, on legal errands from three or four\nattorneys of the Brass grade: whom Mr Swiveller received and dismissed\nwith about as professional a manner, and as correct and comprehensive\nan understanding of their business, as would have been shown by a clown\nin a pantomime under similar circumstances.  These things done and\nover, he got upon his stool again and tried his hand at drawing\ncaricatures of Miss Brass with a pen and ink, whistling very cheerfully\nall the time.\n\nHe was occupied in this diversion when a coach stopped near the door,\nand presently afterwards there was a loud double-knock.  As this was no\nbusiness of Mr Swiveller's, the person not ringing the office bell, he\npursued his diversion with perfect composure, notwithstanding that he\nrather thought there was nobody else in the house.\n\nIn this, however, he was mistaken; for, after the knock had been\nrepeated with increased impatience, the door was opened, and somebody\nwith a very heavy tread went up the stairs and into the room above.  Mr\nSwiveller was wondering whether this might be another Miss Brass, twin\nsister to the Dragon, when there came a rapping of knuckles at the\noffice door.\n\n'Come in!' said Dick.  'Don't stand upon ceremony.  The business will\nget rather complicated if I've many more customers.  Come in!'\n\n'Oh, please,' said a little voice very low down in the doorway, 'will\nyou come and show the lodgings?'\n\nDick leant over the table, and descried a small slipshod girl in a\ndirty coarse apron and bib, which left nothing of her visible but her\nface and feet.  She might as well have been dressed in a violin-case.\n\n'Why, who are you?' said Dick.\n\nTo which the only reply was, 'Oh, please will you come and show the\nlodgings?'\n\nThere never was such an old-fashioned child in her looks and manner.\nShe must have been at work from her cradle.  She seemed as much afraid\nof Dick, as Dick was amazed at her.\n\n'I hav'n't got anything to do with the lodgings,' said Dick.  'Tell 'em\nto call again.'\n\n'Oh, but please will you come and show the lodgings,' returned the\ngirl; 'It's eighteen shillings a week and us finding plate and linen.\nBoots and clothes is extra, and fires in winter-time is eightpence a\nday.'\n\n'Why don't you show 'em yourself?  You seem to know all about 'em,'\nsaid Dick.\n\n'Miss Sally said I wasn't to, because people wouldn't believe the\nattendance was good if they saw how small I was first.'\n\n'Well, but they'll see how small you are afterwards, won't they?' said\nDick.\n\n'Ah!  But then they'll have taken 'em for a fortnight certain,' replied\nthe child with a shrewd look; 'and people don't like moving when\nthey're once settled.'\n\n'This is a queer sort of thing,' muttered Dick, rising.  'What do you\nmean to say you are--the cook?'\n\n'Yes, I do plain cooking;' replied the child.  'I'm housemaid too; I do\nall the work of the house.'\n\n'I suppose Brass and the Dragon and I do the dirtiest part of it,'\nthought Dick.  And he might have thought much more, being in a doubtful\nand hesitating mood, but that the girl again urged her request, and\ncertain mysterious bumping sounds on the passage and staircase seemed\nto give note of the applicant's impatience.  Richard Swiveller,\ntherefore, sticking a pen behind each ear, and carrying another in his\nmouth as a token of his great importance and devotion to business,\nhurried out to meet and treat with the single gentleman.\n\nHe was a little surprised to perceive that the bumping sounds were\noccasioned by the progress up-stairs of the single gentleman's trunk,\nwhich, being nearly twice as wide as the staircase, and exceedingly\nheavy withal, it was no easy matter for the united exertions of the\nsingle gentleman and the coachman to convey up the steep ascent.  But\nthere they were, crushing each other, and pushing and pulling with all\ntheir might, and getting the trunk tight and fast in all kinds of\nimpossible angles, and to pass them was out of the question; for which\nsufficient reason, Mr Swiveller followed slowly behind, entering a new\nprotest on every stair against the house of Mr Sampson Brass being thus\ntaken by storm.\n\nTo these remonstrances, the single gentleman answered not a word, but\nwhen the trunk was at last got into the bed-room, sat down upon it and\nwiped his bald head and face with his handkerchief.  He was very warm,\nand well he might be; for, not to mention the exertion of getting the\ntrunk up stairs, he was closely muffled in winter garments, though the\nthermometer had stood all day at eighty-one in the shade.\n\n'I believe, sir,' said Richard Swiveller, taking his pen out of his\nmouth, 'that you desire to look at these apartments.  They are very\ncharming apartments, sir.  They command an uninterrupted view of--of\nover the way, and they are within one minute's walk of--of the corner\nof the street.  There is exceedingly mild porter, sir, in the immediate\nvicinity, and the contingent advantages are extraordinary.'\n\n'What's the rent?' said the single gentleman.\n\n'One pound per week,' replied Dick, improving on the terms.\n\n'I'll take 'em.'\n\n'The boots and clothes are extras,' said Dick; 'and the fires in winter\ntime are--'\n\n'Are all agreed to,' answered the single gentleman.\n\n'Two weeks certain,' said Dick, 'are the--'\n\n'Two weeks!' cried the single gentleman gruffly, eyeing him from top to\ntoe.  'Two years.  I shall live here for two years.  Here.  Ten pounds\ndown.  The bargain's made.'\n\n'Why you see,' said Dick, 'my name is not Brass, and--'\n\n'Who said it was?  My name's not Brass.  What then?'\n\n'The name of the master of the house is,' said Dick.\n\n'I'm glad of it,' returned the single gentleman; 'it's a good name for\na lawyer.  Coachman, you may go.  So may you, Sir.'\n\nMr Swiveller was so much confounded by the single gentleman riding\nroughshod over him at this rate, that he stood looking at him almost as\nhard as he had looked at Miss Sally.  The single gentleman, however,\nwas not in the slightest degree affected by this circumstance, but\nproceeded with perfect composure to unwind the shawl which was tied\nround his neck, and then to pull off his boots.  Freed of these\nencumbrances, he went on to divest himself of his other clothing, which\nhe folded up, piece by piece, and ranged in order on the trunk.  Then,\nhe pulled down the window-blinds, drew the curtains, wound up his\nwatch, and, quite leisurely and methodically, got into bed.\n\n'Take down the bill,' were his parting words, as he looked out from\nbetween the curtains; 'and let nobody call me till I ring the bell.'\n\nWith that the curtains closed, and he seemed to snore immediately.\n\n'This is a most remarkable and supernatural sort of house!' said Mr\nSwiveller, as he walked into the office with the bill in his hand.\n'She-dragons in the business, conducting themselves like professional\ngentlemen; plain cooks of three feet high appearing mysteriously from\nunder ground; strangers walking in and going to bed without leave or\nlicence in the middle of the day!  If he should be one of the\nmiraculous fellows that turn up now and then, and has gone to sleep for\ntwo years, I shall be in a pleasant situation.  It's my destiny,\nhowever, and I hope Brass may like it.  I shall be sorry if he don't.\nBut it's no business of mine--I have nothing whatever to do with it!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 35\n\nMr Brass on returning home received the report of his clerk with much\ncomplacency and satisfaction, and was particular in inquiring after the\nten-pound note, which, proving on examination to be a good and lawful\nnote of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, increased his\ngood-humour considerably.  Indeed he so overflowed with liberality and\ncondescension, that, in the fulness of his heart, he invited Mr\nSwiveller to partake of a bowl of punch with him at that remote and\nindefinite period which is currently denominated 'one of these days,'\nand paid him many handsome compliments on the uncommon aptitude for\nbusiness which his conduct on the first day of his devotion to it had\nso plainly evinced.\n\nIt was a maxim with Mr Brass that the habit of paying compliments kept\na man's tongue oiled without any expense; and, as that useful member\nought never to grow rusty or creak in turning on its hinges in the case\nof a practitioner of the law, in whom it should be always glib and\neasy, he lost few opportunities of improving himself by the utterance\nof handsome speeches and eulogistic expressions.  And this had passed\ninto such a habit with him, that, if he could not be correctly said to\nhave his tongue at his fingers' ends, he might certainly be said to\nhave it anywhere but in his face: which being, as we have already seen,\nof a harsh and repulsive character, was not oiled so easily, but\nfrowned above all the smooth speeches--one of nature's beacons, warning\noff those who navigated the shoals and breakers of the World, or of\nthat dangerous strait the Law, and admonishing them to seek less\ntreacherous harbours and try their fortune elsewhere.\n\nWhile Mr Brass by turns overwhelmed his clerk with compliments and\ninspected the ten-pound note, Miss Sally showed little emotion and that\nof no pleasurable kind, for as the tendency of her legal practice had\nbeen to fix her thoughts on small gains and gripings, and to whet and\nsharpen her natural wisdom, she was not a little disappointed that the\nsingle gentleman had obtained the lodgings at such an easy rate,\narguing that when he was seen to have set his mind upon them, he should\nhave been at the least charged double or treble the usual terms, and\nthat, in exact proportion as he pressed forward, Mr Swiveller should\nhave hung back.  But neither the good opinion of Mr Brass, nor the\ndissatisfaction of Miss Sally, wrought any impression upon that young\ngentleman, who, throwing the responsibility of this and all other acts\nand deeds thereafter to be done by him, upon his unlucky destiny, was\nquite resigned and comfortable: fully prepared for the worst, and\nphilosophically indifferent to the best.\n\n\n'Good morning, Mr Richard,' said Brass, on the second day of Mr\nSwiveller's clerkship.  'Sally found you a second-hand stool, Sir,\nyesterday evening, in Whitechapel.  She's a rare fellow at a bargain, I\ncan tell you, Mr Richard.  You'll find that a first-rate stool, Sir,\ntake my word for it.'\n\n'It's rather a crazy one to look at,' said Dick.\n\n'You'll find it a most amazing stool to sit down upon, you may depend,'\nreturned Mr Brass.  'It was bought in the open street just opposite the\nhospital, and as it has been standing there a month of two, it has got\nrather dusty and a little brown from being in the sun, that's all.'\n\n'I hope it hasn't got any fevers or anything of that sort in it,' said\nDick, sitting himself down discontentedly, between Mr Sampson and the\nchaste Sally.  'One of the legs is longer than the others.'\n\n'Then we get a bit of timber in, Sir,' retorted Brass.  'Ha, ha, ha!\nWe get a bit of timber in, Sir, and that's another advantage of my\nsister's going to market for us.  Miss Brass, Mr Richard is the--'\n\n'Will you keep quiet?' interrupted the fair subject of these remarks,\nlooking up from her papers.  'How am I to work if you keep on\nchattering?'\n\n'What an uncertain chap you are!' returned the lawyer.  'Sometimes\nyou're all for a chat.  At another time you're all for work.  A man\nnever knows what humour he'll find you in.'\n\n'I'm in a working humour now,' said Sally, 'so don't disturb me, if you\nplease.  And don't take him,' Miss Sally pointed with the feather of\nher pen to Richard, 'off his business.  He won't do more than he can\nhelp, I dare say.'\n\nMr Brass had evidently a strong inclination to make an angry reply, but\nwas deterred by prudent or timid considerations, as he only muttered\nsomething about aggravation and a vagabond; not associating the terms\nwith any individual, but mentioning them as connected with some\nabstract ideas which happened to occur to him.  They went on writing\nfor a long time in silence after this--in such a dull silence that Mr\nSwiveller (who required excitement) had several times fallen asleep,\nand written divers strange words in an unknown character with his eyes\nshut, when Miss Sally at length broke in upon the monotony of the\noffice by pulling out the little tin box, taking a noisy pinch of\nsnuff, and then expressing her opinion that Mr Richard Swiveller had\n'done it.'\n\n'Done what, ma'am?' said Richard.\n\n'Do you know,' returned Miss Brass, 'that the lodger isn't up yet--\nthat nothing has been seen or heard of him since he went to bed\nyesterday afternoon?'\n\n'Well, ma'am,' said Dick, 'I suppose he may sleep his ten pound out, in\npeace and quietness, if he likes.'\n\n'Ah!  I begin to think he'll never wake,' observed Miss Sally.\n\n'It's a very remarkable circumstance,' said Brass, laying down his pen;\n'really, very remarkable.  Mr Richard, you'll remember, if this\ngentleman should be found to have hung himself to the bed-post, or any\nunpleasant accident of that kind should happen--you'll remember, Mr\nRichard, that this ten pound note was given to you in part payment of\ntwo years' rent?  You'll bear that in mind, Mr Richard; you had better\nmake a note of it, sir, in case you should ever be called upon to give\nevidence.'\n\nMr Swiveller took a large sheet of foolscap, and with a countenance of\nprofound gravity, began to make a very small note in one corner.\n\n'We can never be too cautious,' said Mr Brass.  'There is a deal of\nwickedness going about the world, a deal of wickedness.  Did the\ngentleman happen to say, Sir--but never mind that at present, sir;\nfinish that little memorandum first.'\n\nDick did so, and handed it to Mr Brass, who had dismounted from his\nstool, and was walking up and down the office.\n\n'Oh, this is the memorandum, is it?' said Brass, running his eye over\nthe document.  'Very good.  Now, Mr Richard, did the gentleman say\nanything else?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Are you sure, Mr Richard,' said Brass, solemnly, 'that the gentleman\nsaid nothing else?'\n\n'Devil a word, Sir,' replied Dick.\n\n'Think again, Sir,' said Brass; 'it's my duty, Sir, in the position in\nwhich I stand, and as an honourable member of the legal profession--the\nfirst profession in this country, Sir, or in any other country, or in\nany of the planets that shine above us at night and are supposed to be\ninhabited--it's my duty, Sir, as an honourable member of that\nprofession, not to put to you a leading question in a matter of this\ndelicacy and importance.  Did the gentleman, Sir, who took the first\nfloor of you yesterday afternoon, and who brought with him a box of\nproperty--a box of property--say anything more than is set down in this\nmemorandum?'\n\n'Come, don't be a fool,' said Miss Sally.\n\nDick looked at her, and then at Brass, and then at Miss Sally again,\nand still said 'No.'\n\n'Pooh, pooh!  Deuce take it, Mr Richard, how dull you are!' cried\nBrass, relaxing into a smile.  'Did he say anything about his\nproperty?--there!'\n\n'That's the way to put it,' said Miss Sally, nodding to her brother.\n\n'Did he say, for instance,' added Brass, in a kind of comfortable, cozy\ntone--'I don't assert that he did say so, mind; I only ask you, to\nrefresh your memory--did he say, for instance, that he was a stranger\nin London--that it was not his humour or within his ability to give any\nreferences--that he felt we had a right to require them--and that, in\ncase anything should happen to him, at any time, he particularly\ndesired that whatever property he had upon the premises should be\nconsidered mine, as some slight recompense for the trouble and\nannoyance I should sustain--and were you, in short,' added Brass, still\nmore comfortably and cozily than before, 'were you induced to accept\nhim on my behalf, as a tenant, upon those conditions?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Dick.\n\n'Why then, Mr Richard,' said Brass, darting at him a supercilious and\nreproachful look, 'it's my opinion that you've mistaken your calling,\nand will never make a lawyer.'\n\n'Not if you live a thousand years,' added Miss Sally.  Whereupon the\nbrother and sister took each a noisy pinch of snuff from the little tin\nbox, and fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness.\n\nNothing further passed up to Mr Swiveller's dinner-time, which was at\nthree o'clock, and seemed about three weeks in coming.  At the first\nstroke of the hour, the new clerk disappeared.  At the last stroke of\nfive, he reappeared, and the office, as if by magic, became fragrant\nwith the smell of gin and water and lemon-peel.\n\n'Mr Richard,' said Brass, 'this man's not up yet.  Nothing will wake\nhim, sir.  What's to be done?'\n\n'I should let him have his sleep out,' returned Dick.\n\n'Sleep out!' cried Brass; 'why he has been asleep now, six-and-twenty\nhours.  We have been moving chests of drawers over his head, we have\nknocked double knocks at the street-door, we have made the servant-girl\nfall down stairs several times (she's a light weight, and it don't hurt\nher much,) but nothing wakes him.'\n\n'Perhaps a ladder,' suggested Dick, 'and getting in at the first-floor\nwindow--'\n\n'But then there's a door between; besides, the neighbours would be up\nin arms,' said Brass.\n\n'What do you say to getting on the roof of the house through the\ntrap-door, and dropping down the chimney?' suggested Dick.\n\n'That would be an excellent plan,' said Brass, 'if anybody would be--'\nand here he looked very hard at Mr Swiveller--'would be kind, and\nfriendly, and generous enough, to undertake it.  I dare say it would\nnot be anything like as disagreeable as one supposes.'\n\nDick had made the suggestion, thinking that the duty might possibly\nfall within Miss Sally's department.  As he said nothing further, and\ndeclined taking the hint, Mr Brass was fain to propose that they should\ngo up stairs together, and make a last effort to awaken the sleeper by\nsome less violent means, which, if they failed on this last trial, must\npositively be succeeded by stronger measures.  Mr Swiveller, assenting,\narmed himself with his stool and the large ruler, and repaired with his\nemployer to the scene of action, where Miss Brass was already ringing a\nhand-bell with all her might, and yet without producing the smallest\neffect upon their mysterious lodger.\n\n'There are his boots, Mr Richard!' said Brass.\n\n'Very obstinate-looking articles they are too,' quoth Richard\nSwiveller.  And truly, they were as sturdy and bluff a pair of boots as\none would wish to see; as firmly planted on the ground as if their\nowner's legs and feet had been in them; and seeming, with their broad\nsoles and blunt toes, to hold possession of their place by main force.\n\n'I can't see anything but the curtain of the bed,' said Brass, applying\nhis eye to the keyhole of the door.  'Is he a strong man, Mr Richard?'\n\n'Very,' answered Dick.\n\n'It would be an extremely unpleasant circumstance if he was to bounce\nout suddenly,' said Brass.  'Keep the stairs clear.  I should be more\nthan a match for him, of course, but I'm the master of the house, and\nthe laws of hospitality must be respected.--Hallo there!  Hallo, hallo!'\n\nWhile Mr Brass, with his eye curiously twisted into the keyhole,\nuttered these sounds as a means of attracting the lodger's attention,\nand while Miss Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr Swiveller put his stool\nclose against the wall by the side of the door, and mounting on the top\nand standing bolt upright, so that if the lodger did make a rush, he\nwould most probably pass him in its onward fury, began a violent\nbattery with the ruler upon the upper panels of the door.  Captivated\nwith his own ingenuity, and confident in the strength of his position,\nwhich he had taken up after the method of those hardy individuals who\nopen the pit and gallery doors of theatres on crowded nights, Mr\nSwiveller rained down such a shower of blows, that the noise of the\nbell was drowned; and the small servant, who lingered on the stairs\nbelow, ready to fly at a moment's notice, was obliged to hold her ears\nlest she should be rendered deaf for life.\n\nSuddenly the door was unlocked on the inside, and flung violently open.\nThe small servant flew to the coal-cellar; Miss Sally dived into her\nown bed-room; Mr Brass, who was not remarkable for personal courage,\nran into the next street, and finding that nobody followed him, armed\nwith a poker or other offensive weapon, put his hands in his pockets,\nwalked very slowly all at once, and whistled.\n\nMeanwhile, Mr Swiveller, on the top of the stool, drew himself into as\nflat a shape as possible against the wall, and looked, not\nunconcernedly, down upon the single gentleman, who appeared at the door\ngrowling and cursing in a very awful manner, and, with the boots in his\nhand, seemed to have an intention of hurling them down stairs on\nspeculation.  This idea, however, he abandoned.  He was turning into\nhis room again, still growling vengefully, when his eyes met those of\nthe watchful Richard.\n\n'Have YOU been making that horrible noise?' said the single gentleman.\n\n'I have been helping, sir,' returned Dick, keeping his eye upon him,\nand waving the ruler gently in his right hand, as an indication of what\nthe single gentleman had to expect if he attempted any violence.\n\n'How dare you then,' said the lodger, 'Eh?'\n\nTo this, Dick made no other reply than by inquiring whether the lodger\nheld it to be consistent with the conduct and character of a gentleman\nto go to sleep for six-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and whether the\npeace of an amiable and virtuous family was to weigh as nothing in the\nbalance.\n\n'Is my peace nothing?' said the single gentleman.\n\n'Is their peace nothing, sir?' returned Dick.  'I don't wish to hold\nout any threats, sir--indeed the law does not allow of threats, for to\nthreaten is an indictable offence--but if ever you do that again, take\ncare you're not sat upon by the coroner and buried in a cross road\nbefore you wake.  We have been distracted with fears that you were\ndead, Sir,' said Dick, gently sliding to the ground, 'and the short and\nthe long of it is, that we cannot allow single gentlemen to come into\nthis establishment and sleep like double gentlemen without paying extra\nfor it.'\n\n'Indeed!' cried the lodger.\n\n'Yes, Sir, indeed,' returned Dick, yielding to his destiny and saying\nwhatever came uppermost; 'an equal quantity of slumber was never got\nout of one bed and bedstead, and if you're going to sleep in that way,\nyou must pay for a double-bedded room.'\n\nInstead of being thrown into a greater passion by these remarks, the\nlodger lapsed into a broad grin and looked at Mr Swiveller with\ntwinkling eyes.  He was a brown-faced sun-burnt man, and appeared\nbrowner and more sun-burnt from having a white nightcap on.  As it was\nclear that he was a choleric fellow in some respects, Mr Swiveller was\nrelieved to find him in such good humour, and, to encourage him in it,\nsmiled himself.\n\nThe lodger, in the testiness of being so rudely roused, had pushed his\nnightcap very much on one side of his bald head.  This gave him a\nrakish eccentric air which, now that he had leisure to observe it,\ncharmed Mr Swiveller exceedingly; therefore, by way of propitiation, he\nexpressed his hope that the gentleman was going to get up, and further\nthat he would never do so any more.\n\n'Come here, you impudent rascal!' was the lodger's answer as he\nre-entered his room.\n\nMr Swiveller followed him in, leaving the stool outside, but reserving\nthe ruler in case of a surprise.  He rather congratulated himself on\nhis prudence when the single gentleman, without notice or explanation\nof any kind, double-locked the door.\n\n'Can you drink anything?' was his next inquiry.\n\nMr Swiveller replied that he had very recently been assuaging the pangs\nof thirst, but that he was still open to 'a modest quencher,' if the\nmaterials were at hand.  Without another word spoken on either side,\nthe lodger took from his great trunk, a kind of temple, shining as of\npolished silver, and placed it carefully on the table.\n\nGreatly interested in his proceedings, Mr Swiveller observed him\nclosely.  Into one little chamber of this temple, he dropped an egg;\ninto another some coffee; into a third a compact piece of raw steak\nfrom a neat tin case; into a fourth, he poured some water.  Then, with\nthe aid of a phosphorus-box and some matches, he procured a light and\napplied it to a spirit-lamp which had a place of its own below the\ntemple; then, he shut down the lids of all the little chambers; then he\nopened them; and then, by some wonderful and unseen agency, the steak\nwas done, the egg was boiled, the coffee was accurately prepared, and\nhis breakfast was ready.\n\n'Hot water--' said the lodger, handing it to Mr Swiveller with as much\ncoolness as if he had a kitchen fire before him--'extraordinary\nrum--sugar--and a travelling glass.  Mix for yourself.  And make haste.'\n\nDick complied, his eyes wandering all the time from the temple on the\ntable, which seemed to do everything, to the great trunk which seemed\nto hold everything.  The lodger took his breakfast like a man who was\nused to work these miracles, and thought nothing of them.\n\n'The man of the house is a lawyer, is he not?' said the lodger.\n\nDick nodded.  The rum was amazing.\n\n'The woman of the house--what's she?'\n\n'A dragon,' said Dick.\n\nThe single gentleman, perhaps because he had met with such things in\nhis travels, or perhaps because he WAS a single gentleman, evinced no\nsurprise, but merely inquired 'Wife or sister?'--'Sister,' said\nDick.--'So much the better,' said the single gentleman, 'he can get rid\nof her when he likes.'\n\n'I want to do as I like, young man,' he added after a short silence;\n'to go to bed when I like, get up when I like, come in when I like, go\nout when I like--to be asked no questions and be surrounded by no\nspies.  In this last respect, servants are the devil.  There's only one\nhere.'\n\n'And a very little one,' said Dick.\n\n'And a very little one,' repeated the lodger.  'Well, the place will\nsuit me, will it?'\n\n'Yes,' said Dick.\n\n'Sharks, I suppose?' said the lodger.\n\nDick nodded assent, and drained his glass.\n\n'Let them know my humour,' said the single gentleman, rising.  'If they\ndisturb me, they lose a good tenant.  If they know me to be that, they\nknow enough.  If they try to know more, it's a notice to quit.  It's\nbetter to understand these things at once.  Good day.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Dick, halting in his passage to the door,\nwhich the lodger prepared to open.  'When he who adores thee has left\nbut the name--'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'--But the name,' said Dick--'has left but the name--in case of letters\nor parcels--'\n\n'I never have any,' returned the lodger.\n\n'Or in the case anybody should call.'\n\n'Nobody ever calls on me.'\n\n'If any mistake should arise from not having the name, don't say it was\nmy fault, Sir,' added Dick, still lingering.--'Oh blame not the bard--'\n\n'I'll blame nobody,' said the lodger, with such irascibility that in a\nmoment Dick found himself on the staircase, and the locked door between\nthem.\n\nMr Brass and Miss Sally were lurking hard by, having been, indeed, only\nrouted from the keyhole by Mr Swiveller's abrupt exit.  As their utmost\nexertions had not enabled them to overhear a word of the interview,\nhowever, in consequence of a quarrel for precedence, which, though\nlimited of necessity to pushes and pinches and such quiet pantomime,\nhad lasted the whole time, they hurried him down to the office to hear\nhis account of the conversation.\n\nThis Mr Swiveller gave them--faithfully as regarded the wishes and\ncharacter of the single gentleman, and poetically as concerned the\ngreat trunk, of which he gave a description more remarkable for\nbrilliancy of imagination than a strict adherence to truth; declaring,\nwith many strong asseverations, that it contained a specimen of every\nkind of rich food and wine, known in these times, and in particular\nthat it was of a self-acting kind and served up whatever was required,\nas he supposed by clock-work. He also gave them to understand that the\ncooking apparatus roasted a fine piece of sirloin of beef, weighing\nabout six pounds avoir-dupoise, in two minutes and a quarter, as he had\nhimself witnessed, and proved by his sense of taste; and further, that,\nhowever the effect was produced, he had distinctly seen water boil and\nbubble up when the single gentleman winked; from which facts he (Mr\nSwiveller) was led to infer that the lodger was some great conjuror or\nchemist, or both, whose residence under that roof could not fail at\nsome future days to shed a great credit and distinction on the name of\nBrass, and add a new interest to the history of Bevis Marks.\n\nThere was one point which Mr Swiveller deemed it unnecessary to enlarge\nupon, and that was the fact of the modest quencher, which, by reason of\nits intrinsic strength and its coming close upon the heels of the\ntemperate beverage he had discussed at dinner, awakened a slight degree\nof fever, and rendered necessary two or three other modest quenchers at\nthe public-house in the course of the evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 36\n\nAs the single gentleman after some weeks' occupation of his lodgings,\nstill declined to correspond, by word or gesture, either with Mr Brass\nor his sister Sally, but invariably chose Richard Swiveller as his\nchannel of communication; and as he proved himself in all respects a\nhighly desirable inmate, paying for everything beforehand, giving very\nlittle trouble, making no noise, and keeping early hours; Mr Richard\nimperceptibly rose to an important position in the family, as one who\nhad influence over this mysterious lodger, and could negotiate with\nhim, for good or evil, when nobody else durst approach his person.\n\nIf the truth must be told, even Mr Swiveller's approaches to the single\ngentleman were of a very distant kind, and met with small\nencouragement; but, as he never returned from a monosyllabic conference\nwith the unknown, without quoting such expressions as 'Swiveller, I\nknow I can rely upon you,'--'I have no hesitation in saying, Swiveller,\nthat I entertain a regard for you,'--'Swiveller, you are my friend, and\nwill stand by me I am sure,' with many other short speeches of the same\nfamiliar and confiding kind, purporting to have been addressed by the\nsingle gentleman to himself, and to form the staple of their ordinary\ndiscourse, neither Mr Brass nor Miss Sally for a moment questioned the\nextent of his influence, but accorded to him their fullest and most\nunqualified belief.\n\nBut quite apart from, and independent of, this source of popularity, Mr\nSwiveller had another, which promised to be equally enduring, and to\nlighten his position considerably.\n\nHe found favour in the eyes of Miss Sally Brass.  Let not the light\nscorners of female fascination erect their ears to listen to a new tale\nof love which shall serve them for a jest; for Miss Brass, however\naccurately formed to be beloved, was not of the loving kind.  That\namiable virgin, having clung to the skirts of the Law from her earliest\nyouth; having sustained herself by their aid, as it were, in her first\nrunning alone, and maintained a firm grasp upon them ever since; had\npassed her life in a kind of legal childhood.  She had been remarkable,\nwhen a tender prattler for an uncommon talent in counterfeiting the\nwalk and manner of a bailiff: in which character she had learned to tap\nher little playfellows on the shoulder, and to carry them off to\nimaginary sponging-houses, with a correctness of imitation which was\nthe surprise and delight of all who witnessed her performances, and\nwhich was only to be exceeded by her exquisite manner of putting an\nexecution into her doll's house, and taking an exact inventory of the\nchairs and tables.  These artless sports had naturally soothed and\ncheered the decline of her widowed father: a most exemplary gentleman\n(called 'old Foxey' by his friends from his extreme sagacity,) who\nencouraged them to the utmost, and whose chief regret, on finding that\nhe drew near to Houndsditch churchyard, was, that his daughter could\nnot take out an attorney's certificate and hold a place upon the roll.\nFilled with this affectionate and touching sorrow, he had solemnly\nconfided her to his son Sampson as an invaluable auxiliary; and from\nthe old gentleman's decease to the period of which we treat, Miss Sally\nBrass had been the prop and pillar of his business.\n\nIt is obvious that, having devoted herself from infancy to this one\npursuit and study, Miss Brass could know but little of the world,\notherwise than in connection with the law; and that from a lady gifted\nwith such high tastes, proficiency in those gentler and softer arts in\nwhich women usually excel, was scarcely to be looked for.  Miss Sally's\naccomplishments were all of a masculine and strictly legal kind.  They\nbegan with the practice of an attorney and they ended with it.  She was\nin a state of lawful innocence, so to speak.  The law had been her\nnurse.  And, as bandy-legs or such physical deformities in children are\nheld to be the consequence of bad nursing, so, if in a mind so\nbeautiful any moral twist or handiness could be found, Miss Sally\nBrass's nurse was alone to blame.\n\nIt was upon this lady, then, that Mr Swiveller burst in full freshness as\nsomething new and hitherto undreamed of, lighting up the office with\nscraps of song and merriment, conjuring with inkstands and boxes of\nwafers, catching three oranges in one hand, balancing stools upon his\nchin and penknives on his nose, and constantly performing a hundred\nother feats with equal ingenuity; for with such unbendings did Richard,\nin Mr Brass's absence, relieve the tedium of his confinement.  These\nsocial qualities, which Miss Sally first discovered by accident,\ngradually made such an impression upon her, that she would entreat Mr\nSwiveller to relax as though she were not by, which Mr Swiveller,\nnothing loth, would readily consent to do.  By these means a friendship\nsprung up between them.  Mr Swiveller gradually came to look upon her\nas her brother Sampson did, and as he would have looked upon any other\nclerk.  He imparted to her the mystery of going the odd man or plain\nNewmarket for fruit, ginger-beer, baked potatoes, or even a modest\nquencher, of which Miss Brass did not scruple to partake.  He would\noften persuade her to undertake his share of writing in addition to her\nown; nay, he would sometimes reward her with a hearty slap on the back,\nand protest that she was a devilish good fellow, a jolly dog, and so\nforth; all of which compliments Miss Sally would receive in entire good\npart and with perfect satisfaction.\n\nOne circumstance troubled Mr Swiveller's mind very much, and that was\nthat the small servant always remained somewhere in the bowels of the\nearth under Bevis Marks, and never came to the surface unless the\nsingle gentleman rang his bell, when she would answer it and\nimmediately disappear again.  She never went out, or came into the\noffice, or had a clean face, or took off the coarse apron, or looked\nout of any one of the windows, or stood at the street-door for a breath\nof air, or had any rest or enjoyment whatever.  Nobody ever came to see\nher, nobody spoke of her, nobody cared about her.  Mr Brass had said\nonce, that he believed she was a 'love-child' (which means anything but\na child of love), and that was all the information Richard Swiveller\ncould obtain.\n\n'It's of no use asking the dragon,' thought Dick one day, as he sat\ncontemplating the features of Miss Sally Brass.  'I suspect if I asked\nany questions on that head, our alliance would be at an end.  I wonder\nwhether she is a dragon by-the-bye, or something in the mermaid way.\nShe has rather a scaly appearance.  But mermaids are fond of looking at\nthemselves in the glass, which she can't be.  And they have a habit of\ncombing their hair, which she hasn't.  No, she's a dragon.'\n\n'Where are you going, old fellow?' said Dick aloud, as Miss Sally wiped\nher pen as usual on the green dress, and uprose from her seat.\n\n'To dinner,' answered the dragon.\n\n'To dinner!' thought Dick, 'that's another circumstance.  I don't\nbelieve that small servant ever has anything to eat.'\n\n'Sammy won't be home,' said Miss Brass.  'Stop till I come back.  I\nsha'n't be long.'\n\nDick nodded, and followed Miss Brass--with his eyes to the door, and\nwith his ears to a little back parlour, where she and her brother took\ntheir meals.\n\n'Now,' said Dick, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets,\n'I'd give something--if I had it--to know how they use that child, and\nwhere they keep her.  My mother must have been a very inquisitive\nwoman; I have no doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation\nsomewhere.  My feelings I smother, but thou hast been the cause of this\nanguish, my--upon my word,' said Mr Swiveller, checking himself and\nfalling thoughtfully into the client's chair, 'I should like to know\nhow they use her!'\n\nAfter running on, in this way, for some time, Mr Swiveller softly\nopened the office door, with the intention of darting across the street\nfor a glass of the mild porter.  At that moment he caught a parting\nglimpse of the brown head-dress of Miss Brass flitting down the kitchen\nstairs.  'And by Jove!' thought Dick, 'she's going to feed the small\nservant.  Now or never!'\n\nFirst peeping over the handrail and allowing the head-dress to\ndisappear in the darkness below, he groped his way down, and arrived at\nthe door of a back kitchen immediately after Miss Brass had entered the\nsame, bearing in her hand a cold leg of mutton.  It was a very dark\nmiserable place, very low and very damp: the walls disfigured by a\nthousand rents and blotches.  The water was trickling out of a leaky\nbutt, and a most wretched cat was lapping up the drops with the sickly\neagerness of starvation.  The grate, which was a wide one, was wound\nand screwed up tight, so as to hold no more than a little thin sandwich\nof fire.  Everything was locked up; the coal-cellar, the candle-box,\nthe salt-box, the meat-safe, were all padlocked.  There was nothing\nthat a beetle could have lunched upon.  The pinched and meagre aspect\nof the place would have killed a chameleon.  He would have known, at\nthe first mouthful, that the air was not eatable, and must have given up\nthe ghost in despair. The small servant stood with humility in presence\nof Miss Sally, and hung her head.\n\n'Are you there?' said Miss Sally.\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' was the answer in a weak voice.\n\n'Go further away from the leg of mutton, or you'll be picking it, I\nknow,' said Miss Sally.\n\nThe girl withdrew into a corner, while Miss Brass took a key from her\npocket, and opening the safe, brought from it a dreary waste of cold\npotatoes, looking as eatable as Stonehenge.  This she placed before the\nsmall servant, ordering her to sit down before it, and then, taking up\na great carving-knife, made a mighty show of sharpening it upon the\ncarving-fork.\n\n'Do you see this?' said Miss Brass, slicing off about two square inches\nof cold mutton, after all this preparation, and holding it out on the\npoint of the fork.\n\nThe small servant looked hard enough at it with her hungry eyes to see\nevery shred of it, small as it was, and answered, 'yes.'\n\n'Then don't you ever go and say,' retorted Miss Sally, 'that you hadn't\nmeat here.  There, eat it up.'\n\nThis was soon done.  'Now, do you want any more?' said Miss Sally.\n\nThe hungry creature answered with a faint 'No.'  They were evidently\ngoing through an established form.\n\n'You've been helped once to meat,' said Miss Brass, summing up the\nfacts; 'you have had as much as you can eat, you're asked if you want\nany more, and you answer, 'no!' Then don't you ever go and say you were\nallowanced, mind that.'\n\nWith those words, Miss Sally put the meat away and locked the safe, and\nthen drawing near to the small servant, overlooked her while she\nfinished the potatoes.\n\nIt was plain that some extraordinary grudge was working in Miss Brass's\ngentle breast, and that it was that which impelled her, without the\nsmallest present cause, to rap the child with the blade of the knife,\nnow on her hand, now on her head, and now on her back, as if she found\nit quite impossible to stand so close to her without administering a\nfew slight knocks.  But Mr Swiveller was not a little surprised to see\nhis fellow-clerk, after walking slowly backwards towards the door, as\nif she were trying to withdraw herself from the room but could not\naccomplish it, dart suddenly forward, and falling on the small servant\ngive her some hard blows with her clenched hand.  The victim cried, but\nin a subdued manner as if she feared to raise her voice, and Miss\nSally, comforting herself with a pinch of snuff, ascended the stairs,\njust as Richard had safely reached the office.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 37\n\nThe single gentleman among his other peculiarities--and he had a very\nplentiful stock, of which he every day furnished some new\nspecimen--took a most extraordinary and remarkable interest in the\nexhibition of Punch.  If the sound of a Punch's voice, at ever so\nremote a distance, reached Bevis Marks, the single gentleman, though in\nbed and asleep, would start up, and, hurrying on his clothes, make for\nthe spot with all speed, and presently return at the head of a long\nprocession of idlers, having in the midst the theatre and its\nproprietors.  Straightway, the stage would be set up in front of Mr\nBrass's house; the single gentleman would establish himself at the\nfirst floor window; and the entertainment would proceed, with all its\nexciting accompaniments of fife and drum and shout, to the excessive\nconsternation of all sober votaries of business in that silent\nthoroughfare.  It might have been expected that when the play was done,\nboth players and audience would have dispersed; but the epilogue was as\nbad as the play, for no sooner was the Devil dead, than the manager of\nthe puppets and his partner were summoned by the single gentleman to\nhis chamber, where they were regaled with strong waters from his\nprivate store, and where they held with him long conversations, the\npurport of which no human being could fathom.  But the secret of these\ndiscussions was of little importance.  It was sufficient to know that\nwhile they were proceeding, the concourse without still lingered round\nthe house; that boys beat upon the drum with their fists, and imitated\nPunch with their tender voices; that the office-window was rendered\nopaque by flattened noses, and the key-hole of the street-door luminous\nwith eyes; that every time the single gentleman or either of his guests\nwas seen at the upper window, or so much as the end of one of their\nnoses was visible, there was a great shout of execration from the\nexcluded mob, who remained howling and yelling, and refusing\nconsolation, until the exhibitors were delivered up to them to be\nattended elsewhere.  It was sufficient, in short, to know that Bevis\nMarks was revolutionised by these popular movements, and that peace and\nquietness fled from its precincts.\n\nNobody was rendered more indignant by these proceedings than Mr Sampson\nBrass, who, as he could by no means afford to lose so profitable an\ninmate, deemed it prudent to pocket his lodger's affront along with his\ncash, and to annoy the audiences who clustered round his door by such\nimperfect means of retaliation as were open to him, and which were\nconfined to the trickling down of foul water on their heads from unseen\nwatering pots, pelting them with fragments of tile and mortar from the\nroof of the house, and bribing the drivers of hackney cabriolets to\ncome suddenly round the corner and dash in among them precipitately.\nIt may, at first sight, be matter of surprise to the thoughtless few\nthat Mr Brass, being a professional gentleman, should not have legally\nindicted some party or parties, active in the promotion of the\nnuisance, but they will be good enough to remember, that as Doctors\nseldom take their own prescriptions, and Divines do not always practise\nwhat they preach, so lawyers are shy of meddling with the Law on their\nown account: knowing it to be an edged tool of uncertain application,\nvery expensive in the working, and rather remarkable for its properties\nof close shaving, than for its always shaving the right person.\n\n'Come,' said Mr Brass one afternoon, 'this is two days without a Punch.\nI'm in hopes he has run through 'em all, at last.'\n\n'Why are you in hopes?' returned Miss Sally.  'What harm do they do?'\n\n'Here's a pretty sort of a fellow!' cried Brass, laying down his pen in\ndespair.  'Now here's an aggravating animal!'\n\n'Well, what harm do they do?' retorted Sally.\n\n'What harm!' cried Brass.  'Is it no harm to have a constant hallooing\nand hooting under one's very nose, distracting one from business, and\nmaking one grind one's teeth with vexation?  Is it no harm to be\nblinded and choked up, and have the king's highway stopped with a set\nof screamers and roarers whose throats must be made of--of--'\n\n'Brass,' suggested Mr Swiveller.\n\n'Ah! of brass,' said the lawyer, glancing at his clerk, to assure\nhimself that he had suggested the word in good faith and without any\nsinister intention.  'Is that no harm?'\n\nThe lawyer stopped short in his invective, and listening for a moment,\nand recognising the well-known voice, rested his head upon his hand,\nraised his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered faintly, 'There's another!'\n\nUp went the single gentleman's window directly.\n\n'There's another,' repeated Brass; 'and if I could get a break and four\nblood horses to cut into the Marks when the crowd is at its thickest,\nI'd give eighteen-pence and never grudge it!'\n\nThe distant squeak was heard again.  The single gentleman's door burst\nopen.  He ran violently down the stairs, out into the street, and so\npast the window, without any hat, towards the quarter whence the sound\nproceeded--bent, no doubt, upon securing the strangers' services\ndirectly.\n\n'I wish I only knew who his friends were,' muttered Sampson, filling\nhis pocket with papers; 'if they'd just get up a pretty little\nCommission de lunatico at the Gray's Inn Coffee House and give me the\njob, I'd be content to have the lodgings empty for one while, at all\nevents.'\n\nWith which words, and knocking his hat over his eyes as if for the\npurpose of shutting out even a glimpse of the dreadful visitation, Mr\nBrass rushed from the house and hurried away.\n\nAs Mr Swiveller was decidedly favourable to these performances, upon\nthe ground that looking at a Punch, or indeed looking at anything out\nof window, was better than working; and as he had been, for this\nreason, at some pains to awaken in his fellow clerk a sense of their\nbeauties and manifold deserts; both he and Miss Sally rose as with one\naccord and took up their positions at the window: upon the sill\nwhereof, as in a post of honour, sundry young ladies and gentlemen who\nwere employed in the dry nurture of babies, and who made a point of\nbeing present, with their young charges, on such occasions, had already\nestablished themselves as comfortably as the circumstances would allow.\n\nThe glass being dim, Mr Swiveller, agreeably to a friendly custom which\nhe had established between them, hitched off the brown head-dress from\nMiss Sally's head, and dusted it carefully therewith.  By the time he\nhad handed it back, and its beautiful wearer had put it on again (which\nshe did with perfect composure and indifference), the lodger returned\nwith the show and showmen at his heels, and a strong addition to the\nbody of spectators.  The exhibitor disappeared with all speed behind\nthe drapery; and his partner, stationing himself by the side of the\nTheatre, surveyed the audience with a remarkable expression of\nmelancholy, which became more remarkable still when he breathed a\nhornpipe tune into that sweet musical instrument which is popularly\ntermed a mouth-organ, without at all changing the mournful expression\nof the upper part of his face, though his mouth and chin were, of\nnecessity, in lively spasms.\n\nThe drama proceeded to its close, and held the spectators enchained in\nthe customary manner.  The sensation which kindles in large assemblies,\nwhen they are relieved from a state of breathless suspense and are\nagain free to speak and move, was yet rife, when the lodger, as usual,\nsummoned the men up stairs.\n\n'Both of you,' he called from the window; for only the actual\nexhibitor--a little fat man--prepared to obey the summons.  'I want to\ntalk to you.  Come both of you!'\n\n'Come, Tommy,' said the little man.\n\n'I an't a talker,' replied the other.  'Tell him so.  What should I go\nand talk for?'\n\n'Don't you see the gentleman's got a bottle and glass up there?'\nreturned the little man.\n\n'And couldn't you have said so at first?' retorted the other with\nsudden alacrity.  'Now, what are you waiting for?  Are you going to\nkeep the gentleman expecting us all day?  haven't you no manners?'\n\nWith this remonstrance, the melancholy man, who was no other than Mr\nThomas Codlin, pushed past his friend and brother in the craft, Mr\nHarris, otherwise Short or Trotters, and hurried before him to the\nsingle gentleman's apartment.\n\n'Now, my men,' said the single gentleman; 'you have done very well.\nWhat will you take?  Tell that little man behind, to shut the door.'\n\n'Shut the door, can't you?' said Mr Codlin, turning gruffly to his\nfriend.  'You might have knowed that the gentleman wanted the door\nshut, without being told, I think.'\n\nMr Short obeyed, observing under his breath that his friend seemed\nunusually 'cranky,' and expressing a hope that there was no dairy in\nthe neighbourhood, or his temper would certainly spoil its contents.\n\nThe gentleman pointed to a couple of chairs, and intimated by an\nemphatic nod of his head that he expected them to be seated.  Messrs\nCodlin and Short, after looking at each other with considerable doubt\nand indecision, at length sat down--each on the extreme edge of the\nchair pointed out to him--and held their hats very tight, while the\nsingle gentleman filled a couple of glasses from a bottle on the table\nbeside him, and presented them in due form.\n\n'You're pretty well browned by the sun, both of you,' said their\nentertainer.  'Have you been travelling?'\n\nMr Short replied in the affirmative with a nod and a smile.  Mr Codlin\nadded a corroborative nod and a short groan, as if he still felt the\nweight of the Temple on his shoulders.\n\n'To fairs, markets, races, and so forth, I suppose?' pursued the single\ngentleman.\n\n'Yes, sir,' returned Short, 'pretty nigh all over the West of England.'\n\n'I have talked to men of your craft from North, East, and South,'\nreturned their host, in rather a hasty manner; 'but I never lighted on\nany from the West before.'\n\n'It's our reg'lar summer circuit is the West, master,' said Short;\n'that's where it is.  We takes the East of London in the spring and\nwinter, and the West of England in the summer time.  Many's the hard\nday's walking in rain and mud, and with never a penny earned, we've had\ndown in the West.'\n\n'Let me fill your glass again.'\n\n'Much obleeged to you sir, I think I will,' said Mr Codlin, suddenly\nthrusting in his own and turning Short's aside.  'I'm the sufferer,\nsir, in all the travelling, and in all the staying at home.  In town or\ncountry, wet or dry, hot or cold, Tom Codlin suffers.  But Tom Codlin\nisn't to complain for all that.  Oh, no!  Short may complain, but if\nCodlin grumbles by so much as a word--oh dear, down with him, down\nwith him directly.  It isn't his place to grumble.  That's quite out of\nthe question.'\n\n'Codlin an't without his usefulness,' observed Short with an arch look,\n'but he don't always keep his eyes open.  He falls asleep sometimes,\nyou know.  Remember them last races, Tommy.'\n\n'Will you never leave off aggravating a man?' said Codlin.  'It's very\nlike I was asleep when five-and-tenpence was collected, in one round,\nisn't it?  I was attending to my business, and couldn't have my eyes in\ntwenty places at once, like a peacock, no more than you could.  If I\nan't a match for an old man and a young child, you an't neither, so\ndon't throw that out against me, for the cap fits your head quite as\ncorrect as it fits mine.'\n\n'You may as well drop the subject, Tom,' said Short.  'It isn't\nparticular agreeable to the gentleman, I dare say.'\n\n'Then you shouldn't have brought it up,' returned Mr Codlin; 'and I ask\nthe gentleman's pardon on your account, as a giddy chap that likes to\nhear himself talk, and don't much care what he talks about, so that he\ndoes talk.'\n\nTheir entertainer had sat perfectly quiet in the beginning of this\ndispute, looking first at one man and then at the other, as if he were\nlying in wait for an opportunity of putting some further question, or\nreverting to that from which the discourse had strayed.  But, from the\npoint where Mr Codlin was charged with sleepiness, he had shown an\nincreasing interest in the discussion: which now attained a very high\npitch.\n\n'You are the two men I want,' he said, 'the two men I have been looking\nfor, and searching after!  Where are that old man and that child you\nspeak of?'\n\n'Sir?' said Short, hesitating, and looking towards his friend.\n\n'The old man and his grandchild who travelled with you--where are they?\nIt will be worth your while to speak out, I assure you; much better\nworth your while than you believe.  They left you, you say--at those\nraces, as I understand.  They have been traced to that place, and there\nlost sight of.  Have you no clue, can you suggest no clue, to their\nrecovery?'\n\n'Did I always say, Thomas,' cried Short, turning with a look of\namazement to his friend, 'that there was sure to be an inquiry after\nthem two travellers?'\n\n'YOU said!' returned Mr Codlin.  'Did I always say that that 'ere\nblessed child was the most interesting I ever see?  Did I always say I\nloved her, and doated on her?  Pretty creetur, I think I hear her now.\n\"Codlin's my friend,\" she says, with a tear of gratitude a trickling\ndown her little eye; \"Codlin's my friend,\" she says--\"not Short.\nShort's very well,\" she says; \"I've no quarrel with Short; he means\nkind, I dare say; but Codlin,\" she says, \"has the feelings for my\nmoney, though he mayn't look it.\"'\n\nRepeating these words with great emotion, Mr Codlin rubbed the bridge\nof his nose with his coat-sleeve, and shaking his head mournfully from\nside to side, left the single gentleman to infer that, from the moment\nwhen he lost sight of his dear young charge, his peace of mind and\nhappiness had fled.\n\n'Good Heaven!' said the single gentleman, pacing up and down the room,\n'have I found these men at last, only to discover that they can give me\nno information or assistance!  It would have been better to have lived\non, in hope, from day to day, and never to have lighted on them, than\nto have my expectations scattered thus.'\n\n'Stay a minute,' said Short.  'A man of the name of Jerry--you know\nJerry, Thomas?'\n\n'Oh, don't talk to me of Jerrys,' replied Mr Codlin.  'How can I care a\npinch of snuff for Jerrys, when I think of that 'ere darling child?\n\"Codlin's my friend,\" she says, \"dear, good, kind Codlin, as is always\na devising pleasures for me!  I don't object to Short,\" she says, \"but\nI cotton to Codlin.\" Once,' said that gentleman reflectively, 'she\ncalled me Father Codlin.  I thought I should have bust!'\n\n'A man of the name of Jerry, sir,' said Short, turning from his selfish\ncolleague to their new acquaintance, 'wot keeps a company of dancing\ndogs, told me, in a accidental sort of way, that he had seen the old\ngentleman in connexion with a travelling wax-work, unbeknown to him.\nAs they'd given us the slip, and nothing had come of it, and this was\ndown in the country that he'd been seen, I took no measures about it,\nand asked no questions--But I can, if you like.'\n\n'Is this man in town?' said the impatient single gentleman.  'Speak\nfaster.'\n\n'No he isn't, but he will be to-morrow, for he lodges in our house,'\nreplied Mr Short rapidly.\n\n'Then bring him here,' said the single gentleman.  'Here's a sovereign\na-piece.  If I can find these people through your means, it is but a\nprelude to twenty more.  Return to me to-morrow, and keep your own\ncounsel on this subject--though I need hardly tell you that; for you'll\ndo so for your own sakes.  Now, give me your address, and leave me.'\n\nThe address was given, the two men departed, the crowd went with them,\nand the single gentleman for two mortal hours walked in uncommon\nagitation up and down his room, over the wondering heads of Mr\nSwiveller and Miss Sally Brass.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 38\n\nKit--for it happens at this juncture, not only that we have breathing\ntime to follow his fortunes, but that the necessities of these\nadventures so adapt themselves to our ease and inclination as to call\nupon us imperatively to pursue the track we most desire to take--Kit,\nwhile the matters treated of in the last fifteen chapters were yet in\nprogress, was, as the reader may suppose, gradually familiarising\nhimself more and more with Mr and Mrs Garland, Mr Abel, the pony, and\nBarbara, and gradually coming to consider them one and all as his\nparticular private friends, and Abel Cottage, Finchley, as his own\nproper home.\n\nStay--the words are written, and may go, but if they convey any notion\nthat Kit, in the plentiful board and comfortable lodging of his new\nabode, began to think slightingly of the poor fare and furniture of his\nold dwelling, they do their office badly and commit injustice.  Who so\nmindful of those he left at home--albeit they were but a mother and two\nyoung babies--as Kit?  What boastful father in the fulness of his heart\never related such wonders of his infant prodigy, as Kit never wearied\nof telling Barbara in the evening time, concerning little Jacob?  Was\nthere ever such a mother as Kit's mother, on her son's showing; or was\nthere ever such comfort in poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family,\nif any correct judgment might be arrived at, from his own glowing\naccount!\n\nAnd let me linger in this place, for an instant, to remark that if ever\nhousehold affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful\nin the poor.  The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home may\nbe forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble\nhearth are of the truer metal and bear the stamp of Heaven.  The man of\nhigh descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as part of\nhimself: as trophies of his birth and power; his associations with them\nare associations of pride and wealth and triumph; the poor man's\nattachment to the tenements he holds, which strangers have held before,\nand may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a\npurer soil.  His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy\nof silver, gold, or precious stone; he has no property but in the\naffections of his own heart; and when they endear bare floors and\nwalls, despite of rags and toil and scanty fare, that man has his love\nof home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place.\n\nOh! if those who rule the destinies of nations would but remember\nthis--if they would but think how hard it is for the very poor to have\nengendered in their hearts, that love of home from which all domestic\nvirtues spring, when they live in dense and squalid masses where social\ndecency is lost, or rather never found--if they would but turn aside\nfrom the wide thoroughfares and great houses, and strive to improve the\nwretched dwellings in bye-ways where only Poverty may walk--many low\nroofs would point more truly to the sky, than the loftiest steeple that\nnow rears proudly up from the midst of guilt, and crime, and horrible\ndisease, to mock them by its contrast.  In hollow voices from\nWorkhouse, Hospital, and jail, this truth is preached from day to day,\nand has been proclaimed for years.  It is no light matter--no outcry\nfrom the working vulgar--no mere question of the people's health and\ncomforts that may be whistled down on Wednesday nights.  In love of\nhome, the love of country has its rise; and who are the truer patriots\nor the better in time of need--those who venerate the land, owning its\nwood, and stream, and earth, and all that they produce?  or those who\nlove their country, boasting not a foot of ground in all its wide\ndomain!\n\nKit knew nothing about such questions, but he knew that his old home\nwas a very poor place, and that his new one was very unlike it, and yet\nhe was constantly looking back with grateful satisfaction and\naffectionate anxiety, and often indited square-folded letters to his\nmother, enclosing a shilling or eighteenpence or such other small\nremittance, which Mr Abel's liberality enabled him to make.  Sometimes\nbeing in the neighbourhood, he had leisure to call upon her, and then\ngreat was the joy and pride of Kit's mother, and extremely noisy the\nsatisfaction of little Jacob and the baby, and cordial the\ncongratulations of the whole court, who listened with admiring ears to\nthe accounts of Abel Cottage, and could never be told too much of its\nwonders and magnificence.\n\nAlthough Kit was in the very highest favour with the old lady and\ngentleman, and Mr Abel, and Barbara, it is certain that no member of\nthe family evinced such a remarkable partiality for him as the\nself-willed pony, who, from being the most obstinate and opinionated\npony on the face of the earth, was, in his hands, the meekest and most\ntractable of animals.  It is true that in exact proportion as he became\nmanageable by Kit he became utterly ungovernable by anybody else (as if\nhe had determined to keep him in the family at all risks and hazards),\nand that, even under the guidance of his favourite, he would sometimes\nperform a great variety of strange freaks and capers, to the extreme\ndiscomposure of the old lady's nerves; but as Kit always represented\nthat this was only his fun, or a way he had of showing his attachment\nto his employers, Mrs Garland gradually suffered herself to be\npersuaded into the belief, in which she at last became so strongly\nconfirmed, that if, in one of these ebullitions, he had overturned the\nchaise, she would have been quite satisfied that he did it with the\nvery best intentions.\n\nBesides becoming in a short time a perfect marvel in all stable\nmatters, Kit soon made himself a very tolerable gardener, a handy\nfellow within doors, and an indispensable attendant on Mr Abel, who\nevery day gave him some new proof of his confidence and approbation.\nMr Witherden the notary, too, regarded him with a friendly eye; and\neven Mr Chuckster would sometimes condescend to give him a slight nod,\nor to honour him with that peculiar form of recognition which is called\n'taking a sight,' or to favour him with some other salute combining\npleasantry with patronage.\n\nOne morning Kit drove Mr Abel to the Notary's office, as he sometimes\ndid, and having set him down at the house, was about to drive off to a\nlivery stable hard by, when this same Mr Chuckster emerged from the\noffice door, and cried 'Woa-a-a-a-a-a!'--dwelling upon the note a long\ntime, for the purpose of striking terror into the pony's heart, and\nasserting the supremacy of man over the inferior animals.\n\n'Pull up, Snobby,' cried Mr Chuckster, addressing himself to Kit.\n'You're wanted inside here.'\n\n'Has Mr Abel forgotten anything, I wonder?' said Kit as he dismounted.\n\n'Ask no questions, Snobby,' returned Mr Chuckster, 'but go and see.\nWoa-a-a then, will you?  If that pony was mine, I'd break him.'\n\n'You must be very gentle with him, if you please,' said Kit, 'or you'll\nfind him troublesome.  You'd better not keep on pulling his ears,\nplease.  I know he won't like it.'\n\nTo this remonstrance Mr Chuckster deigned no other answer, than\naddressing Kit with a lofty and distant air as 'young feller,' and\nrequesting him to cut and come again with all speed.  The 'young\nfeller' complying, Mr Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and tried\nto look as if he were not minding the pony, but happened to be lounging\nthere by accident.\n\nKit scraped his shoes very carefully (for he had not yet lost his\nreverence for the bundles of papers and the tin boxes,) and tapped at\nthe office-door, which was quickly opened by the Notary himself.\n\n'Oh! come in, Christopher,' said Mr Witherden.\n\n'Is that the lad?' asked an elderly gentleman, but of a stout, bluff\nfigure--who was in the room.\n\n'That's the lad,' said Mr Witherden.  'He fell in with my client, Mr\nGarland, sir, at this very door.  I have reason to think he is a good\nlad, sir, and that you may believe what he says.  Let me introduce Mr\nAbel Garland, sir--his young master; my articled pupil, sir, and most\nparticular friend:--my most particular friend, sir,' repeated the\nNotary, drawing out his silk handkerchief and flourishing it about his\nface.\n\n'Your servant, sir,' said the stranger gentleman.\n\n'Yours, sir, I'm sure,' replied Mr Abel mildly.  'You were wishing to\nspeak to Christopher, sir?'\n\n'Yes, I was.  Have I your permission?'\n\n'By all means.'\n\n'My business is no secret; or I should rather say it need be no secret\nhere,' said the stranger, observing that Mr Abel and the Notary were\npreparing to retire.  'It relates to a dealer in curiosities with whom\nhe lived, and in whom I am earnestly and warmly interested.  I have\nbeen a stranger to this country, gentlemen, for very many years, and if\nI am deficient in form and ceremony, I hope you will forgive me.'\n\n'No forgiveness is necessary, sir;--none whatever,' replied the Notary.\nAnd so said Mr Abel.\n\n'I have been making inquiries in the neighbourhood in which his old\nmaster lived,' said the stranger, 'and I learn that he was served by\nthis lad.  I have found out his mother's house, and have been directed\nby her to this place as the nearest in which I should be likely to find\nhim.  That's the cause of my presenting myself here this morning.'\n\n'I am very glad of any cause, sir,' said the Notary, 'which procures me\nthe honour of this visit.'\n\n'Sir,' retorted the stranger, 'you speak like a mere man of the world,\nand I think you something better.  Therefore, pray do not sink your\nreal character in paying unmeaning compliments to me.'\n\n'Hem!' coughed the Notary.  'You're a plain speaker, sir.'\n\n'And a plain dealer,' returned the stranger.  'It may be my long\nabsence and inexperience that lead me to the conclusion; but if plain\nspeakers are scarce in this part of the world, I fancy plain dealers\nare still scarcer.  If my speaking should offend you, sir, my dealing,\nI hope, will make amends.'\n\nMr Witherden seemed a little disconcerted by the elderly gentleman's\nmode of conducting the dialogue; and as for Kit, he looked at him in\nopen-mouthed astonishment: wondering what kind of language he would\naddress to him, if he talked in that free and easy way to a Notary.  It\nwas with no harshness, however, though with something of constitutional\nirritability and haste, that he turned to Kit and said:\n\n'If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing these inquiries with any\nother view than that of serving and reclaiming those I am in search of,\nyou do me a very great wrong, and deceive yourself.  Don't be deceived,\nI beg of you, but rely upon my assurance.  The fact is, gentlemen,' he\nadded, turning again to the Notary and his pupil, 'that I am in a very\npainful and wholly unexpected position.  I came to this city with a\ndarling object at my heart, expecting to find no obstacle or difficulty\nin the way of its attainment.  I find myself suddenly checked and\nstopped short, in the execution of my design, by a mystery which I\ncannot penetrate.  Every effort I have made to penetrate it, has only\nserved to render it darker and more obscure; and I am afraid to stir\nopenly in the matter, lest those whom I anxiously pursue, should fly\nstill farther from me.  I assure you that if you could give me any\nassistance, you would not be sorry to do so, if you knew how greatly I\nstand in need of it, and what a load it would relieve me from.'\n\nThere was a simplicity in this confidence which occasioned it to find a\nquick response in the breast of the good-natured Notary, who replied,\nin the same spirit, that the stranger had not mistaken his desire, and\nthat if he could be of service to him, he would, most readily.\n\nKit was then put under examination and closely questioned by the\nunknown gentleman, touching his old master and the child, their lonely\nway of life, their retired habits, and strict seclusion.  The nightly\nabsence of the old man, the solitary existence of the child at those\ntimes, his illness and recovery, Quilp's possession of the house, and\ntheir sudden disappearance, were all the subjects of much questioning\nand answer.  Finally, Kit informed the gentleman that the premises were\nnow to let, and that a board upon the door referred all inquirers to Mr\nSampson Brass, Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, from whom he might perhaps\nlearn some further particulars.\n\n'Not by inquiry,' said the gentleman shaking his head.  'I live there.'\n\n'Live at Brass's the attorney's!' cried Mr Witherden in some surprise:\nhaving professional knowledge of the gentleman in question.\n\n'Aye,' was the reply.  'I entered on his lodgings t'other day, chiefly\nbecause I had seen this very board.  It matters little to me where I\nlive, and I had a desperate hope that some intelligence might be cast\nin my way there, which would not reach me elsewhere.  Yes, I live at\nBrass's--more shame for me, I suppose?'\n\n'That's a mere matter of opinion,' said the Notary, shrugging his\nshoulders.  'He is looked upon as rather a doubtful character.'\n\n'Doubtful?' echoed the other.  'I am glad to hear there's any doubt\nabout it.  I supposed that had been thoroughly settled, long ago.  But\nwill you let me speak a word or two with you in private?'\n\nMr Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentleman's private\ncloset, and remained there, in close conversation, for some quarter of\nan hour, when they returned into the outer office.  The stranger had\nleft his hat in Mr Witherden's room, and seemed to have established\nhimself in this short interval on quite a friendly footing.\n\n'I'll not detain you any longer now,' he said, putting a crown into\nKit's hand, and looking towards the Notary.  'You shall hear from me\nagain.  Not a word of this, you know, except to your master and\nmistress.'\n\n'Mother, sir, would be glad to know--' said Kit, faltering.\n\n'Glad to know what?'\n\n'Anything--so that it was no harm--about Miss Nell.'\n\n'Would she?  Well then, you may tell her if she can keep a secret.  But\nmind, not a word of this to anybody else.  Don't forget that.  Be\nparticular.'\n\n'I'll take care, sir,' said Kit.  'Thankee, sir, and good morning.'\n\nNow, it happened that the gentleman, in his anxiety to impress upon Kit\nthat he was not to tell anybody what had passed between them, followed\nhim out to the door to repeat his caution, and it further happened that\nat that moment the eyes of Mr Richard Swiveller were turned in that\ndirection, and beheld his mysterious friend and Kit together.\n\nIt was quite an accident, and the way in which it came about was this.\nMr Chuckster, being a gentleman of a cultivated taste and refined\nspirit, was one of that Lodge of Glorious Apollos whereof Mr Swiveller\nwas Perpetual Grand.  Mr Swiveller, passing through the street in the\nexecution of some Brazen errand, and beholding one of his Glorious\nBrotherhood intently gazing on a pony, crossed over to give him that\nfraternal greeting with which Perpetual Grands are, by the very\nconstitution of their office, bound to cheer and encourage their\ndisciples.  He had scarcely bestowed upon him his blessing, and\nfollowed it with a general remark touching the present state and\nprospects of the weather, when, lifting up his eyes, he beheld the\nsingle gentleman of Bevis Marks in earnest conversation with\nChristopher Nubbles.\n\n'Hallo!' said Dick, 'who is that?'\n\n'He called to see my Governor this morning,' replied Mr Chuckster;\n'beyond that, I don't know him from Adam.'\n\n'At least you know his name?' said Dick.\n\nTo which Mr Chuckster replied, with an elevation of speech becoming a\nGlorious Apollo, that he was 'everlastingly blessed' if he did.\n\n'All I know, my dear feller,' said Mr Chuckster, running his fingers\nthrough his hair, 'is, that he is the cause of my having stood here\ntwenty minutes, for which I hate him with a mortal and undying hatred,\nand would pursue him to the confines of eternity if I could afford the\ntime.'\n\nWhile they were thus discoursing, the subject of their conversation\n(who had not appeared to recognise Mr Richard Swiveller) re-entered the\nhouse, and Kit came down the steps and joined them; to whom Mr\nSwiveller again propounded his inquiry with no better success.\n\n'He is a very nice gentleman, Sir,' said Kit, 'and that's all I know\nabout him.'\n\nMr Chuckster waxed wroth at this answer, and without applying the\nremark to any particular case, mentioned, as a general truth, that it\nwas expedient to break the heads of Snobs, and to tweak their noses.\nWithout expressing his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr Swiveller\nafter a few moments of abstraction inquired which way Kit was driving,\nand, being informed, declared it was his way, and that he would\ntrespass on him for a lift.  Kit would gladly have declined the\nproffered honour, but as Mr Swiveller was already established in the\nseat beside him, he had no means of doing so, otherwise than by a\nforcible ejectment, and therefore, drove briskly off--so briskly\nindeed, as to cut short the leave-taking between Mr Chuckster and his\nGrand Master, and to occasion the former gentleman some inconvenience\nfrom having his corns squeezed by the impatient pony.\n\nAs Whisker was tired of standing, and Mr Swiveller was kind enough to\nstimulate him by shrill whistles, and various sporting cries, they\nrattled off at too sharp a pace to admit of much conversation:\nespecially as the pony, incensed by Mr Swiveller's admonitions, took a\nparticular fancy for the lamp-posts and cart-wheels, and evinced a\nstrong desire to run on the pavement and rasp himself against the brick\nwalls.  It was not, therefore, until they had arrived at the stable,\nand the chaise had been extricated from a very small doorway, into\nwhich the pony dragged it under the impression that he could take it\nalong with him into his usual stall, that Mr Swiveller found time to\ntalk.\n\n'It's hard work,' said Richard.  'What do you say to some beer?'\n\nKit at first declined, but presently consented, and they adjourned to\nthe neighbouring bar together.\n\n'We'll drink our friend what's-his-name,' said Dick, holding up the\nbright frothy pot; '--that was talking to you this morning, you know--I\nknow him--a good fellow, but eccentric--very--here's what's-his-name!'\n\nKit pledged him.\n\n'He lives in my house,' said Dick; 'at least in the house occupied by\nthe firm in which I'm a sort of a--of a managing partner--a difficult\nfellow to get anything out of, but we like him--we like him.'\n\n'I must be going, sir, if you please,' said Kit, moving away.\n\n'Don't be in a hurry, Christopher,' replied his patron, 'we'll drink\nyour mother.'\n\n'Thank you, sir.'\n\n'An excellent woman that mother of yours, Christopher,' said Mr\nSwiveller.  'Who ran to catch me when I fell, and kissed the place to\nmake it well?  My mother.  A charming woman.  He's a liberal sort of\nfellow.  We must get him to do something for your mother.  Does he know\nher, Christopher?'\n\nKit shook his head, and glancing slyly at his questioner, thanked him,\nand made off before he could say another word.\n\n'Humph!' said Mr Swiveller pondering, 'this is queer.  Nothing but\nmysteries in connection with Brass's house.  I'll keep my own counsel,\nhowever.  Everybody and anybody has been in my confidence as yet, but\nnow I think I'll set up in business for myself.  Queer--very queer!'\n\nAfter pondering deeply and with a face of exceeding wisdom for some\ntime, Mr Swiveller drank some more of the beer, and summoning a small\nboy who had been watching his proceedings, poured forth the few\nremaining drops as a libation on the gravel, and bade him carry the\nempty vessel to the bar with his compliments, and above all things to\nlead a sober and temperate life, and abstain from all intoxicating and\nexciting liquors.  Having given him this piece of moral advice for his\ntrouble (which, as he wisely observed, was far better than half-pence)\nthe Perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious Apollos thrust his hands\ninto his pockets and sauntered away: still pondering as he went.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 39\n\nAll that day, though he waited for Mr Abel until evening, Kit kept\nclear of his mother's house, determined not to anticipate the pleasures\nof the morrow, but to let them come in their full rush of delight; for\nto-morrow was the great and long looked-for epoch in his\nlife--to-morrow was the end of his first quarter--the day of receiving,\nfor the first time, one fourth part of his annual income of Six Pounds\nin one vast sum of Thirty Shillings--to-morrow was to be a half-holiday\ndevoted to a whirl of entertainments, and little Jacob was to know what\noysters meant, and to see a play.\n\nAll manner of incidents combined in favour of the occasion: not only\nhad Mr and Mrs Garland forewarned him that they intended to make no\ndeduction for his outfit from the great amount, but to pay it him\nunbroken in all its gigantic grandeur; not only had the unknown\ngentleman increased the stock by the sum of five shillings, which was a\nperfect god-send and in itself a fortune; not only had these things\ncome to pass which nobody could have calculated upon, or in their\nwildest dreams have hoped; but it was Barbara's quarter too--Barbara's\nquarter, that very day--and Barbara had a half-holiday as well as Kit,\nand Barbara's mother was going to make one of the party, and to take\ntea with Kit's mother, and cultivate her acquaintance.\n\nTo be sure Kit looked out of his window very early that morning to see\nwhich way the clouds were flying, and to be sure Barbara would have\nbeen at hers too, if she had not sat up so late over-night, starching\nand ironing small pieces of muslin, and crimping them into frills, and\nsewing them on to other pieces to form magnificent wholes for next\nday's wear.  But they were both up very early for all that, and had\nsmall appetites for breakfast and less for dinner, and were in a state\nof great excitement when Barbara's mother came in, with astonishing\naccounts of the fineness of the weather out of doors (but with a very\nlarge umbrella notwithstanding, for people like Barbara's mother seldom\nmake holiday without one), and when the bell rang for them to go up\nstairs and receive their quarter's money in gold and silver.\n\nWell, wasn't Mr Garland kind when he said 'Christopher, here's your\nmoney, and you have earned it well;' and wasn't Mrs Garland kind when\nshe said 'Barbara, here's yours, and I'm much pleased with you;' and\ndidn't Kit sign his name bold to his receipt, and didn't Barbara sign\nher name all a trembling to hers; and wasn't it beautiful to see how\nMrs Garland poured out Barbara's mother a glass of wine; and didn't\nBarbara's mother speak up when she said 'Here's blessing you, ma'am, as\na good lady, and you, sir, as a good gentleman, and Barbara, my love to\nyou, and here's towards you, Mr Christopher;' and wasn't she as long\ndrinking it as if it had been a tumblerful; and didn't she look\ngenteel, standing there with her gloves on; and wasn't there plenty of\nlaughing and talking among them as they reviewed all these things upon\nthe top of the coach, and didn't they pity the people who hadn't got a\nholiday!\n\nBut Kit's mother, again--wouldn't anybody have supposed she had come of\na good stock and been a lady all her life!  There she was, quite ready\nto receive them, with a display of tea-things that might have warmed\nthe heart of a china-shop; and little Jacob and the baby in such a\nstate of perfection that their clothes looked as good as new, though\nHeaven knows they were old enough!  Didn't she say before they had sat\ndown five minutes that Barbara's mother was exactly the sort of lady\nshe expected, and didn't Barbara's mother say that Kit's mother was the\nvery picture of what she had expected, and didn't Kit's mother\ncompliment Barbara's mother on Barbara, and didn't Barbara's mother\ncompliment Kit's mother on Kit, and wasn't Barbara herself quite\nfascinated with little Jacob, and did ever a child show off when he was\nwanted, as that child did, or make such friends as he made!\n\n'And we are both widows too!' said Barbara's mother.  'We must have\nbeen made to know each other.'\n\n'I haven't a doubt about it,' returned Mrs Nubbles.  'And what a pity\nit is we didn't know each other sooner.'\n\n'But then, you know, it's such a pleasure,' said Barbara's mother, 'to\nhave it brought about by one's son and daughter, that it's fully made\nup for.  Now, an't it?'\n\nTo this, Kit's mother yielded her full assent, and tracing things back\nfrom effects to causes, they naturally reverted to their deceased\nhusbands, respecting whose lives, deaths, and burials, they compared\nnotes, and discovered sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful\nexactness; such as Barbara's father having been exactly four years and\nten months older than Kit's father, and one of them having died on a\nWednesday and the other on a Thursday, and both of them having been of\na very fine make and remarkably good-looking, with other extraordinary\ncoincidences.  These recollections being of a kind calculated to cast a\nshadow on the brightness of the holiday, Kit diverted the conversation\nto general topics, and they were soon in great force again, and as\nmerry as before.  Among other things, Kit told them about his old\nplace, and the extraordinary beauty of Nell (of whom he had talked to\nBarbara a thousand times already); but the last-named circumstance\nfailed to interest his hearers to anything like the extent he had\nsupposed, and even his mother said (looking accidentally at Barbara at\nthe same time) that there was no doubt Miss Nell was very pretty, but\nshe was but a child after all, and there were many young women quite as\npretty as she; and Barbara mildly observed that she should think so,\nand that she never could help believing Mr Christopher must be under a\nmistake--which Kit wondered at very much, not being able to conceive\nwhat reason she had for doubting him.  Barbara's mother too, observed\nthat it was very common for young folks to change at about fourteen or\nfifteen, and whereas they had been very pretty before, to grow up quite\nplain; which truth she illustrated by many forcible examples,\nespecially one of a young man, who, being a builder with great\nprospects, had been particular in his attentions to Barbara, but whom\nBarbara would have nothing to say to; which (though everything happened\nfor the best) she almost thought was a pity.  Kit said he thought so\ntoo, and so he did honestly, and he wondered what made Barbara so\nsilent all at once, and why his mother looked at him as if he shouldn't\nhave said it.\n\nHowever, it was high time now to be thinking of the play; for which\ngreat preparation was required, in the way of shawls and bonnets, not\nto mention one handkerchief full of oranges and another of apples,\nwhich took some time tying up, in consequence of the fruit having a\ntendency to roll out at the corners.  At length, everything was ready,\nand they went off very fast; Kit's mother carrying the baby, who was\ndreadfully wide awake, and Kit holding little Jacob in one hand, and\nescorting Barbara with the other--a state of things which occasioned\nthe two mothers, who walked behind, to declare that they looked quite\nfamily folks, and caused Barbara to blush and say, 'Now don't, mother!'\nBut Kit said she had no call to mind what they said; and indeed she\nneed not have had, if she had known how very far from Kit's thoughts\nany love-making was.  Poor Barbara!\n\nAt last they got to the theatre, which was Astley's: and in some two\nminutes after they had reached the yet unopened door, little Jacob was\nsqueezed flat, and the baby had received divers concussions, and\nBarbara's mother's umbrella had been carried several yards off and\npassed back to her over the shoulders of the people, and Kit had hit a\nman on the head with the handkerchief of apples for 'scrowdging' his\nparent with unnecessary violence, and there was a great uproar.  But,\nwhen they were once past the pay-place and tearing away for very life\nwith their checks in their hands, and, above all, when they were fairly\nin the theatre, and seated in such places that they couldn't have had\nbetter if they had picked them out, and taken them beforehand, all this\nwas looked upon as quite a capital joke, and an essential part of the\nentertainment.\n\nDear, dear, what a place it looked, that Astley's; with all the paint,\ngilding, and looking-glass; the vague smell of horses suggestive of\ncoming wonders; the curtain that hid such gorgeous mysteries; the clean\nwhite sawdust down in the circus; the company coming in and taking\ntheir places; the fiddlers looking carelessly up at them while they\ntuned their instruments, as if they didn't want the play to begin, and\nknew it all beforehand!  What a glow was that, which burst upon them\nall, when that long, clear, brilliant row of lights came slowly up; and\nwhat the feverish excitement when the little bell rang and the music\nbegan in good earnest, with strong parts for the drums, and sweet\neffects for the triangles!  Well might Barbara's mother say to Kit's\nmother that the gallery was the place to see from, and wonder it wasn't\nmuch dearer than the boxes; well might Barbara feel doubtful whether to\nlaugh or cry, in her flutter of delight.\n\nThen the play itself! the horses which little Jacob believed from the\nfirst to be alive, and the ladies and gentlemen of whose reality he\ncould be by no means persuaded, having never seen or heard anything at\nall like them--the firing, which made Barbara wink--the forlorn lady,\nwho made her cry--the tyrant, who made her tremble--the man who sang\nthe song with the lady's-maid and danced the chorus, who made her\nlaugh--the pony who reared up on his hind legs when he saw the\nmurderer, and wouldn't hear of walking on all fours again until he was\ntaken into custody--the clown who ventured on such familiarities with\nthe military man in boots--the lady who jumped over the nine-and-twenty\nribbons and came down safe upon the horse's back--everything was\ndelightful, splendid, and surprising!  Little Jacob applauded till his\nhands were sore; Kit cried 'an-kor' at the end of everything, the\nthree-act piece included; and Barbara's mother beat her umbrella on the\nfloor, in her ecstasies, until it was nearly worn down to the gingham.\n\nIn the midst of all these fascinations, Barbara's thoughts seemed to\nhave been still running on what Kit had said at tea-time; for, when\nthey were coming out of the play, she asked him, with an hysterical\nsimper, if Miss Nell was as handsome as the lady who jumped over the\nribbons.\n\n'As handsome as her?' said Kit.  'Double as handsome.'\n\n'Oh Christopher! I'm sure she was the beautifullest creature ever was,'\nsaid Barbara.\n\n'Nonsense!' returned Kit.  'She was well enough, I don't deny that; but\nthink how she was dressed and painted, and what a difference that made.\nWhy YOU are a good deal better looking than her, Barbara.'\n\n'Oh Christopher!' said Barbara, looking down.\n\n'You are, any day,' said Kit, '--and so's your mother.'\n\nPoor Barbara!\n\nWhat was all this though--even all this--to the extraordinary\ndissipation that ensued, when Kit, walking into an oyster-shop as bold\nas if he lived there, and not so much as looking at the counter or the\nman behind it, led his party into a box--a private box, fitted up with\nred curtains, white table-cloth, and cruet-stand complete--and ordered\na fierce gentleman with whiskers, who acted as waiter and called him,\nhim Christopher Nubbles, 'sir,' to bring three dozen of his\nlargest-sized oysters, and to look sharp about it!  Yes, Kit told this\ngentleman to look sharp, and he not only said he would look sharp, but\nhe actually did, and presently came running back with the newest\nloaves, and the freshest butter, and the largest oysters, ever seen.\nThen said Kit to this gentleman, 'a pot of beer'--just so--and the\ngentleman, instead of replying, 'Sir, did you address that language to\nme?' only said, 'Pot o' beer, sir?  Yes, sir,' and went off and fetched\nit, and put it on the table in a small decanter-stand, like those which\nblind-men's dogs carry about the streets in their mouths, to catch the\nhalf-pence in; and both Kit's mother and Barbara's mother declared as\nhe turned away that he was one of the slimmest and gracefullest young\nmen she had ever looked upon.\n\nThen they fell to work upon the supper in earnest; and there was\nBarbara, that foolish Barbara, declaring that she could not eat more\nthan two, and wanting more pressing than you would believe before she\nwould eat four: though her mother and Kit's mother made up for it\npretty well, and ate and laughed and enjoyed themselves so thoroughly\nthat it did Kit good to see them, and made him laugh and eat likewise\nfrom strong sympathy.  But the greatest miracle of the night was little\nJacob, who ate oysters as if he had been born and bred to the\nbusiness--sprinkled the pepper and the vinegar with a discretion beyond\nhis years--and afterwards built a grotto on the table with the shells.\nThere was the baby too, who had never closed an eye all night, but had\nsat as good as gold, trying to force a large orange into his mouth, and\ngazing intently at the lights in the chandelier--there he was, sitting\nup in his mother's lap, staring at the gas without winking, and making\nindentations in his soft visage with an oyster-shell, to that degree\nthat a heart of iron must have loved him!  In short, there never was a\nmore successful supper; and when Kit ordered in a glass of something\nhot to finish with, and proposed Mr and Mrs Garland before sending it\nround, there were not six happier people in all the world.\n\nBut all happiness has an end--hence the chief pleasure of its next\nbeginning--and as it was now growing late, they agreed it was time to\nturn their faces homewards.  So, after going a little out of their way\nto see Barbara and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they\nwere to pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the door, with\nan early appointment for returning to Finchley next morning, and a\ngreat many plans for next quarter's enjoyment.  Then, Kit took little\nJacob on his back, and giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the\nbaby, they all trudged merrily home together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 40\n\nFull of that vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next\nmorning, Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his faith in last night's\nenjoyments a little shaken by cool daylight and the return to every-day\nduties and occupations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the\nappointed place.  And being careful not to awaken any of the little\nhousehold, who were yet resting from their unusual fatigues, Kit left\nhis money on the chimney-piece, with an inscription in chalk calling\nhis mother's attention to the circumstance, and informing her that it\ncame from her dutiful son; and went his way, with a heart something\nheavier than his pockets, but free from any very great oppression\nnotwithstanding.\n\nOh these holidays! why will they leave us some regret?  why cannot we\npush them back, only a week or two in our memories, so as to put them\nat once at that convenient distance whence they may be regarded either\nwith a calm indifference or a pleasant effort of recollection! why will\nthey hang about us, like the flavour of yesterday's wine, suggestive of\nheadaches and lassitude, and those good intentions for the future,\nwhich, under the earth, form the everlasting pavement of a large\nestate, and, upon it, usually endure until dinner-time or thereabouts!\n\nWho will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that Barbara's mother\nwas disposed to be cross, or that she slightly underrated Astley's, and\nthought the clown was older than they had taken him to be last night?\nKit was not surprised to hear her say so--not he.  He had already had a\nmisgiving that the inconstant actors in that dazzling vision had been\ndoing the same thing the night before last, and would do it again that\nnight, and the next, and for weeks and months to come, though he would\nnot be there.  Such is the difference between yesterday and today.  We\nare all going to the play, or coming home from it.\n\nHowever, the Sun himself is weak when he first rises, and gathers\nstrength and courage as the day gets on.  By degrees, they began to\nrecall circumstances more and more pleasant in their nature, until,\nwhat between talking, walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in\nsuch good heart, that Barbara's mother declared she never felt less\ntired or in better spirits.  And so said Kit.  Barbara had been silent\nall the way, but she said so too.  Poor little Barbara!  She was very\nquiet.\n\nThey were at home in such good time that Kit had rubbed down the pony\nand made him as spruce as a race-horse, before Mr Garland came down to\nbreakfast; which punctual and industrious conduct the old lady, and the\nold gentleman, and Mr Abel, highly extolled.  At his usual hour (or\nrather at his usual minute and second, for he was the soul of\npunctuality) Mr Abel walked out, to be overtaken by the London coach,\nand Kit and the old gentleman went to work in the garden.\n\nThis was not the least pleasant of Kit's employments.  On a fine day\nthey were quite a family party; the old lady sitting hard by with her\nwork-basket on a little table; the old gentleman digging, or pruning,\nor clipping about with a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some\nway or other with great assiduity; and Whisker looking on from his\npaddock in placid contemplation of them all.  To-day they were to trim\nthe grape-vine, so Kit mounted half-way up a short ladder, and began to\nsnip and hammer away, while the old gentleman, with a great interest in\nhis proceedings, handed up the nails and shreds of cloth as he wanted\nthem.  The old lady and Whisker looked on as usual.\n\n'Well, Christopher,' said Mr Garland, 'and so you have made a new\nfriend, eh?'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir?' returned Kit, looking down from the ladder.\n\n'You have made a new friend, I hear from Mr Abel,' said the old\ngentleman, 'at the office!'\n\n'Oh!  Yes Sir, yes.  He behaved very handsome, Sir.'\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' returned the old gentlemen with a smile.  'He is\ndisposed to behave more handsomely still, though, Christopher.'\n\n'Indeed, Sir!  It's very kind in him, but I don't want him to, I'm\nsure,' said Kit, hammering stoutly at an obdurate nail.\n\n'He is rather anxious,' pursued the old gentleman, 'to have you in his\nown service--take care what you're doing, or you will fall down and\nhurt yourself.'\n\n'To have me in his service, Sir?' cried Kit, who had stopped short in\nhis work and faced about on the ladder like some dexterous tumbler.\n'Why, Sir, I don't think he can be in earnest when he says that.'\n\n'Oh!  But he is indeed,' said Mr Garland.  'And he has told Mr Abel so.'\n\n'I never heard of such a thing!' muttered Kit, looking ruefully at his\nmaster and mistress.  'I wonder at him; that I do.'\n\n'You see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland, 'this is a point of much\nimportance to you, and you should understand and consider it in that\nlight.  This gentleman is able to give you more money than I--not, I\nhope, to carry through the various relations of master and servant,\nmore kindness and confidence, but certainly, Christopher, to give you\nmore money.'\n\n'Well,' said Kit, 'after that, Sir--'\n\n'Wait a moment,' interposed Mr Garland.  'That is not all.  You were a\nvery faithful servant to your old employers, as I understand, and\nshould this gentleman recover them, as it is his purpose to attempt\ndoing by every means in his power, I have no doubt that you, being in\nhis service, would meet with your reward.  Besides,' added the old\ngentleman with stronger emphasis, 'besides having the pleasure of being\nagain brought into communication with those to whom you seem to be very\nstrongly and disinterestedly attached.  You must think of all this,\nChristopher, and not be rash or hasty in your choice.'\n\nKit did suffer one twinge, one momentary pang, in keeping the\nresolution he had already formed, when this last argument passed\nswiftly into his thoughts, and conjured up the realization of all his\nhopes and fancies.  But it was gone in a minute, and he sturdily\nrejoined that the gentleman must look out for somebody else, as he did\nthink he might have done at first.\n\n'He has no right to think that I'd be led away to go to him, sir,' said\nKit, turning round again after half a minute's hammering.  'Does he\nthink I'm a fool?'\n\n'He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse his offer,' said Mr\nGarland gravely.\n\n'Then let him, sir,' retorted Kit; 'what do I care, sir, what he\nthinks?  why should I care for his thinking, sir, when I know that I\nshould be a fool, and worse than a fool, sir, to leave the kindest\nmaster and mistress that ever was or can be, who took me out of the\nstreets a very poor and hungry lad indeed--poorer and hungrier perhaps\nthan even you think for, sir--to go to him or anybody?  If Miss Nell\nwas to come back, ma'am,' added Kit, turning suddenly to his mistress,\n'why that would be another thing, and perhaps if she wanted me, I might\nask you now and then to let me work for her when all was done at home.\nBut when she comes back, I see now that she'll be rich as old master\nalways said she would, and being a rich young lady, what could she want\nof me?  No, no,' added Kit, shaking his head sorrowfully, 'she'll never\nwant me any more, and bless her, I hope she never may, though I should\nlike to see her too!'\n\nHere Kit drove a nail into the wall, very hard--much harder than was\nnecessary--and having done so, faced about again.\n\n'There's the pony, sir,' said Kit--'Whisker, ma'am (and he knows so\nwell I'm talking about him that he begins to neigh directly,\nSir)--would he let anybody come near him but me, ma'am?  Here's the\ngarden, sir, and Mr Abel, ma'am.  Would Mr Abel part with me, Sir, or\nis there anybody that could be fonder of the garden, ma'am?  It would\nbreak mother's heart, Sir, and even little Jacob would have sense\nenough to cry his eyes out, ma'am, if he thought that Mr Abel could\nwish to part with me so soon, after having told me, only the other day,\nthat he hoped we might be together for years to come--'\n\nThere is no telling how long Kit might have stood upon the ladder,\naddressing his master and mistress by turns, and generally turning\ntowards the wrong person, if Barbara had not at that moment come\nrunning up to say that a messenger from the office had brought a note,\nwhich, with an expression of some surprise at Kit's oratorical\nappearance, she put into her master's hand.\n\n'Oh!' said the old gentleman after reading it, 'ask the messenger to\nwalk this way.'  Barbara tripping off to do as she was bid, he turned\nto Kit and said that they would not pursue the subject any further, and\nthat Kit could not be more unwilling to part with them, than they would\nbe to part with Kit; a sentiment which the old lady very generously\nechoed.\n\n'At the same time, Christopher,' added Mr Garland, glancing at the note\nin his hand, 'if the gentleman should want to borrow you now and then\nfor an hour or so, or even a day or so, at a time, we must consent to\nlend you, and you must consent to be lent.--Oh! here is the young\ngentleman.  How do you do, Sir?'\n\nThis salutation was addressed to Mr Chuckster, who, with his hat\nextremely on one side, and his hair a long way beyond it, came\nswaggering up the walk.\n\n'Hope I see you well sir,' returned that gentleman.  'Hope I see YOU\nwell, ma'am.  Charming box this, sir.  Delicious country to be sure.'\n\n'You want to take Kit back with you, I find?' observed Mr Garland.\n\n'I have got a chariot-cab waiting on purpose,' replied the clerk.  'A\nvery spanking grey in that cab, sir, if you're a judge of horse-flesh.'\n\nDeclining to inspect the spanking grey, on the plea that he was but\npoorly acquainted with such matters, and would but imperfectly\nappreciate his beauties, Mr Garland invited Mr Chuckster to partake of\na slight repast in the way of lunch.  That gentleman readily\nconsenting, certain cold viands, flanked with ale and wine, were\nspeedily prepared for his refreshment.\n\nAt this repast, Mr Chuckster exerted his utmost abilities to enchant\nhis entertainers, and impress them with a conviction of the mental\nsuperiority of those who dwelt in town; with which view he led the\ndiscourse to the small scandal of the day, in which he was justly\nconsidered by his friends to shine prodigiously.  Thus, he was in a\ncondition to relate the exact circumstances of the difference between\nthe Marquis of Mizzler and Lord Bobby, which it appeared originated in\na disputed bottle of champagne, and not in a pigeon-pie, as erroneously\nreported in the newspapers; neither had Lord Bobby said to the Marquis\nof Mizzler, 'Mizzler, one of us two tells a lie, and I'm not the man,'\nas incorrectly stated by the same authorities; but 'Mizzler, you know\nwhere I'm to be found, and damme, sir, find me if you want me'--which,\nof course, entirely changed the aspect of this interesting question,\nand placed it in a very different light.  He also acquainted them with\nthe precise amount of the income guaranteed by the Duke of Thigsberry\nto Violetta Stetta of the Italian Opera, which it appeared was payable\nquarterly, and not half-yearly, as the public had been given to\nunderstand, and which was EXclusive, and not INclusive (as had been\nmonstrously stated,) of jewellery, perfumery, hair-powder for five\nfootmen, and two daily changes of kid-gloves for a page.  Having\nentreated the old lady and gentleman to set their minds at rest on\nthese absorbing points, for they might rely on his statement being the\ncorrect one, Mr Chuckster entertained them with theatrical chit-chat\nand the court circular; and so wound up a brilliant and fascinating\nconversation which he had maintained alone, and without any assistance\nwhatever, for upwards of three-quarters of an hour.\n\n'And now that the nag has got his wind again,' said Mr Chuckster rising\nin a graceful manner, 'I'm afraid I must cut my stick.'\n\nNeither Mr nor Mrs Garland offered any opposition to his tearing\nhimself away (feeling, no doubt, that such a man could ill be spared\nfrom his proper sphere of action), and therefore Mr Chuckster and Kit\nwere shortly afterwards upon their way to town; Kit being perched upon\nthe box of the cabriolet beside the driver, and Mr Chuckster seated in\nsolitary state inside, with one of his boots sticking out at each of\nthe front windows.\n\nWhen they reached the Notary's house, Kit followed into the office, and\nwas desired by Mr Abel to sit down and wait, for the gentleman who\nwanted him had gone out, and perhaps might not return for some time.\nThis anticipation was strictly verified, for Kit had had his dinner,\nand his tea, and had read all the lighter matter in the Law-List, and\nthe Post-Office Directory, and had fallen asleep a great many times,\nbefore the gentleman whom he had seen before, came in; which he did at\nlast in a very great hurry.\n\nHe was closeted with Mr Witherden for some little time, and Mr Abel had\nbeen called in to assist at the conference, before Kit, wondering very\nmuch what he was wanted for, was summoned to attend them.\n\n'Christopher,' said the gentleman, turning to him directly he entered\nthe room, 'I have found your old master and young mistress.'\n\n'No, Sir!  Have you, though?' returned Kit, his eyes sparkling with\ndelight.  'Where are they, Sir?  How are they, Sir?  Are they--are they\nnear here?'\n\n'A long way from here,' returned the gentleman, shaking his head.  'But\nI am going away to-night to bring them back, and I want you to go with\nme.'\n\n'Me, Sir?' cried Kit, full of joy and surprise.\n\n'The place,' said the strange gentleman, turning thoughtfully to the\nNotary, 'indicated by this man of the dogs, is--how far from\nhere--sixty miles?'\n\n'From sixty to seventy.'\n\n'Humph!  If we travel post all night, we shall reach there in good time\nto-morrow morning.  Now, the only question is, as they will not know\nme, and the child, God bless her, would think that any stranger\npursuing them had a design upon her grandfather's liberty--can I do\nbetter than take this lad, whom they both know and will readily\nremember, as an assurance to them of my friendly intentions?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied the Notary.  'Take Christopher by all means.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Kit, who had listened to this discourse\nwith a lengthening countenance, 'but if that's the reason, I'm afraid I\nshould do more harm than good--Miss Nell, Sir, she knows me, and would\ntrust in me, I am sure; but old master--I don't know why, gentlemen;\nnobody does--would not bear me in his sight after he had been ill, and\nMiss Nell herself told me that I must not go near him or let him see me\nany more.  I should spoil all that you were doing if I went, I'm\nafraid.  I'd give the world to go, but you had better not take me, Sir.'\n\n'Another difficulty!' cried the impetuous gentleman.  'Was ever man so\nbeset as I?  Is there nobody else that knew them, nobody else in whom\nthey had any confidence?  Solitary as their lives were, is there no one\nperson who would serve my purpose?'\n\n'IS there, Christopher?' said the Notary.\n\n'Not one, Sir,' replied Kit.--'Yes, though--there's my mother.'\n\n'Did they know her?' said the single gentleman.\n\n'Know her, Sir! why, she was always coming backwards and forwards.\nThey were as kind to her as they were to me.  Bless you, Sir, she\nexpected they'd come back to her house.'\n\n'Then where the devil is the woman?' said the impatient gentleman,\ncatching up his hat.  'Why isn't she here?  Why is that woman always\nout of the way when she is most wanted?'\n\nIn a word, the single gentleman was bursting out of the office, bent\nupon laying violent hands on Kit's mother, forcing her into a\npost-chaise, and carrying her off, when this novel kind of abduction\nwas with some difficulty prevented by the joint efforts of Mr Abel and\nthe Notary, who restrained him by dint of their remonstrances, and\npersuaded him to sound Kit upon the probability of her being able and\nwilling to undertake such a journey on so short a notice.\n\nThis occasioned some doubts on the part of Kit, and some violent\ndemonstrations on that of the single gentleman, and a great many\nsoothing speeches on that of the Notary and Mr Abel.  The upshot of the\nbusiness was, that Kit, after weighing the matter in his mind and\nconsidering it carefully, promised, on behalf of his mother, that she\nshould be ready within two hours from that time to undertake the\nexpedition, and engaged to produce her in that place, in all respects\nequipped and prepared for the journey, before the specified period had\nexpired.\n\nHaving given this pledge, which was rather a bold one, and not\nparticularly easy of redemption, Kit lost no time in sallying forth,\nand taking measures for its immediate fulfilment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 41\n\nKit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing the stream of\npeople, dashing across the busy road-ways, diving into lanes and\nalleys, and stopping or turning aside for nothing, until he came in\nfront of the Old Curiosity Shop, when he came to a stand; partly from\nhabit and partly from being out of breath.\n\nIt was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the old place had never\nlooked so dismal as in its dreary twilight.  The windows broken, the\nrusty sashes rattling in their frames, the deserted house a dull\nbarrier dividing the glaring lights and bustle of the street into two\nlong lines, and standing in the midst, cold, dark, and empty--presented\na cheerless spectacle which mingled harshly with the bright prospects\nthe boy had been building up for its late inmates, and came like a\ndisappointment or misfortune.  Kit would have had a good fire roaring\nup the empty chimneys, lights sparkling and shining through the\nwindows, people moving briskly to and fro, voices in cheerful\nconversation, something in unison with the new hopes that were astir.\nHe had not expected that the house would wear any different aspect--had\nknown indeed that it could not--but coming upon it in the midst of\neager thoughts and expectations, it checked the current in its flow,\nand darkened it with a mournful shadow.\n\nKit, however, fortunately for himself, was not learned enough or\ncontemplative enough to be troubled with presages of evil afar off,\nand, having no mental spectacles to assist his vision in this respect,\nsaw nothing but the dull house, which jarred uncomfortably upon his\nprevious thoughts.  So, almost wishing that he had not passed it,\nthough hardly knowing why, he hurried on again, making up by his\nincreased speed for the few moments he had lost.\n\n'Now, if she should be out,' thought Kit, as he approached the poor\ndwelling of his mother, 'and I not able to find her, this impatient\ngentleman would be in a pretty taking.  And sure enough there's no\nlight, and the door's fast.  Now, God forgive me for saying so, but if\nthis is Little Bethel's doing, I wish Little Bethel was--was farther\noff,' said Kit checking himself, and knocking at the door.\n\nA second knock brought no reply from within the house; but caused a\nwoman over the way to look out and inquire who that was, awanting Mrs\nNubbles.\n\n'Me,' said Kit.  'She's at--at Little Bethel, I suppose?'--getting out\nthe name of the obnoxious conventicle with some reluctance, and laying\na spiteful emphasis upon the words.\n\nThe neighbour nodded assent.\n\n'Then pray tell me where it is,' said Kit, 'for I have come on a\npressing matter, and must fetch her out, even if she was in the pulpit.'\n\nIt was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold in question, as\nnone of the neighbours were of the flock that resorted thither, and few\nknew anything more of it than the name.  At last, a gossip of Mrs\nNubbles's, who had accompanied her to chapel on one or two occasions\nwhen a comfortable cup of tea had preceded her devotions, furnished the\nneedful information, which Kit had no sooner obtained than he started\noff again.\n\nLittle Bethel might have been nearer, and might have been in a\nstraighter road, though in that case the reverend gentleman who\npresided over its congregation would have lost his favourite allusion\nto the crooked ways by which it was approached, and which enabled him\nto liken it to Paradise itself, in contradistinction to the parish\nchurch and the broad thoroughfare leading thereunto.  Kit found it, at\nlast, after some trouble, and pausing at the door to take breath that\nhe might enter with becoming decency, passed into the chapel.\n\nIt was not badly named in one respect, being in truth a particularly\nlittle Bethel--a Bethel of the smallest dimensions--with a small\nnumber of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a small gentleman\n(by trade a Shoemaker, and by calling a Divine) was delivering in a by\nno means small voice, a by no means small sermon, judging of its\ndimensions by the condition of his audience, which, if their gross\namount were but small, comprised a still smaller number of hearers, as\nthe majority were slumbering.\n\nAmong these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter of extreme\ndifficulty to keep her eyes open after the fatigues of last night, and\nfeeling their inclination to close strongly backed and seconded by the\narguments of the preacher, had yielded to the drowsiness that\noverpowered her, and fallen asleep; though not so soundly but that she\ncould, from time to time, utter a slight and almost inaudible groan, as\nif in recognition of the orator's doctrines.  The baby in her arms was\nas fast asleep as she; and little Jacob, whose youth prevented him from\nrecognising in this prolonged spiritual nourishment anything half as\ninteresting as oysters, was alternately very fast asleep and very wide\nawake, as his inclination to slumber, or his terror of being personally\nalluded to in the discourse, gained the mastery over him.\n\n'And now I'm here,' thought Kit, gliding into the nearest empty pew\nwhich was opposite his mother's, and on the other side of the little\naisle, 'how am I ever to get at her, or persuade her to come out!  I\nmight as well be twenty miles off.  She'll never wake till it's all\nover, and there goes the clock again!  If he would but leave off for a\nminute, or if they'd only sing!'\n\nBut there was little encouragement to believe that either event would\nhappen for a couple of hours to come.  The preacher went on telling\nthem what he meant to convince them of before he had done, and it was\nclear that if he only kept to one-half of his promises and forgot the\nother, he was good for that time at least.\n\nIn his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes about the chapel,\nand happening to let them fall upon a little seat in front of the\nclerk's desk, could scarcely believe them when they showed him--Quilp!\n\nHe rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted that Quilp was\nthere, and there indeed he was, sitting with his hands upon his knees,\nand his hat between them on a little wooden bracket, with the\naccustomed grin on his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.\nHe certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother, and appeared\nutterly unconscious of their presence; still Kit could not help\nfeeling, directly, that the attention of the sly little fiend was\nfastened upon them, and upon nothing else.\n\nBut, astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the\nLittle Bethelites, and not free from a misgiving that it was the\nforerunner of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue his\nwonder and to take active measures for the withdrawal of his parent, as\nthe evening was now creeping on, and the matter grew serious.\nTherefore, the next time little Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract\nhis wandering attention, and this not being a very difficult task (one\nsneeze effected it), he signed to him to rouse his mother.\n\nIll-luck would have it, however, that, just then, the preacher, in a\nforcible exposition of one head of his discourse, leaned over upon the\npulpit-desk so that very little more of him than his legs remained\ninside; and, while he made vehement gestures with his right hand, and\nheld on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare, straight into little\nJacob's eyes, threatening him by his strained look and attitude--so it\nappeared to the child--that if he so much as moved a muscle, he, the\npreacher, would be literally, and not figuratively, 'down upon him'\nthat instant.  In this fearful state of things, distracted by the\nsudden appearance of Kit, and fascinated by the eyes of the preacher,\nthe miserable Jacob sat bolt upright, wholly incapable of motion,\nstrongly disposed to cry but afraid to do so, and returning his\npastor's gaze until his infant eyes seemed starting from their sockets.\n\n'If I must do it openly, I must,' thought Kit.  With that he walked\nsoftly out of his pew and into his mother's, and as Mr Swiveller would\nhave observed if he had been present, 'collared' the baby without\nspeaking a word.\n\n'Hush, mother!' whispered Kit.  'Come along with me, I've got something\nto tell you.'\n\n'Where am I?' said Mrs Nubbles.\n\n'In this blessed Little Bethel,' returned her son, peevishly.\n\n'Blessed indeed!' cried Mrs Nubbles, catching at the word.  'Oh,\nChristopher, how have I been edified this night!'\n\n'Yes, yes, I know,' said Kit hastily; 'but come along, mother,\neverybody's looking at us.  Don't make a noise--bring Jacob--that's\nright!'\n\n'Stay, Satan, stay!' cried the preacher, as Kit was moving off.\n\n\n'This gentleman says you're to stay, Christopher,' whispered his mother.\n\n'Stay, Satan, stay!' roared the preacher again.  'Tempt not the woman\nthat doth incline her ear to thee, but harken to the voice of him that\ncalleth.  He hath a lamb from the fold!' cried the preacher, raising\nhis voice still higher and pointing to the baby.  'He beareth off a\nlamb, a precious lamb!  He goeth about, like a wolf in the night\nseason, and inveigleth the tender lambs!'\n\nKit was the best-tempered fellow in the world, but considering this\nstrong language, and being somewhat excited by the circumstances in\nwhich he was placed, he faced round to the pulpit with the baby in his\narms, and replied aloud, 'No, I don't.  He's my brother.'\n\n'He's MY brother!' cried the preacher.\n\n'He isn't,' said Kit indignantly.  'How can you say such a thing?  And\ndon't call me names if you please; what harm have I done?  I shouldn't\nhave come to take 'em away, unless I was obliged, you may depend upon\nthat.  I wanted to do it very quiet, but you wouldn't let me.  Now, you\nhave the goodness to abuse Satan and them, as much as you like, Sir,\nand to let me alone if you please.'\n\nSo saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by his mother and\nlittle Jacob, and found himself in the open air, with an indistinct\nrecollection of having seen the people wake up and look surprised, and\nof Quilp having remained, throughout the interruption, in his old\nattitude, without moving his eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to\ntake the smallest notice of anything that passed.\n\n'Oh Kit!' said his mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes, 'what\nhave you done!  I never can go there again--never!'\n\n'I'm glad of it, mother.  What was there in the little bit of pleasure\nyou took last night that made it necessary for you to be low-spirited\nand sorrowful tonight?  That's the way you do.  If you're happy or\nmerry ever, you come here to say, along with that chap, that you're\nsorry for it.  More shame for you, mother, I was going to say.'\n\n'Hush, dear!' said Mrs Nubbles; 'you don't mean what you say I know,\nbut you're talking sinfulness.'\n\n'Don't mean it?  But I do mean it!' retorted Kit.  'I don't believe,\nmother, that harmless cheerfulness and good humour are thought greater\nsins in Heaven than shirt-collars are, and I do believe that those\nchaps are just about as right and sensible in putting down the one as\nin leaving off the other--that's my belief.  But I won't say anything\nmore about it, if you'll promise not to cry, that's all; and you take\nthe baby that's a lighter weight, and give me little Jacob; and as we\ngo along (which we must do pretty quick) I'll give you the news I\nbring, which will surprise you a little, I can tell you.  There--that's\nright.  Now you look as if you'd never seen Little Bethel in all your\nlife, as I hope you never will again; and here's the baby; and little\nJacob, you get atop of my back and catch hold of me tight round the\nneck, and whenever a Little Bethel parson calls you a precious lamb or\nsays your brother's one, you tell him it's the truest things he's said\nfor a twelvemonth, and that if he'd got a little more of the lamb\nhimself, and less of the mint-sauce--not being quite so sharp and sour\nover it--I should like him all the better.  That's what you've got to\nsay to him, Jacob.'\n\nTalking on in this way, half in jest and half in earnest, and cheering\nup his mother, the children, and himself, by the one simple process of\ndetermining to be in a good humour, Kit led them briskly forward; and\non the road home, he related what had passed at the Notary's house, and\nthe purpose with which he had intruded on the solemnities of Little\nBethel.\n\nHis mother was not a little startled on learning what service was\nrequired of her, and presently fell into a confusion of ideas, of which\nthe most prominent were that it was a great honour and dignity to ride\nin a post-chaise, and that it was a moral impossibility to leave the\nchildren behind.  But this objection, and a great many others, founded\non certain articles of dress being at the wash, and certain other\narticles having no existence in the wardrobe of Mrs Nubbles, were\novercome by Kit, who opposed to each and every of them, the pleasure of\nrecovering Nell, and the delight it would be to bring her back in\ntriumph.\n\n'There's only ten minutes now, mother,' said Kit when they reached\nhome.  'There's a bandbox.  Throw in what you want, and we'll be off\ndirectly.'\n\nTo tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of things which\ncould, by no remote contingency, be wanted, and how he left out\neverything likely to be of the smallest use; how a neighbour was\npersuaded to come and stop with the children, and how the children at\nfirst cried dismally, and then laughed heartily on being promised all\nkinds of impossible and unheard-of toys; how Kit's mother wouldn't\nleave off kissing them, and how Kit couldn't make up his mind to be\nvexed with her for doing it; would take more time and room than you and\nI can spare.  So, passing over all such matters, it is sufficient to\nsay that within a few minutes after the two hours had expired, Kit and\nhis mother arrived at the Notary's door, where a post-chaise was\nalready waiting.\n\n'With four horses I declare!' said Kit, quite aghast at the\npreparations.  'Well you ARE going to do it, mother!  Here she is, Sir.\nHere's my mother.  She's quite ready, sir.'\n\n'That's well,' returned the gentleman.  'Now, don't be in a flutter,\nma'am; you'll be taken great care of.  Where's the box with the new\nclothing and necessaries for them?'\n\n'Here it is,' said the Notary.  'In with it, Christopher.'\n\n'All right, Sir,' replied Kit.  'Quite ready now, sir.'\n\n'Then come along,' said the single gentleman.  And thereupon he gave\nhis arm to Kit's mother, handed her into the carriage as politely as\nyou please, and took his seat beside her.\n\nUp went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled the wheels, and\noff they rattled, with Kit's mother hanging out at one window waving a\ndamp pocket-handkerchief and screaming out a great many messages to\nlittle Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a word.\n\nKit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after them with tears\nin his eyes--not brought there by the departure he witnessed, but by\nthe return to which he looked forward.  'They went away,' he thought,\n'on foot with nobody to speak to them or say a kind word at parting,\nand they'll come back, drawn by four horses, with this rich gentleman\nfor their friend, and all their troubles over!  She'll forget that she\ntaught me to write--'\n\nWhatever Kit thought about after this, took some time to think of, for\nhe stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the chaise\nhad disappeared, and did not return into the house until the Notary and\nMr Abel, who had themselves lingered outside till the sound of the\nwheels was no longer distinguishable, had several times wondered what\ncould possibly detain him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 42\n\nIt behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant, and\nto follow the fortunes of little Nell; resuming the thread of the\nnarrative at the point where it was left, some chapters back.\n\nIn one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the two\nsisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sympathy with them and\nher recognition in their trials of something akin to her own loneliness\nof spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such moments a time of\ndeep delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded was of that\nkind which lives and dies in tears--in one of those wanderings at the\nquiet hour of twilight, when sky, and earth, and air, and rippling\nwater, and sound of distant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of\nthe solitary child, and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of\na child's world or its easy joys--in one of those rambles which had now\nbecome her only pleasure or relief from care, light had faded into\ndarkness and evening deepened into night, and still the young creature\nlingered in the gloom; feeling a companionship in Nature so serene and\nstill, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights would have been\nsolitude indeed.\n\nThe sisters had gone home, and she was alone.  She raised her eyes to\nthe bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of air,\nand, gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her view, and more\nbeyond, and more beyond again, until the whole great expanse sparkled\nwith shining spheres, rising higher and higher in immeasurable space,\neternal in their numbers as in their changeless and incorruptible\nexistence.  She bent over the calm river, and saw them shining in the\nsame majestic order as when the dove beheld them gleaming through the\nswollen waters, upon the mountain tops down far below, and dead\nmankind, a million fathoms deep.\n\nThe child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by the\nstillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders.  The time and\nplace awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope--less hope,\nperhaps, than resignation--on the past, and present, and what was yet\nbefore her.  Between the old man and herself there had come a gradual\nseparation, harder to bear than any former sorrow.  Every evening, and\noften in the day-time too, he was absent, alone; and although she well\nknew where he went, and why--too well from the constant drain upon her\nscanty purse and from his haggard looks--he evaded all inquiry,\nmaintained a strict reserve, and even shunned her presence.\n\nShe sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it, as it\nwere, with everything about her, when the distant church-clock bell\nstruck nine.  Rising at the sound, she retraced her steps, and turned\nthoughtfully towards the town.\n\nShe had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the stream,\nled into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy\nlight, and looking forward more attentively, discerned that it\nproceeded from what appeared to be an encampment of gipsies, who had\nmade a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were\nsitting or lying round it.  As she was too poor to have any fear of\nthem, she did not alter her course (which, indeed, she could not have\ndone without going a long way round), but quickened her pace a little,\nand kept straight on.\n\nA movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the\nspot, to glance towards the fire.  There was a form between it and her,\nthe outline strongly developed against the light, which caused her to\nstop abruptly.  Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and were\nassured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not\nthat of the person she had supposed, she went on again.\n\nBut at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been\ncarrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the voice that\nspoke--she could not distinguish words--sounded as familiar to her as\nher own.\n\nShe turned, and looked back.  The person had been seated before, but\nwas now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which\nhe rested both hands.  The attitude was no less familiar to her than\nthe tone of voice had been.  It was her grandfather.\n\nHer first impulse was to call to him; her next to wonder who his\nassociates could be, and for what purpose they were together.  Some\nvague apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination\nit awakened, she drew nearer to the place; not advancing across the\nopen field, however, but creeping towards it by the hedge.\n\nIn this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing\namong a few young trees, could both see and hear, without much danger\nof being observed.\n\nThere were no women or children, as she had seen in other gipsy camps\nthey had passed in their wayfaring, and but one gipsy--a tall athletic\nman, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little\ndistance off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black\neyelashes, at three other men who were there, with a watchful but\nhalf-concealed interest in their conversation.  Of these, her\ngrandfather was one; the others she recognised as the first\ncard-players at the public-house on the eventful night of the\nstorm--the man whom they had called Isaac List, and his gruff\ncompanion.  One of the low, arched gipsy-tents, common to that people,\nwas pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be, empty.\n\n'Well, are you going?' said the stout man, looking up from the ground\nwhere he was lying at his ease, into her grandfather's face.  'You were\nin a mighty hurry a minute ago.  Go, if you like.  You're your own\nmaster, I hope?'\n\n'Don't vex him,' returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on\nthe other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he\nseemed to be squinting all over; 'he didn't mean any offence.'\n\n'You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me\nbesides,' said the old man, turning from one to the other.  'Ye'll\ndrive me mad among ye.'\n\nThe utter irresolution and feebleness of the grey-haired child,\ncontrasted with the keen and cunning looks of those in whose hands he\nwas, smote upon the little listener's heart.  But she constrained\nherself to attend to all that passed, and to note each look and word.\n\n'Confound you, what do you mean?' said the stout man rising a little,\nand supporting himself on his elbow.  'Keep you poor!  You'd keep us\npoor if you could, wouldn't you?  That's the way with you whining,\npuny, pitiful players.  When you lose, you're martyrs; but I don't find\nthat when you win, you look upon the other losers in that light.  As to\nplunder!' cried the fellow, raising his voice--'Damme, what do you\nmean by such ungentlemanly language as plunder, eh?'\n\nThe speaker laid himself down again at full length, and gave one or two\nshort, angry kicks, as if in further expression of his unbounded\nindignation.  It was quite plain that he acted the bully, and his\nfriend the peacemaker, for some particular purpose; or rather, it would\nhave been to any one but the weak old man; for they exchanged glances\nquite openly, both with each other and with the gipsy, who grinned his\napproval of the jest until his white teeth shone again.\n\nThe old man stood helplessly among them for a little time, and then\nsaid, turning to his assailant:\n\n'You yourself were speaking of plunder just now, you know.  Don't be so\nviolent with me.  You were, were you not?'\n\n'Not of plundering among present company!  Honour among--among\ngentlemen, Sir,' returned the other, who seemed to have been very near\ngiving an awkward termination to the sentence.\n\n'Don't be hard upon him, Jowl,' said Isaac List.  'He's very sorry for\ngiving offence.  There--go on with what you were saying--go on.'\n\n'I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am,' cried Mr Jowl, 'to be\nsitting here at my time of life giving advice when I know it won't be\ntaken, and that I shall get nothing but abuse for my pains.  But that's\nthe way I've gone through life.  Experience has never put a chill upon\nmy warm-heartedness.'\n\n'I tell you he's very sorry, don't I?' remonstrated Isaac List, 'and\nthat he wishes you'd go on.'\n\n'Does he wish it?' said the other.\n\n'Ay,' groaned the old man sitting down, and rocking himself to and fro.\n'Go on, go on.  It's in vain to fight with it; I can't do it; go on.'\n\n'I go on then,' said Jowl, 'where I left off, when you got up so quick.\nIf you're persuaded that it's time for luck to turn, as it certainly\nis, and find that you haven't means enough to try it (and that's where\nit is, for you know, yourself, that you never have the funds to keep on\nlong enough at a sitting), help yourself to what seems put in your way\non purpose.  Borrow it, I say, and, when you're able, pay it back\nagain.'\n\n'Certainly,' Isaac List struck in, 'if this good lady as keeps the\nwax-works has money, and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to\nbed, and doesn't lock her door for fear of fire, it seems a easy thing;\nquite a Providence, I should call it--but then I've been religiously\nbrought up.'\n\n'You see, Isaac,' said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing\nhimself closer to the old man, while he signed to the gipsy not to come\nbetween them; 'you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every\nhour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these\nstrangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the\ncupboard; suspicion would be very wide, and would fall a long way from\nthe mark, no doubt.  I'd give him his revenge to the last farthing he\nbrought, whatever the amount was.'\n\n'But could you?' urged Isaac List.  'Is your bank strong enough?'\n\n'Strong enough!' answered the other, with assumed disdain.  'Here, you\nSir, give me that box out of the straw!'\n\nThis was addressed to the gipsy, who crawled into the low tent on all\nfours, and after some rummaging and rustling returned with a cash-box,\nwhich the man who had spoken opened with a key he wore about his person.\n\n'Do you see this?' he said, gathering up the money in his hand and\nletting it drop back into the box, between his fingers, like water.\n'Do you hear it?  Do you know the sound of gold?  There, put it\nback--and don't talk about banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of\nyour own.'\n\nIsaac List, with great apparent humility, protested that he had never\ndoubted the credit of a gentleman so notorious for his honourable\ndealing as Mr Jowl, and that he had hinted at the production of the\nbox, not for the satisfaction of his doubts, for he could have none,\nbut with a view to being regaled with a sight of so much wealth, which,\nthough it might be deemed by some but an unsubstantial and visionary\npleasure, was to one in his circumstances a source of extreme delight,\nonly to be surpassed by its safe depository in his own personal\npockets.  Although Mr List and Mr Jowl addressed themselves to each\nother, it was remarkable that they both looked narrowly at the old man,\nwho, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, sat brooding over it, yet\nlistening eagerly--as it seemed from a certain involuntary motion of\nthe head, or twitching of the face from time to time--to all they said.\n\n'My advice,' said Jowl, lying down again with a careless air, 'is\nplain--I have given it, in fact.  I act as a friend.  Why should I help\na man to the means perhaps of winning all I have, unless I considered\nhim my friend?  It's foolish, I dare say, to be so thoughtful of the\nwelfare of other people, but that's my constitution, and I can't help\nit; so don't blame me, Isaac List.'\n\n'I blame you!' returned the person addressed; 'not for the world, Mr\nJowl.  I wish I could afford to be as liberal as you; and, as you say,\nhe might pay it back if he won--and if he lost--'\n\n'You're not to take that into consideration at all,' said Jowl.\n\n'But suppose he did (and nothing's less likely, from all I know of\nchances), why, it's better to lose other people's money than one's own,\nI hope?'\n\n'Ah!' cried Isaac List rapturously, 'the pleasures of winning!  The\ndelight of picking up the money--the bright, shining yellow-boys--and\nsweeping 'em into one's pocket!  The deliciousness of having a triumph\nat last, and thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but\nwent half-way to meet it!  The--but you're not going, old gentleman?'\n\n'I'll do it,' said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three\nhurried steps away, and now returned as hurriedly.  'I'll have it,\nevery penny.'\n\n'Why, that's brave,' cried Isaac, jumping up and slapping him on the\nshoulder; 'and I respect you for having so much young blood left.  Ha,\nha, ha!  Joe Jowl's half sorry he advised you now.  We've got the laugh\nagainst him.  Ha, ha, ha!'\n\n'He gives me my revenge, mind,' said the old man, pointing to him\neagerly with his shrivelled hand: 'mind--he stakes coin against coin,\ndown to the last one in the box, be there many or few.  Remember that!'\n\n'I'm witness,' returned Isaac.  'I'll see fair between you.'\n\n'I have passed my word,' said Jowl with feigned reluctance, 'and I'll\nkeep it.  When does this match come off?  I wish it was over.--To-night?'\n\n'I must have the money first,' said the old man; 'and that I'll have\nto-morrow--'\n\n'Why not to-night?' urged Jowl.\n\n'It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried,' said the old\nman.  'It must be softly done.  No, to-morrow night.'\n\n'Then to-morrow be it,' said Jowl.  'A drop of comfort here.  Luck to\nthe best man!  Fill!'\n\nThe gipsy produced three tin cups, and filled them to the brim with\nbrandy.  The old man turned aside and muttered to himself before he\ndrank.  Her own name struck upon the listener's ear, coupled with some\nwish so fervent, that he seemed to breathe it in an agony of\nsupplication.\n\n'God be merciful to us!' cried the child within herself, 'and help us\nin this trying hour!  What shall I do to save him!'\n\nThe remainder of their conversation was carried on in a lower tone of\nvoice, and was sufficiently concise; relating merely to the execution\nof the project, and the best precautions for diverting suspicion.  The\nold man then shook hands with his tempters, and withdrew.\n\nThey watched his bowed and stooping figure as it retreated slowly, and\nwhen he turned his head to look back, which he often did, waved their\nhands, or shouted some brief encouragement.  It was not until they had\nseen him gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant road,\nthat they turned to each other, and ventured to laugh aloud.\n\n'So,' said Jowl, warming his hands at the fire, 'it's done at last.  He\nwanted more persuading than I expected.  It's three weeks ago, since we\nfirst put this in his head.  What'll he bring, do you think?'\n\n'Whatever he brings, it's halved between us,' returned Isaac List.\n\nThe other man nodded.  'We must make quick work of it,' he said, 'and\nthen cut his acquaintance, or we may be suspected.  Sharp's the word.'\n\nList and the gipsy acquiesced.  When they had all three amused\nthemselves a little with their victim's infatuation, they dismissed the\nsubject as one which had been sufficiently discussed, and began to talk\nin a jargon which the child did not understand.  As their discourse\nappeared to relate to matters in which they were warmly interested,\nhowever, she deemed it the best time for escaping unobserved; and crept\naway with slow and cautious steps, keeping in the shadow of the hedges,\nor forcing a path through them or the dry ditches, until she could\nemerge upon the road at a point beyond their range of vision.  Then she\nfled homeward as quickly as she could, torn and bleeding from the\nwounds of thorns and briars, but more lacerated in mind, and threw\nherself upon her bed, distracted.\n\nThe first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight, instant flight;\ndragging him from that place, and rather dying of want upon the\nroadside, than ever exposing him again to such terrible temptations.\nThen, she remembered that the crime was not to be committed until next\nnight, and there was the intermediate time for thinking, and resolving\nwhat to do.  Then, she was distracted with a horrible fear that he\nmight be committing it at that moment; with a dread of hearing shrieks\nand cries piercing the silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of\nwhat he might be tempted and led on to do, if he were detected in the\nact, and had but a woman to struggle with.  It was impossible to bear\nsuch torture.  She stole to the room where the money was, opened the\ndoor, and looked in.  God be praised!  He was not there, and she was\nsleeping soundly.\n\nShe went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed.\nBut who could sleep--sleep! who could lie passively down, distracted by\nsuch terrors?  They came upon her more and more strongly yet.  Half\nundressed, and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the old\nman's bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.\n\n'What's this!' he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon\nher spectral face.\n\n'I have had a dreadful dream,' said the child, with an energy that\nnothing but such terrors could have inspired.  'A dreadful, horrible\ndream.  I have had it once before.  It is a dream of grey-haired men\nlike you, in darkened rooms by night, robbing sleepers of their gold.\nUp, up!'\n\nThe old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who\nprays.\n\n'Not to me,' said the child, 'not to me--to Heaven, to save us from\nsuch deeds!  This dream is too real.  I cannot sleep, I cannot stay\nhere, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come.\nUp!  We must fly.'\n\nHe looked at her as if she were a spirit--she might have been for all\nthe look of earth she had--and trembled more and more.\n\n'There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute,' said the child.\n'Up! and away with me!'\n\n'To-night?' murmured the old man.\n\n'Yes, to-night,' replied the child.  'To-morrow night will be too late.\nThe dream will have come again.  Nothing but flight can save us.  Up!'\n\nThe old man rose from his bed: his forehead bedewed with the cold sweat\nof fear: and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel\nmessenger sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.\nShe took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of the\nroom he had proposed to rob, she  shuddered and looked up into his\nface.  What a white face was that, and with what a look did he meet\nhers!\n\nShe took him to her own chamber, and, still holding him by the hand as\nif she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered together the little\nstock she had, and hung her basket on her arm.  The old man took his\nwallet from her hands and strapped it on his shoulders--his staff,\ntoo, she had brought away--and then she led him forth.\n\nThrough the strait streets, and narrow crooked outskirts, their\ntrembling feet passed quickly.  Up the steep hill too, crowned by the\nold grey castle, they toiled with rapid steps, and had not once looked\nbehind.\n\nBut as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose in all her\ngentle glory, and, from their venerable age, garlanded with ivy, moss,\nand waving grass, the child looked back upon the sleeping town, deep in\nthe valley's shade: and on the far-off river with its winding track of\nlight: and on the distant hills; and as she did so, she clasped the\nhand she held, less firmly, and bursting into tears, fell upon the old\nman's neck.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 43\n\nHer momentary weakness past, the child again summoned the resolution\nwhich had until now sustained her, and, endeavouring to keep steadily\nin her view the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime,\nand that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely on her\nfirmness, unaided by one word of advice or any helping hand, urged him\nonward and looked back no more.\n\nWhile he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch before her, and to\nshrink and cower down, as if in the presence of some superior creature,\nthe child herself was sensible of a new feeling within her, which\nelevated her nature, and inspired her with an energy and confidence she\nhad never known.  There was no divided responsibility now; the whole\nburden of their two lives had fallen upon her, and henceforth she must\nthink and act for both.  'I have saved him,' she thought.  'In all\ndangers and distresses, I will remember that.'\n\nAt any other time, the recollection of having deserted the friend who\nhad shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of\njustification--the thought that they were guilty, in appearance, of\ntreachery and ingratitude--even the having parted from the two\nsisters--would have filled her with sorrow and regret.  But now, all\nother considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and anxieties\nof their wild and wandering life; and the very desperation of their\ncondition roused and stimulated her.\n\nIn the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own to the delicate\nface where thoughtful care already mingled with the winning grace and\nloveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips\nthat pressed each other with such high resolve and courage of the\nheart, the slight figure firm in its bearing and yet so very weak, told\ntheir silent tale; but told it only to the wind that rustled by, which,\ntaking up its burden, carried, perhaps to some mother's pillow, faint\ndreams of childhood fading in its bloom, and resting in the sleep that\nknows no waking.\n\nThe night crept on apace, the moon went down, the stars grew pale and\ndim, and morning, cold as they, slowly approached.  Then, from behind a\ndistant hill, the noble sun rose up, driving the mists in phantom\nshapes before it, and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till\ndarkness came again.  When it had climbed higher into the sky, and\nthere was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep,\nupon a bank, hard by some water.\n\nBut Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, and long after he\nwas slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes.  Fatigue stole\nover her at last; her grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they\nslept side by side.\n\nA confused sound of voices, mingling with her dreams, awoke her.  A man\nof very uncouth and rough appearance was standing over them, and two of\nhis companions were looking on, from a long heavy boat which had come\nclose to the bank while they were sleeping.  The boat had neither oar\nnor sail, but was towed by a couple of horses, who, with the rope to\nwhich they were harnessed slack and dripping in the water, were resting\non the path.\n\n'Holloa!' said the man roughly.  'What's the matter here?'\n\n'We were only asleep, Sir,' said Nell.  'We have been walking all\nnight.'\n\n'A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night,' observed the man\nwho had first accosted them.  'One of you is a trifle too old for that\nsort of work, and the other a trifle too young.  Where are you going?'\n\nNell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the West, upon which the\nman inquired if she meant a certain town which he named.  Nell, to\navoid more questioning, said 'Yes, that was the place.'\n\n'Where have you come from?' was the next question; and this being an\neasier one to answer, Nell mentioned the name of the village in which\ntheir friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known\nto the men or to provoke further inquiry.\n\n'I thought somebody had been robbing and ill-using you, might be,' said\nthe man.  'That's all.  Good day.'\n\nReturning his salute and feeling greatly relieved by his departure,\nNell looked after him as he mounted one of the horses, and the boat\nwent on.  It had not gone very far, when it stopped again, and she saw\nthe men beckoning to her.\n\n'Did you call to me?' said Nell, running up to them.\n\n'You may go with us if you like,' replied one of those in the boat.\n'We're going to the same place.'\n\nThe child hesitated for a moment.  Thinking, as she had thought with\ngreat trepidation more than once before, that the men whom she had seen\nwith her grandfather might, perhaps, in their eagerness for the booty,\nfollow them, and regaining their influence over him, set hers at\nnought; and that if they went with these men, all traces of them must\nsurely be lost at that spot; determined to accept the offer.  The boat\ncame close to the bank again, and before she had had any more time for\nconsideration, she and her grandfather were on board, and gliding\nsmoothly down the canal.\n\nThe sun shone pleasantly on the bright water, which was sometimes\nshaded by trees, and sometimes open to a wide extent of country,\nintersected by running streams, and rich with wooded hills, cultivated\nland, and sheltered farms.  Now and then, a village with its modest\nspire, thatched roofs, and gable-ends, would peep out from among the\ntrees; and, more than once, a distant town, with great church towers\nlooming through its smoke, and high factories or workshops rising above\nthe mass of houses, would come in view, and, by the length of time it\nlingered in the distance, show them how slowly they travelled.  Their\nway lay, for the most part, through the low grounds, and open plains;\nand except these distant places, and occasionally some men working in\nthe fields, or lounging on the bridges under which they passed, to see\nthem creep along, nothing encroached on their monotonous and secluded\ntrack.\n\nNell was rather disheartened, when they stopped at a kind of wharf late\nin the afternoon, to learn from one of the men that they would not\nreach their place of destination until next day, and that, if she had\nno provision with her, she had better buy it there.  She had but a few\npence, having already bargained with them for some bread, but even of\nthese it was necessary to be very careful, as they were on their way to\nan utterly strange place, with no resource whatever.  A small loaf and\na morsel of cheese, therefore, were all she could afford, and with\nthese she took her place in the boat again, and, after half an hour's\ndelay during which the men were drinking at the public-house, proceeded\non the journey.\n\nThey brought some beer and spirits into the boat with them, and what\nwith drinking freely before, and again now, were soon in a fair way of\nbeing quarrelsome and intoxicated.  Avoiding the small cabin,\ntherefore, which was very dark and filthy, and to which they often\ninvited both her and her grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the\nold man by her side: listening to their boisterous hosts with a\npalpitating heart, and almost wishing herself safe on shore again\nthough she should have to walk all night.\n\nThey were, in truth, very rugged, noisy fellows, and quite brutal among\nthemselves, though civil enough to their two passengers.  Thus, when a\nquarrel arose between the man who was steering and his friend in the\ncabin, upon the question who had first suggested the propriety of\noffering Nell some beer, and when the quarrel led to a scuffle in which\nthey beat each other fearfully, to her inexpressible terror, neither\nvisited his displeasure upon her, but each contented himself with\nventing it on his adversary, on whom, in addition to blows, he bestowed\na variety of compliments, which, happily for the child, were conveyed\nin terms, to her quite unintelligible.  The difference was finally\nadjusted, by the man who had come out of the cabin knocking the other\ninto it head first, and taking the helm into his own hands, without\nevincing the least discomposure himself, or causing any in his friend,\nwho, being of a tolerably strong constitution and perfectly inured to\nsuch trifles, went to sleep as he was, with his heels upwards, and in a\ncouple of minutes or so was snoring comfortably.\n\nBy this time it was night again, and though the child felt cold, being\nbut poorly clad, her anxious thoughts were far removed from her own\nsuffering or uneasiness, and busily engaged in endeavouring to devise\nsome scheme for their joint subsistence.  The same spirit which had\nsupported her on the previous night, upheld and sustained her now.  Her\ngrandfather lay sleeping safely at her side, and the crime to which his\nmadness urged him, was not committed.  That was her comfort.\n\nHow every circumstance of her short, eventful life, came thronging into\nher mind, as they travelled on!  Slight incidents, never thought of or\nremembered until now; faces, seen once and ever since forgotten; words\nscarcely heeded at the time; scenes, of a year ago and those of\nyesterday, mixing up and linking themselves together; familiar places\nshaping themselves out in the darkness from things which, when\napproached, were, of all others, the most remote and most unlike them;\nsometimes, a strange confusion in her mind relative to the occasion of\nher being there, and the place to which she was going, and the people\nshe was with; and imagination suggesting remarks and questions which\nsounded so plainly in her ears, that she would start, and turn, and be\nalmost tempted to reply;--all the fancies and contradictions common in\nwatching and excitement and restless change of place, beset the child.\n\nShe happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter the face of the\nman on deck, in whom the sentimental stage of drunkenness had now\nsucceeded to the boisterous, and who, taking from his mouth a short\npipe, quilted over with string for its longer preservation, requested\nthat she would oblige him with a song.\n\n'You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a very strong\nmemory,' said this gentleman; 'the voice and eye I've got evidence for,\nand the memory's an opinion of my own.  And I'm never wrong.  Let me\nhear a song this minute.'\n\n'I don't think I know one, sir,' returned Nell.\n\n'You know forty-seven songs,' said the man, with a gravity which\nadmitted of no altercation on the subject.  'Forty-seven's your number.\nLet me hear one of 'em--the best.  Give me a song this minute.'\n\nNot knowing what might be the consequences of irritating her friend,\nand trembling with the fear of doing so, poor Nell sang him some little\nditty which she had learned in happier times, and which was so\nagreeable to his ear, that on its conclusion he in the same peremptory\nmanner requested to be favoured with another, to which he was so\nobliging as to roar a chorus to no particular tune, and with no words\nat all, but which amply made up in its amazing energy for its\ndeficiency in other respects.  The noise of this vocal performance\nawakened the other man, who, staggering upon deck and shaking his late\nopponent by the hand, swore that singing was his pride and joy and\nchief delight, and that he desired no better entertainment.  With a\nthird call, more imperative than either of the two former, Nell felt\nobliged to comply, and this time a chorus was maintained not only by\nthe two men together, but also by the third man on horseback, who being\nby his position debarred from a nearer participation in the revels of\nthe night, roared when his companions roared, and rent the very air.\nIn this way, with little cessation, and singing the same songs again\nand again, the tired and exhausted child kept them in good humour all\nthat night; and many a cottager, who was roused from his soundest sleep\nby the discordant chorus as it floated away upon the wind, hid his head\nbeneath the bed-clothes and trembled at the sounds.\n\nAt length the morning dawned.  It was no sooner light than it began to\nrain heavily.  As the child could not endure the intolerable vapours of\nthe cabin, they covered her, in return for her exertions, with some\npieces of sail-cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her\ntolerably dry and to shelter her grandfather besides.  As the day\nadvanced the rain increased.  At noon it poured down more hopelessly\nand heavily than ever without the faintest promise of abatement.\n\nThey had, for some time, been gradually approaching the place for which\nthey were bound.  The water had become thicker and dirtier; other\nbarges, coming from it, passed them frequently; the paths of coal-ash\nand huts of staring brick, marked the vicinity of some great\nmanufacturing town; while scattered streets and houses, and smoke from\ndistant furnaces, indicated that they were already in the outskirts.\nNow, the clustered roofs, and piles of buildings, trembling with the\nworking of engines, and dimly resounding with their shrieks and\nthrobbings; the tall chimneys vomiting forth a black vapour, which hung\nin a dense ill-favoured cloud above the housetops and filled the air\nwith gloom; the clank of hammers beating upon iron, the roar of busy\nstreets and noisy crowds, gradually augmenting until all the various\nsounds blended into one and none was distinguishable for itself,\nannounced the termination of their journey.\n\nThe boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged.  The men were\noccupied directly.  The child and her grandfather, after waiting in\nvain to thank them or ask them whither they should go, passed through a\ndirty lane into a crowded street, and stood, amid its din and tumult,\nand in the pouring rain, as strange, bewildered, and confused, as if\nthey had lived a thousand years before, and were raised from the dead\nand placed there by a miracle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 44\n\nThe throng of people hurried by, in two opposite streams, with no\nsymptom of cessation or exhaustion; intent upon their own affairs; and\nundisturbed in their business speculations, by the roar of carts and\nwaggons laden with clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet upon\nthe wet and greasy pavement, the rattling of the rain on windows and\numbrella-tops, the jostling of the more impatient passengers, and all\nthe noise and tumult of a crowded street in the high tide of its\noccupation: while the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by the\nhurry they beheld but had no part in, looked mournfully on; feeling,\namidst the crowd, a solitude which has no parallel but in the thirst of\nthe shipwrecked mariner, who, tost to and fro upon the billows of a\nmighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which hems\nhim in on every side, has not one drop to cool his burning tongue.\n\nThey withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched\nthe faces of those who passed, to find in one among them a ray of\nencouragement or hope.  Some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to\nthemselves, some made slight gestures, as if anticipating the\nconversation in which they would shortly be engaged, some wore the\ncunning look of bargaining and plotting, some were anxious and eager,\nsome slow and dull; in some countenances, were written gain; in others,\nloss.  It was like being in the confidence of all these people to stand\nquietly there, looking into their faces as they flitted past.  In busy\nplaces, where each man has an object of his own, and feels assured that\nevery other man has his, his character and purpose are written broadly\nin his face.  In the public walks and lounges of a town, people go to\nsee and to be seen, and there the same expression, with little variety,\nis repeated a hundred times.  The working-day faces come nearer to the\ntruth, and let it out more plainly.\n\nFalling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens,\nthe child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering\ninterest, amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own\ncondition.  But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place\nin which to lay her aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the\npoint whence they had strayed.  No one passed who seemed to notice\nthem, or to whom she durst appeal.  After some time, they left their\nplace of refuge from the weather, and mingled with the concourse.\n\nEvening came on.  They were still wandering up and down, with fewer\npeople about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own\nbreasts, and the same indifference from all around.  The lights in the\nstreets and shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their\nhelp, night and darkness seemed to come on faster.  Shivering with the\ncold and damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child\nneeded her utmost firmness and resolution even to creep along.\n\nWhy had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful\ncountry places, in which, at least, they might have hungered and\nthirsted, with less suffering than in its squalid strife!  They were\nbut an atom, here, in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of\nwhich increased their hopelessness and suffering.\n\nThe child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their\ndestitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who\nbegan to murmur at having been led away from their late abode, and\ndemand that they should return to it.  Being now penniless, and no\nrelief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps\nthrough the deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to\nfind the boat in which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on\nboard that night.  But here again they were disappointed, for the gate\nwas closed, and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged\nthem to retreat.\n\n'We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear,' said the child in a\nweak voice, as they turned away from this last repulse; 'and to-morrow\nwe will beg our way to some quiet part of the country, and try to earn\nour bread in very humble work.'\n\n'Why did you bring me here?' returned the old man fiercely.  'I cannot\nbear these close eternal streets.  We came from a quiet part.  Why did\nyou force me to leave it?'\n\n'Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more,' said the\nchild, with a momentary firmness that lost itself in tears; 'and we\nmust live among poor people, or it will come again.  Dear grandfather,\nyou are old and weak, I know; but look at me.  I never will complain if\nyou will not, but I have some suffering indeed.'\n\n'Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!' cried the old man,\nclasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious\nface, her travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet; 'has all\nmy agony of care brought her to this at last!  Was I a happy man once,\nand have I lost happiness and all I had, for this!'\n\n'If we were in the country now,' said the child, with assumed\ncheerfulness, as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, we\nshould find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he\nloved us, and nodding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep,\nthinking of him while he watched.  Please God, we shall be there\nsoon--to-morrow or next day at the farthest--and in the meantime let us\nthink, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in\nthe crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should\npursue us, they could surely never trace us further.  There's comfort\nin that.  And here's a deep old doorway--very dark, but quite dry, and\nwarm too, for the wind don't blow in here--What's that!'\n\nUttering a half shriek, she recoiled from a black figure which came\nsuddenly out of the dark recess in which they were about to take\nrefuge, and stood still, looking at them.\n\n'Speak again,' it said; 'do I know the voice?'\n\n'No,' replied the child timidly; 'we are strangers, and having no money\nfor a night's lodging, were going to rest here.'\n\nThere was a feeble lamp at no great distance; the only one in the\nplace, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor\nand mean it was.  To this, the figure beckoned them; at the same time\ndrawing within its rays, as if to show that it had no desire to conceal\nitself or take them at an advantage.  The form was that of a man,\nmiserably clad and begrimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast\nwith the natural colour of his skin, made him look paler than he really\nwas.  That he was naturally of a very wan and pallid aspect, however,\nhis hollow cheeks, sharp features, and sunken eyes, no less than a\ncertain look of patient endurance, sufficiently testified.  His voice\nwas harsh by nature, but not brutal; and though his face, besides\npossessing the characteristics already mentioned, was overshadowed by a\nquantity of long dark hair, its expression was neither ferocious nor\nbad.\n\n'How came you to think of resting there?' he said.  'Or how,' he added,\nlooking more attentively at the child, 'do you come to want a place of\nrest at this time of night?'\n\n'Our misfortunes,' the grandfather answered, 'are the cause.'\n\n'Do you know,' said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell, 'how\nwet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?'\n\n'I know it well, God help me,' he replied.  'What can I do!'\n\nThe man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her garments, from\nwhich the rain was running off in little streams.  'I can give you\nwarmth,' he said, after a pause; 'nothing else.  Such lodging as I\nhave, is in that house,' pointing to the doorway from which he had\nemerged, 'but she is safer and better there than here.  The fire is in\na rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll\ntrust yourselves to me.  You see that red light yonder?'\n\nThey raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging in the dark sky;\nthe dull reflection of some distant fire.\n\n'It's not far,' said the man.  'Shall I take you there?  You were going\nto sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes--nothing\nbetter.'\n\nWithout waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he\ntook Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.\n\nCarrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had been an\ninfant, and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way\nthrough what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of\nthe town; and turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running\nwaterspouts, but holding his course, regardless of such obstructions,\nand making his way straight through them.  They had proceeded thus, in\nsilence, for some quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare\nto which he had pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they had\ncome, when it suddenly burst upon them again, streaming up from the\nhigh chimney of a building close before them.\n\n'This is the place,' he said, pausing at a door to put Nell down and\ntake her hand.  'Don't be afraid.  There's nobody here will harm you.'\n\nIt needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to\nenter, and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension and\nalarm.  In a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron,\nwith great black apertures in the upper walls, open to the external\nair; echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of\nfurnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water,\nand a hundred strange unearthly noises never heard elsewhere; in this\ngloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, dimly and\nfitfully seen, flushed and tormented by the burning fires, and wielding\ngreat weapons, a faulty blow from any one of which must have crushed\nsome workman's skull, a number of men laboured like giants.  Others,\nreposing upon heaps of coals or ashes, with their faces turned to the\nblack vault above, slept or rested from their toil.  Others again,\nopening the white-hot furnace-doors, cast fuel on the flames, which\ncame rushing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil.\nOthers drew forth, with clashing noise, upon the ground, great sheets\nof glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep light\nlike that which reddens in the eyes of savage beasts.\n\nThrough these bewildering sights and deafening sounds, their conductor\nled them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt\nby night and day--so, at least, they gathered from the motion of his\nlips, for as yet they could only see him speak: not hear him.  The man\nwho had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the\npresent, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend, who,\nspreading Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her\nwhere she could hang her outer-clothes to dry, signed to her and the\nold man to lie down and sleep.  For himself, he took his station on a\nrugged mat before the furnace-door, and resting his chin upon his\nhands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the\nwhite ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave below.\n\nThe warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the\ngreat fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to\nfall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long\nin lulling her to sleep.  The old man was stretched beside her, and\nwith her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.\n\nIt was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how\nshort a time, she had slept.  But she found herself protected, both\nfrom any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from\nthe scorching heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at\ntheir friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with\na fixed earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very\nstill that he did not even seem to breathe.  She lay in the state\nbetween sleeping and waking, looking so long at his motionless figure\nthat at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and\nsoftly rising and drawing close to him, ventured to whisper in his ear.\n\nHe moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied,\nas if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him,\nlooked inquiringly into her face.\n\n'I feared you were ill,' she said.  'The other men are all in motion,\nand you are so very quiet.'\n\n'They leave me to myself,' he replied.  'They know my humour.  They\nlaugh at me, but don't harm me in it.  See yonder there--that's my\nfriend.'\n\n'The fire?' said the child.\n\n'It has been alive as long as I have,' the man made answer.  'We talk\nand think together all night long.'\n\nThe child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his\neyes in their former direction, and was musing as before.\n\n'It's like a book to me,' he said--'the only book I ever learned to\nread; and many an old story it tells me.  It's music, for I should know\nits voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar.  It\nhas its pictures too.  You don't know how many strange faces and\ndifferent scenes I trace in the red-hot coals.  It's my memory, that\nfire, and shows me all my life.'\n\nThe child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help\nremarking with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse.\n\n'Yes,' he said, with a faint smile, 'it was the same when I was quite a\nbaby, and crawled about it, till I fell asleep.  My father watched it\nthen.'\n\n'Had you no mother?' asked the child.\n\n'No, she was dead.  Women work hard in these parts.  She worked herself\nto death they told me, and, as they said so then, the fire has gone on\nsaying the same thing ever since.  I suppose it was true.  I have\nalways believed it.'\n\n'Were you brought up here, then?' said the child.\n\n'Summer and winter,' he replied.  'Secretly at first, but when they\nfound it out, they let him keep me here.  So the fire nursed me--the\nsame fire.  It has never gone out.'\n\n'You are fond of it?' said the child.\n\n'Of course I am.  He died before it.  I saw him fall down--just there,\nwhere those ashes are burning now--and wondered, I remember, why it\ndidn't help him.'\n\n'Have you been here ever since?' asked the child.\n\n'Ever since I came to watch it; but there was a while between, and a\nvery cold dreary while it was.  It burned all the time though, and\nroared and leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days.\nYou may guess, from looking at me, what kind of child I was, but for\nall the difference between us I was a child, and when I saw you in the\nstreet to-night, you put me in mind of myself, as I was after he died,\nand made me wish to bring you to the fire.  I thought of those old\ntimes again, when I saw you sleeping by it.  You should be sleeping\nnow.  Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!'\n\nWith that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the\nclothes with which she had found herself enveloped when she woke,\nreturned to his seat, whence he moved no more unless to feed the\nfurnace, but remained motionless as a statue.  The child continued to\nwatch him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness that\ncame upon her, and, in the dark strange place and on the heap of ashes,\nslept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace chamber, and the\nbed, a bed of down.\n\nWhen she awoke again, broad day was shining through the lofty openings\nin the walls, and, stealing in slanting rays but midway down, seemed to\nmake the building darker than it had been at night.  The clang and\ntumult were still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning\nfiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or\nquiet there.\n\nHer friend parted his breakfast--a scanty mess of coffee and some\ncoarse bread--with the child and her grandfather, and inquired whither\nthey were going.  She told him that they sought some distant country\nplace remote from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering\ntongue inquired what road they would do best to take.\n\n'I know little of the country,' he said, shaking his head, 'for such as\nI, pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to\nbreathe.  But there are such places yonder.'\n\n'And far from here?' said Nell.\n\n'Aye surely.  How could they be near us, and be green and fresh?  The\nroad lies, too, through miles and miles, all lighted up by fires like\nours--a strange black road, and one that would frighten you by night.'\n\n'We are here and must go on,' said the child boldly; for she saw that\nthe old man listened with anxious ears to this account.\n\n'Rough people--paths never made for little feet like yours--a dismal\nblighted way--is there no turning back, my child?'\n\n'There is none,' cried Nell, pressing forward.  'If you can direct us,\ndo.  If not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose.  Indeed you\ndo not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in\nflying from it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would\nnot.'\n\n'God forbid, if it is so!' said their uncouth protector, glancing from\nthe eager child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes\nupon the ground.  'I'll direct you from the door, the best I can.  I\nwish I could do more.'\n\nHe showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what\ncourse they should hold when they had gained it.  He lingered so long\non these instructions, that the child, with a fervent blessing, tore\nherself away, and stayed to hear no more.\n\nBut, before they had reached the corner of the lane, the man came\nrunning after them, and, pressing her hand, left something in it--two\nold, battered, smoke-encrusted penny pieces.  Who knows but they shone\nas brightly in the eyes of angels, as golden gifts that have been\nchronicled on tombs?\n\nAnd thus they separated; the child to lead her sacred charge farther\nfrom guilt and shame; the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the\nspot where his guests had slept, and read new histories in his furnace\nfire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 45\n\nIn all their journeying, they had never longed so ardently, they had\nnever so pined and wearied, for the freedom of pure air and open\ncountry, as now.  No, not even on that memorable morning, when,\ndeserting their old home, they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a\nstrange world, and left all the dumb and senseless things they had\nknown and loved, behind--not even then, had they so yearned for the\nfresh solitudes of wood, hillside, and field, as now, when the noise\nand dirt and vapour, of the great manufacturing town reeking with lean\nmisery and hungry wretchedness, hemmed them in on every side, and\nseemed to shut out hope, and render escape impossible.\n\n'Two days and nights!' thought the child.  'He said two days and nights\nwe should have to spend among such scenes as these.  Oh! if we live to\nreach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places,\nthough it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I\nshall thank God for so much mercy!'\n\nWith thoughts like this, and with some vague design of travelling to a\ngreat distance among streams and mountains, where only very poor and\nsimple people lived, and where they might maintain themselves by very\nhumble helping work in farms, free from such terrors as that from which\nthey fled--the child, with no resource but the poor man's gift, and no\nencouragement but that which flowed from her own heart, and its sense\nof the truth and right of what she did, nerved herself to this last\njourney and boldly pursued her task.\n\n'We shall be very slow to-day, dear,' she said, as they toiled\npainfully through the streets; 'my feet are sore, and I have pains in\nall my limbs from the wet of yesterday.  I saw that he looked at us and\nthought of that, when he said how long we should be upon the road.'\n\n'It was a dreary way he told us of,' returned her grandfather,\npiteously.  'Is there no other road?  Will you not let me go some other\nway than this?'\n\n'Places lie beyond these,' said the child, firmly, 'where we may live\nin peace, and be tempted to do no harm.  We will take the road that\npromises to have that end, and we would not turn out of it, if it were\na hundred times worse than our fears lead us to expect.  We would not,\ndear, would we?'\n\n'No,' replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no less than in his\nmanner.  'No.  Let us go on.  I am ready.  I am quite ready, Nell.'\n\nThe child walked with more difficulty than she had led her companion to\nexpect, for the pains that racked her joints were of no common\nseverity, and every exertion increased them.  But they wrung from her\nno complaint, or look of suffering; and, though the two travellers\nproceeded very slowly, they did proceed.  Clearing the town in course\nof time, they began to feel that they were fairly on their way.\n\nA long suburb of red brick houses--some with patches of garden-ground,\nwhere coal-dust and factory smoke darkened the shrinking leaves, and\ncoarse rank flowers, and where the struggling vegetation sickened and\nsank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace, making them by its\npresence seem yet more blighting and unwholesome than in the town\nitself--a long, flat, straggling suburb passed, they came, by slow\ndegrees, upon a cheerless region, where not a blade of grass was seen\nto grow, where not a bud put forth its promise in the spring, where\nnothing green could live but on the surface of the stagnant pools,\nwhich here and there lay idly sweltering by the black road-side.\n\nAdvancing more and more into the shadow of this mournful place, its\ndark depressing influence stole upon their spirits, and filled them\nwith a dismal gloom.  On every side, and far as the eye could see into\nthe heavy distance, tall chimneys, crowding on each other, and\npresenting that endless repetition of the same dull, ugly form, which\nis the horror of oppressive dreams, poured out their plague of smoke,\nobscured the light, and made foul the melancholy air.  On mounds of\nashes by the wayside, sheltered only by a few rough boards, or rotten\npent-house roofs, strange engines spun and writhed like tortured\ncreatures; clanking their iron chains, shrieking in their rapid whirl\nfrom time to time as though in torment unendurable, and making the\nground tremble with their agonies.  Dismantled houses here and there\nappeared, tottering to the earth, propped up by fragments of others\nthat had fallen down, unroofed, windowless, blackened, desolate, but\nyet inhabited.  Men, women, children, wan in their looks and ragged in\nattire, tended the engines, fed their tributary fire, begged upon the\nroad, or scowled half-naked from the doorless houses.  Then came more\nof the wrathful monsters, whose like they almost seemed to be in their\nwildness and their untamed air, screeching and turning round and round\nagain; and still, before, behind, and to the right and left, was the\nsame interminable perspective of brick towers, never ceasing in their\nblack vomit, blasting all things living or inanimate, shutting out the\nface of day, and closing in on all these horrors with a dense dark\ncloud.\n\nBut night-time in this dreadful spot!--night, when the smoke was\nchanged to fire; when every chimney spirited up its flame; and places,\nthat had been dark vaults all day, now shone red-hot, with figures\nmoving to and fro within their blazing jaws, and calling to one another\nwith hoarse cries--night, when the noise of every strange machine was\naggravated by the darkness; when the people near them looked wilder and\nmore savage; when bands of unemployed labourers paraded the roads, or\nclustered by torch-light round their leaders, who told them, in stern\nlanguage, of their wrongs, and urged them on to frightful cries and\nthreats; when maddened men, armed with sword and firebrand, spurning\nthe tears and prayers of women who would restrain them, rushed forth on\nerrands of terror and destruction, to work no ruin half so surely as\ntheir own--night, when carts came rumbling by, filled with rude\ncoffins (for contagious disease and death had been busy with the living\ncrops); when orphans cried, and distracted women shrieked and followed\nin their wake--night, when some called for bread, and some for drink to\ndrown their cares, and some with tears, and some with staggering feet,\nand some with bloodshot eyes, went brooding home--night, which, unlike\nthe night that Heaven sends on earth, brought with it no peace, nor\nquiet, nor signs of blessed sleep--who shall tell the terrors of the\nnight to the young wandering child!\n\nAnd yet she lay down, with nothing between her and the sky; and, with\nno fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the\npoor old man.  So very weak and spent, she felt, so very calm and\nunresisting, that she had no thought of any wants of her own, but\nprayed that God would raise up some friend for him.  She tried to\nrecall the way they had come, and to look in the direction where the\nfire by which they had slept last night was burning.  She had forgotten\nto ask the name of the poor man, their friend, and when she had\nremembered him in her prayers, it seemed ungrateful not to turn one\nlook towards the spot where he was watching.\n\nA penny loaf was all they had had that day.  It was very little, but\neven hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquillity that crept over\nher senses.  She lay down, very gently, and, with a quiet smile upon\nher face, fell into a slumber.  It was not like sleep--and yet it must\nhave been, or why those pleasant dreams of the little scholar all night\nlong!  Morning came.  Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and\nhearing, and yet the child made no complaint--perhaps would have made\nnone, even if she had not had that inducement to be silent, travelling\nby her side.  She felt a hopelessness of their ever being extricated\ntogether from that forlorn place; a dull conviction that she was very\nill, perhaps dying; but no fear or anxiety.\n\nA loathing of food that she was not conscious of until they expended\ntheir last penny in the purchase of another loaf, prevented her\npartaking even of this poor repast.  Her grandfather ate greedily,\nwhich she was glad to see.\n\nTheir way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety or\nimprovement.  There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the\nsame blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery and\ndistress.  Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the path more\nrugged and uneven, for sometimes she stumbled, and became roused, as it\nwere, in the effort to prevent herself from falling.  Poor child! the\ncause was in her tottering feet.\n\nTowards the afternoon, her grandfather complained bitterly of hunger.\nShe approached one of the wretched hovels by the way-side, and knocked\nwith her hand upon the door.\n\n'What would you have here?' said a gaunt man, opening it.\n\n'Charity.  A morsel of bread.'\n\n'Do you see that?' returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a kind of\nbundle on the ground.  'That's a dead child.  I and five hundred other\nmen were thrown out of work, three months ago.  That is my third dead\nchild, and last.  Do you think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of\nbread to spare?'\n\nThe child recoiled from the door, and it closed upon her.  Impelled by\nstrong necessity, she knocked at another: a neighbouring one, which,\nyielding to the slight pressure of her hand, flew open.\n\nIt seemed that a couple of poor families lived in this hovel, for two\nwomen, each among children of her own, occupied different portions of\nthe room.  In the centre, stood a grave gentleman in black who appeared\nto have just entered, and who held by the arm a boy.\n\n'Here, woman,' he said, 'here's your deaf and dumb son.  You may thank\nme for restoring him to you.  He was brought before me, this morning,\ncharged with theft; and with any other boy it would have gone hard, I\nassure you.  But, as I had compassion on his infirmities, and thought\nhe might have learnt no better, I have managed to bring him back to\nyou.  Take more care of him for the future.'\n\n'And won't you give me back MY son!' said the other woman, hastily\nrising and confronting him.  'Won't you give me back MY son, Sir, who\nwas transported for the same offence!'\n\n'Was he deaf and dumb, woman?' asked the gentleman sternly.\n\n'Was he not, Sir?'\n\n'You know he was not.'\n\n'He was,' cried the woman.  'He was deaf, dumb, and blind, to all that\nwas good and right, from his cradle.  Her boy may have learnt no\nbetter! where did mine learn better?  where could he?  who was there to\nteach him better, or where was it to be learnt?'\n\n'Peace, woman,' said the gentleman, 'your boy was in possession of all\nhis senses.'\n\n'He was,' cried the mother; 'and he was the more easy to be led astray\nbecause he had them.  If you save this boy because he may not know\nright from wrong, why did you not save mine who was never taught the\ndifference?  You gentlemen have as good a right to punish her boy, that\nGod has kept in ignorance of sound and speech, as you have to punish\nmine, that you kept in ignorance yourselves.  How many of the girls and\nboys--ah, men and women too--that are brought before you and you don't\npity, are deaf and dumb in their minds, and go wrong in that state, and\nare punished in that state, body and soul, while you gentlemen are\nquarrelling among yourselves whether they ought to learn this or\nthat?--Be a just man, Sir, and give me back my son.'\n\n'You are desperate,' said the gentleman, taking out his snuff-box, 'and\nI am sorry for you.'\n\n'I AM desperate,' returned the woman, 'and you have made me so.  Give\nme back my son, to work for these helpless children.  Be a just man,\nSir, and, as you have had mercy upon this boy, give me back my son!'\n\nThe child had seen and heard enough to know that this was not a place\nat which to ask for alms.  She led the old man softly from the door,\nand they pursued their journey.\n\nWith less and less of hope or strength, as they went on, but with an\nundiminished resolution not to betray by any word or sigh her sinking\nstate, so long as she had energy to move, the child, throughout the\nremainder of that hard day, compelled herself to proceed: not even\nstopping to rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure\nfor the tardy pace at which she was obliged to walk.  Evening was\ndrawing on, but had not closed in, when--still travelling among the\nsame dismal objects--they came to a busy town.\n\nFaint and spiritless as they were, its streets were insupportable.\nAfter humbly asking for relief at some few doors, and being repulsed,\nthey agreed to make their way out of it as speedily as they could, and\ntry if the inmates of any lone house beyond, would have more pity on\ntheir exhausted state.\n\nThey were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the\nchild felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers\nwould bear no more.  There appeared before them, at this juncture,\ngoing in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who,\nwith a portmanteau strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout stick as\nhe walked, and read from a book which he held in his other hand.\n\nIt was not an easy matter to come up with him, and beseech his aid, for\nhe walked fast, and was a little distance in advance.  At length, he\nstopped, to look more attentively at some passage in his book.\nAnimated with a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather,\nand, going close to the stranger without rousing him by the sound of\nher footsteps, began, in a few faint words, to implore his help.\n\nHe turned his head.  The child clapped her hands together, uttered a\nwild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 46\n\nIt was the poor schoolmaster.  No other than the poor schoolmaster.\nScarcely less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than she\nhad been on recognising him, he stood, for a moment, silent and\nconfounded by this unexpected apparition, without even the presence of\nmind to raise her from the ground.\n\nBut, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick\nand book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured, by such\nsimple means as occurred to him, to restore her to herself; while her\ngrandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with\nmany endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word.\n\n'She is quite exhausted,' said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into\nhis face.  'You have taxed her powers too far, friend.'\n\n'She is perishing of want,' rejoined the old man.  'I never thought how\nweak and ill she was, till now.'\n\nCasting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate, the\nschoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man\ngather up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at\nhis utmost speed.\n\nThere was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had\nbeen directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken.  Towards this\nplace he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the\nkitchen, and calling upon the company there assembled to make way for\nGod's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire.\n\nThe company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster's entrance, did\nas people usually do under such circumstances.  Everybody called for\nhis or her favourite remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more\nair, at the same time carefully excluding what air there was, by\nclosing round the object of sympathy; and all wondered why somebody\nelse didn't do what it never appeared to occur to them might be done by\nthemselves.\n\nThe landlady, however, who possessed more readiness and activity than\nany of them, and who had withal a quicker perception of the merits of\nthe case, soon came running in, with a little hot brandy and water,\nfollowed by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn,\nsmelling-salts, and such other restoratives; which, being duly\nadministered, recovered the child so far as to enable her to thank them\nin a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the poor schoolmaster, who\nstood, with an anxious face, hard by.  Without suffering her to speak\nanother word, or so much as to stir a finger any more, the women\nstraightway carried her off to bed; and, having covered her up warm,\nbathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they despatched a\nmessenger for the doctor.\n\nThe doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of seals\ndangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with all\nspeed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his\nwatch, and felt her pulse.  Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt\nher pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied\nwine-glass as if in profound abstraction.\n\n'I should give her,' said the doctor at length, 'a tea-spoonful, every\nnow and then, of hot brandy and water.'\n\n'Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!' said the delighted landlady.\n\n'I should also,' observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath on\nthe stairs, 'I should also,' said the doctor, in the voice of an\noracle, 'put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel.  I\nshould likewise,' said the doctor with increased solemnity, 'give her\nsomething light for supper--the wing of a roasted fowl now--'\n\n'Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this\ninstant!' cried the landlady.  And so indeed it was, for the\nschoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so\nwell that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried; perhaps he\ndid.\n\n'You may then,' said the doctor, rising gravely, 'give her a glass of\nhot mulled port wine, if she likes wine--'\n\n'And a toast, Sir?' suggested the landlady.\n\n'Ay,' said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes a dignified\nconcession.  'And a toast--of bread.  But be very particular to make it\nof bread, if you please, ma'am.'\n\nWith which parting injunction, slowly and portentously delivered, the\ndoctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that wisdom\nwhich tallied so closely with their own.  Everybody said he was a very\nshrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions\nwere; which there appears some reason to suppose he did.\n\nWhile her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep,\nfrom which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready.  As she\nevinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was\nbelow stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their\nbeing apart, he took his supper with her.  Finding her still very\nrestless on this head, they made him up a bed in an inner room, to\nwhich he presently retired.  The key of this chamber happened by good\nfortune to be on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; she\nturned it on him when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to bed\nagain with a thankful heart.\n\nThe schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the kitchen\nfire, which was now deserted, thinking, with a very happy face, on the\nfortunate chance which had brought him so opportunely to the child's\nassistance, and parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the\ninquisitive cross-examination of the landlady, who had a great\ncuriosity to be made acquainted with every particular of Nell's life\nand history.  The poor schoolmaster was so open-hearted, and so little\nversed in the most ordinary cunning or deceit, that she could not have\nfailed to succeed in the first five minutes, but that he happened to be\nunacquainted with what she wished to know; and so he told her.  The\nlandlady, by no means satisfied with this assurance, which she\nconsidered an ingenious evasion of the question, rejoined that he had\nhis reasons of course.  Heaven forbid that she should wish to pry into\nthe affairs of her customers, which indeed were no business of hers,\nwho had so many of her own.  She had merely asked a civil question, and\nto be sure she knew it would meet with a civil answer.  She was quite\nsatisfied--quite.  She had rather perhaps that he would have said at\nonce that he didn't choose to be communicative, because that would have\nbeen plain and intelligible.  However, she had no right to be offended\nof course.  He was the best judge, and had a perfect right to say what\nhe pleased; nobody could dispute that for a moment.  Oh dear, no!\n\n'I assure you, my good lady,' said the mild schoolmaster, 'that I have\ntold you the plain truth.  As I hope to be saved, I have told you the\ntruth.'\n\n'Why then, I do believe you are in earnest,' rejoined the landlady,\nwith ready good-humour, 'and I'm very sorry I have teazed you.  But\ncuriosity you know is the curse of our sex, and that's the fact.'\n\nThe landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the curse sometimes\ninvolved the other sex likewise; but he was prevented from making any\nremark to that effect, if he had it in contemplation to do so, by the\nschoolmaster's rejoinder.\n\n'You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a sitting, and\nwelcome, and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart you\nhave shown to-night, if I could,' he said.  'As it is, please to take\ncare of her in the morning, and let me know early how she is; and to\nunderstand that I am paymaster for the three.'\n\nSo, parting with them on most friendly terms (not the less cordial\nperhaps for this last direction), the schoolmaster went to his bed, and\nthe host and hostess to theirs.\n\nThe report in the morning was, that the child was better, but was\nextremely weak, and would at least require a day's rest, and careful\nnursing, before she could proceed upon her journey.  The schoolmaster\nreceived this communication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that\nhe had a day to spare--two days for that matter--and could very well\nafford to wait.  As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he\nappointed to visit her in her room at a certain hour, and rambling out\nwith his book, did not return until the hour arrived.\n\nNell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at\nsight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed\na few tears himself, at the same time showing in very energetic\nlanguage how foolish it was to do so, and how very easily it could be\navoided, if one tried.\n\n'It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness' said the\nchild, 'to think that we should be a burden upon you.  How can I ever\nthank you?  If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died,\nand he would have been left alone.'\n\n'We'll not talk about dying,' said the schoolmaster; 'and as to\nburdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage.'\n\n'Indeed!' cried the child joyfully.\n\n'Oh yes,' returned her friend.  'I have been appointed clerk and\nschoolmaster to a village a long way from here--and a long way from the\nold one as you may suppose--at five-and-thirty pounds a year.\nFive-and-thirty pounds!'\n\n'I am very glad,' said the child, 'so very, very glad.'\n\n'I am on my way there now,' resumed the schoolmaster.  'They allowed me\nthe stage-coach-hire--outside stage-coach-hire all the way.  Bless you,\nthey grudge me nothing.  But as the time at which I am expected there,\nleft me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead.  How glad I am, to\nthink I did so!'\n\n'How glad should we be!'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair,\n'certainly, that's very true.  But you--where are you going, where are\nyou coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had\nyou been doing before?  Now, tell me--do tell me.  I know very little\nof the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its\naffairs than I am qualified to give advice to you; but I am very\nsincere, and I have a reason (you have not forgotten it) for loving\nyou.  I have felt since that time as if my love for him who died, had\nbeen transferred to you who stood beside his bed.  If this,' he added,\nlooking upwards, 'is the beautiful creation that springs from ashes,\nlet its peace prosper with me, as I deal tenderly and compassionately\nby this young child!'\n\nThe plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate\nearnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon\nhis every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the\nutmost arts of treachery and dissimulation could never have awakened in\nher breast.  She told him all--that they had no friend or\nrelative--that she had fled with the old man, to save him from a\nmadhouse and all the miseries he dreaded--that she was flying now, to\nsave him from himself--and that she sought an asylum in some remote\nand primitive place, where the temptation before which he fell would\nnever enter, and her late sorrows and distresses could have no place.\n\nThe schoolmaster heard her with astonishment.  'This child!'--he\nthought--'Has this child heroically persevered under all doubts and\ndangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by\nstrong affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone!  And yet the\nworld is full of such heroism.  Have I yet to learn that the hardest\nand best-borne trials are those which are never chronicled in any\nearthly record, and are suffered every day!  And should I be surprised\nto hear the story of this child!'\n\nWhat more he thought or said, matters not.  It was concluded that Nell\nand her grandfather should accompany him to the village whither he was\nbound, and that he should endeavour to find them some humble occupation\nby which they could subsist.  'We shall be sure to succeed,' said the\nschoolmaster, heartily.  'The cause is too good a one to fail.'\n\nThey arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a\nstage-waggon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as\nthey must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver\nfor a small gratuity would give Nell a place inside.  A bargain was\nsoon struck when the waggon came; and in due time it rolled away; with\nthe child comfortably bestowed among the softer packages, her\ngrandfather and the schoolmaster walking on beside the driver, and the\nlandlady and all the good folks of the inn screaming out their good\nwishes and farewells.\n\nWhat a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside\nthat slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses'\nbells, the occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling\nof the great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery\ngood-nights of passing travellers jogging past on little short-stepped\nhorses--all made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning, which\nseemed made for lazy listening under, till one fell asleep!  The very\ngoing to sleep, still with an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to\nand fro upon the pillow, of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue,\nand hearing all these sounds like dreamy music, lulling to the\nsenses--and the slow waking up, and finding one's self staring out\nthrough the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, far up into the\ncold bright sky with its countless stars, and downward at the driver's\nlantern dancing on like its namesake Jack of the swamps and marshes,\nand sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bare road\nrising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as\nif there were no more road, and all beyond was sky--and the stopping at\nthe inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire\nand candles, and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that\nthe night was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to think it\ncolder than it was!--What a delicious journey was that journey in the\nwaggon.\n\nThen the going on again--so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards so\nsleepy.  The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like\na highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions of\na guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman\nin a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied--the\nstopping at the turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at\nthe door until he answered with a smothered shout from under the\nbed-clothes in the little room above, where the faint light was\nburning, and presently came down, night-capped and shivering, to throw\nthe gate wide open, and wish all waggons off the road except by day.\nThe cold sharp interval between night and morning--the distant streak\nof light widening and spreading, and turning from grey to white, and\nfrom white to yellow, and from yellow to burning red--the presence of\nday, with all its cheerfulness and life--men and horses at the\nplough--birds in the trees and hedges, and boys in solitary fields,\nfrightening them away with rattles.  The coming to a town--people busy\nin the markets; light carts and chaises round the tavern yard;\ntradesmen standing at their doors; men running horses up and down the\nstreet for sale; pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty distance,\ngetting off with long strings at their legs, running into clean\nchemists' shops and being dislodged with brooms by 'prentices; the\nnight coach changing horses--the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and\ndiscontented, with three months' growth of hair in one night--the\ncoachman fresh as from a band-box, and exquisitely beautiful by\ncontrast:--so much bustle, so many things in motion, such a variety of\nincidents--when was there a journey with so many delights as that\njourney in the waggon!\n\nSometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside,\nand sometimes even prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take her place\nand lie down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily until they came to\na large town, where the waggon stopped, and where they spent a night.\nThey passed a large church; and in the streets were a number of old\nhouses, built of a kind of earth or plaster, crossed and re-crossed in\na great many directions with black beams, which gave them a remarkable\nand very ancient look.  The doors, too, were arched and low, some with\noaken portals and quaint benches, where the former inhabitants had sat\non summer evenings.  The windows were latticed in little diamond panes,\nthat seemed to wink and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim\nof sight.  They had long since got clear of the smoke and furnaces,\nexcept in one or two solitary instances, where a factory planted among\nfields withered the space about it, like a burning mountain.  When they\nhad passed through this town, they entered again upon the country, and\nbegan to draw near their place of destination.\n\nIt was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon the\nroad; not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but that\nthe schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles of his\nvillage, had a fidgety sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was\nunwilling to make his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered\ndress.  It was a fine, clear, autumn morning, when they came upon the\nscene of his promotion, and stopped to contemplate its beauties.\n\n'See--here's the church!' cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low\nvoice; 'and that old building close beside it, is the schoolhouse, I'll\nbe sworn.  Five-and-thirty pounds a-year in this beautiful place!'\n\nThey admired everything--the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the\nvenerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower,\nthe very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and\nhomestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the\ndistant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away.  It was for such\na spot the child had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of\nlabour.  Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through\nwhich they had forced their way, visions of such scenes--beautiful\nindeed, but not more beautiful than this sweet reality--had been always\npresent to her mind.  They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy\ndistance, as the prospect of ever beholding them again grew fainter;\nbut, as they receded, she had loved and panted for them more.\n\n'I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes,' said the schoolmaster,\nat length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their\ngladness.  'I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you\nknow.  Where shall I take you?  To the little inn yonder?'\n\n'Let us wait here,' rejoined Nell.  'The gate is open.  We will sit in\nthe church porch till you come back.'\n\n'A good place too,' said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it,\ndisencumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on the stone\nseat.  'Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone!'\n\nSo, the happy schoolmaster put on a bran-new pair of gloves which he\nhad carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried\noff, full of ardour and excitement.\n\nThe child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage hid\nhim from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old\nchurchyard--so solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon the\nfallen leaves, which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless,\nseemed an invasion of its silence.  It was a very aged, ghostly place;\nthe church had been built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had\na convent or monastery attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel\nwindows, and fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing; while\nother portions of the old building, which had crumbled away and fallen\ndown, were mingled with the churchyard earth and overgrown with grass,\nas if they too claimed a burying-place and sought to mix their ashes\nwith the dust of men.  Hard by these gravestones of dead years, and\nforming a part of the ruin which some pains had been taken to render\nhabitable in modern times, were two small dwellings with sunken windows\nand oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and desolate.\n\nUpon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively\nriveted.  She knew not why.  The church, the ruin, the antiquated\ngraves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from\nthe moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could\nturn to nothing else.  Even when she had made the circuit of the\nenclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat pensively waiting for their\nfriend, she took her station where she could still look upon them, and\nfelt as if fascinated towards that spot.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 47\n\nKit's mother and the single gentleman--upon whose track it is expedient\nto follow with hurried steps, lest this history should be chargeable\nwith inconstancy, and the offence of leaving its characters in\nsituations of uncertainty and doubt--Kit's mother and the single\ngentleman, speeding onward in the post-chaise-and-four whose departure\nfrom the Notary's door we have already witnessed, soon left the town\nbehind them, and struck fire from the flints of the broad highway.\n\nThe good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the novelty of her\nsituation, and certain material apprehensions that perhaps by this time\nlittle Jacob, or the baby, or both, had fallen into the fire, or\ntumbled down stairs, or had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded\ntheir windpipes in endeavouring to allay their thirst at the spouts of\ntea-kettles, preserved an uneasy silence; and meeting from the window\nthe eyes of turnpike-men, omnibus-drivers, and others, felt in the new\ndignity of her position like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being\ngreatly afflicted by the loss of the departed, recognizes his every-day\nacquaintance from the window of the mourning coach, but is constrained\nto preserve a decent solemnity, and the appearance of being indifferent\nto all external objects.\n\nTo have been indifferent to the companionship of the single gentleman\nwould have been tantamount to being gifted with nerves of steel.  Never\ndid chaise inclose, or horses draw, such a restless gentleman as he.\nHe never sat in the same position for two minutes together, but was\nperpetually tossing his arms and legs about, pulling up the sashes and\nletting them violently down, or thrusting his head out of one window to\ndraw it in again and thrust it out of another.  He carried in his\npocket, too, a fire-box of mysterious and unknown construction; and as\nsure as ever Kit's mother closed her eyes, so surely--whisk, rattle,\nfizz--there was the single gentleman consulting his watch by a flame of\nfire, and letting the sparks fall down among the straw as if there were\nno such thing as a possibility of himself and Kit's mother being\nroasted alive before the boys could stop their horses.  Whenever they\nhalted to change, there he was--out of the carriage without letting\ndown the steps, bursting about the inn-yard like a lighted cracker,\npulling out his watch by lamp-light and forgetting to look at it before\nhe put it up again, and in short committing so many extravagances that\nKit's mother was quite afraid of him.  Then, when the horses were to,\nin he came like a Harlequin, and before they had gone a mile, out came\nthe watch and the fire-box together, and Kit's mother as wide awake\nagain, with no hope of a wink of sleep for that stage.\n\n'Are you comfortable?' the single gentleman would say after one of\nthese exploits, turning sharply round.\n\n'Quite, Sir, thank you.'\n\n'Are you sure?  An't you cold?'\n\n'It is a little chilly, Sir,' Kit's mother would reply.\n\n'I knew it!' cried the single gentleman, letting down one of the front\nglasses.  'She wants some brandy and water!  Of course she does.  How\ncould I forget it?  Hallo!  Stop at the next inn, and call out for a\nglass of hot brandy and water.'\n\nIt was in vain for Kit's mother to protest that she stood in need of\nnothing of the kind.  The single gentleman was inexorable; and whenever\nhe had exhausted all other modes and fashions of restlessness, it\ninvariably occurred to him that Kit's mother wanted brandy and water.\n\nIn this way they travelled on until near midnight, when they stopped to\nsupper, for which meal the single gentleman ordered everything eatable\nthat the house contained; and because Kit's mother didn't eat\neverything at once, and eat it all, he took it into his head that she\nmust be ill.\n\n'You're faint,' said the single gentleman, who did nothing himself but\nwalk about the room.  'I see what's the matter with you, ma'am.  You're\nfaint.'\n\n'Thank you, sir, I'm not indeed.'\n\n'I know you are.  I'm sure of it.  I drag this poor woman from the\nbosom of her family at a minute's notice, and she goes on getting\nfainter and fainter before my eyes.  I'm a pretty fellow!  How many\nchildren have you got, ma'am?'\n\n'Two, sir, besides Kit.'\n\n'Boys, ma'am?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Are they christened?'\n\n'Only half baptised as yet, sir.'\n\n'I'm godfather to both of 'em.  Remember that, if you please, ma'am.\nYou had better have some mulled wine.'\n\n'I couldn't touch a drop indeed, sir.'\n\n'You must,' said the single gentleman.  'I see you want it.  I ought to\nhave thought of it before.'\n\nImmediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled wine as\nimpetuously as if it had been wanted for instant use in the recovery of\nsome person apparently drowned, the single gentleman made Kit's mother\nswallow a bumper of it at such a high temperature that the tears ran\ndown her face, and then hustled her off to the chaise again, where--not\nimpossibly from the effects of this agreeable sedative--she soon became\ninsensible to his restlessness, and fell fast asleep.  Nor were the\nhappy effects of this prescription of a transitory nature, as,\nnotwithstanding that the distance was greater, and the journey longer,\nthan the single gentleman had anticipated, she did not awake until it\nwas broad day, and they were clattering over the pavement of a town.\n\n'This is the place!' cried her companion, letting down all the glasses.\n'Drive to the wax-work!'\n\nThe boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting spurs to his horse,\nto the end that they might go in brilliantly, all four broke into a\nsmart canter, and dashed through the streets with a noise that brought\nthe good folks wondering to their doors and windows, and drowned the\nsober voices of the town-clocks as they chimed out half-past eight.\nThey drove up to a door round which a crowd of persons were collected,\nand there stopped.\n\n'What's this?' said the single gentleman thrusting out his head.  'Is\nanything the matter here?'\n\n'A wedding Sir, a wedding!' cried several voices.  'Hurrah!'\n\nThe single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding himself the centre\nof this noisy throng, alighted with the assistance of one of the\npostilions, and handed out Kit's mother, at sight of whom the populace\ncried out, 'Here's another wedding!' and roared and leaped for joy.\n\n'The world has gone mad, I think,' said the single gentleman, pressing\nthrough the concourse with his supposed bride.  'Stand back here, will\nyou, and let me knock.'\n\nAnything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd.  A score of\ndirty hands were raised directly to knock for him, and seldom has a\nknocker of equal powers been made to produce more deafening sounds than\nthis particular engine on the occasion in question.  Having rendered\nthese voluntary services, the throng modestly retired a little,\npreferring that the single gentleman should bear their consequences\nalone.\n\n'Now, sir, what do you want!' said a man with a large white bow at his\nbutton-hole, opening the door, and confronting him with a very stoical\naspect.\n\n'Who has been married here, my friend?' said the single gentleman.\n\n'I have.'\n\n'You! and to whom in the devil's name?'\n\n'What right have you to ask?' returned the bridegroom, eyeing him from\ntop to toe.\n\n'What right!' cried the single gentleman, drawing the arm of Kit's\nmother more tightly through his own, for that good woman evidently had\nit in contemplation to run away.  'A right you little dream of.  Mind,\ngood people, if this fellow has been marrying a minor--tut, tut, that\ncan't be.  Where is the child you have here, my good fellow.  You call\nher Nell.  Where is she?'\n\nAs he propounded this question, which Kit's mother echoed, somebody in\na room near at hand, uttered a great shriek, and a stout lady in a\nwhite dress came running to the door, and supported herself upon the\nbridegroom's arm.\n\n'Where is she!' cried this lady.  'What news have you brought me?  What\nhas become of her?'\n\nThe single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the face of the late\nMrs Jarley (that morning wedded to the philosophic George, to the\neternal wrath and despair of Mr Slum the poet), with looks of\nconflicting apprehension, disappointment, and incredulity.  At length\nhe stammered out,\n\n'I ask YOU where she is?  What do you mean?'\n\n'Oh sir!' cried the bride, 'If you have come here to do her any good,\nwhy weren't you here a week ago?'\n\n'She is not--not dead?' said the person to whom she addressed herself,\nturning very pale.\n\n'No, not so bad as that.'\n\n'I thank God!' cried the single gentleman feebly.  'Let me come in.'\n\nThey drew back to admit him, and when he had entered, closed the door.\n\n'You see in me, good people,' he said, turning to the newly-married\ncouple, 'one to whom life itself is not dearer than the two persons\nwhom I seek.  They would not know me.  My features are strange to them,\nbut if they or either of them are here, take this good woman with you,\nand let them see her first, for her they both know.  If you deny them\nfrom any mistaken regard or fear for them, judge of my intentions by\ntheir recognition of this person as their old humble friend.'\n\n'I always said it!' cried the bride, 'I knew she was not a common\nchild!  Alas, sir! we have no power to help you, for all that we could\ndo, has been tried in vain.'\n\nWith that, they related to him, without disguise or concealment, all\nthat they knew of Nell and her grandfather, from their first meeting\nwith them, down to the time of their sudden disappearance; adding\n(which was quite true) that they had made every possible effort to\ntrace them, but without success; having been at first in great alarm\nfor their safety, as well as on account of the suspicions to which they\nthemselves might one day be exposed in consequence of their abrupt\ndeparture.  They dwelt upon the old man's imbecility of mind, upon the\nuneasiness the child had always testified when he was absent, upon the\ncompany he had been supposed to keep, and upon the increased depression\nwhich had gradually crept over her and changed her both in health and\nspirits.  Whether she had missed the old man in the night, and knowing\nor conjecturing whither he had bent his steps, had gone in pursuit, or\nwhether they had left the house together, they had no means of\ndetermining.  Certain they considered it, that there was but slender\nprospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether their flight\noriginated with the old man, or with the child, there was now no hope\nof their return.  To all this, the single gentleman listened with the\nair of a man quite borne down by grief and disappointment.  He shed\ntears when they spoke of the grandfather, and appeared in deep\naffliction.\n\nNot to protract this portion of our narrative, and to make short work\nof a long story, let it be briefly written that before the interview\ncame to a close, the single gentleman deemed he had sufficient evidence\nof having been told the truth, and that he endeavoured to force upon\nthe bride and bridegroom an acknowledgment of their kindness to the\nunfriended child, which, however, they steadily declined accepting.  In\nthe end, the happy couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their\nhoneymoon in a country excursion; and the single gentleman and Kit's\nmother stood ruefully before their carriage-door.\n\n'Where shall we drive you, sir?' said the post-boy.\n\n'You may drive me,' said the single gentleman, 'to the--' He was not\ngoing to add 'inn,' but he added it for the sake of Kit's mother; and\nto the inn they went.\n\nRumours had already got abroad that the little girl who used to show\nthe wax-work, was the child of great people who had been stolen from\nher parents in infancy, and had only just been traced.  Opinion was\ndivided whether she was the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl, a\nviscount, or a baron, but all agreed upon the main fact, and that the\nsingle gentleman was her father; and all bent forward to catch a\nglimpse, though it were only of the tip of his noble nose, as he rode\naway, desponding, in his four-horse chaise.\n\nWhat would he have given to know, and what sorrow would have been saved\nif he had only known, that at that moment both child and grandfather\nwere seated in the old church porch, patiently awaiting the\nschoolmaster's return!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 48\n\nPopular rumour concerning the single gentleman and his errand,\ntravelling from mouth to mouth, and waxing stronger in the marvellous\nas it was bandied about--for your popular rumour, unlike the rolling\nstone of the proverb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its\nwanderings up and down--occasioned his dismounting at the inn-door to\nbe looked upon as an exciting and attractive spectacle, which could\nscarcely be enough admired; and drew together a large concourse of\nidlers, who having recently been, as it were, thrown out of employment\nby the closing of the wax-work and the completion of the nuptial\nceremonies, considered his arrival as little else than a special\nprovidence, and hailed it with demonstrations of the liveliest joy.\n\nNot at all participating in the general sensation, but wearing the\ndepressed and wearied look of one who sought to meditate on his\ndisappointment in silence and privacy, the single gentleman alighted,\nand handed out Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness which impressed\nthe lookers-on extremely.  That done, he gave her his arm and escorted\nher into the house, while several active waiters ran on before as a\nskirmishing party, to clear the way and to show the room which was\nready for their reception.\n\n'Any room will do,' said the single gentleman.  'Let it be near at\nhand, that's all.'\n\n'Close here, sir, if you please to walk this way.'\n\n'Would the gentleman like this room?' said a voice, as a little\nout-of-the-way door at the foot of the well staircase flew briskly open\nand a head popped out.  'He's quite welcome to it.  He's as welcome as\nflowers in May, or coals at Christmas.  Would you like this room, sir?\nHonour me by walking in.  Do me the favour, pray.'\n\n'Goodness gracious me!' cried Kit's mother, falling back in extreme\nsurprise, 'only think of this!'\n\nShe had some reason to be astonished, for the person who proffered the\ngracious invitation was no other than Daniel Quilp.  The little door\nout of which he had thrust his head was close to the inn larder; and\nthere he stood, bowing with grotesque politeness; as much at his ease\nas if the door were that of his own house; blighting all the legs of\nmutton and cold roast fowls by his close companionship, and looking\nlike the evil genius of the cellars come from underground upon some\nwork of mischief.\n\n'Would you do me the honour?' said Quilp.\n\n'I prefer being alone,' replied the single gentleman.\n\n'Oh!' said Quilp.  And with that, he darted in again with one jerk and\nclapped the little door to, like a figure in a Dutch clock when the\nhour strikes.\n\n'Why it was only last night, sir,' whispered Kit's mother, 'that I left\nhim in Little Bethel.'\n\n'Indeed!' said her fellow-passenger.  'When did that person come here,\nwaiter?'\n\n'Come down by the night-coach, this morning, sir.'\n\n'Humph!  And when is he going?'\n\n'Can't say, sir, really.  When the chambermaid asked him just now if he\nshould want a bed, sir, he first made faces at her, and then wanted to\nkiss her.'\n\n'Beg him to walk this way,' said the single gentleman.  'I should be\nglad to exchange a word with him, tell him.  Beg him to come at once,\ndo you hear?'\n\nThe man stared on receiving these instructions, for the single\ngentleman had not only displayed as much astonishment as Kit's mother\nat sight of the dwarf, but, standing in no fear of him, had been at\nless pains to conceal his dislike and repugnance.  He departed on his\nerrand, however, and immediately returned, ushering in its object.\n\n'Your servant, sir,' said the dwarf, 'I encountered your messenger\nhalf-way.  I thought you'd allow me to pay my compliments to you.  I\nhope you're well.  I hope you're very well.'\n\nThere was a short pause, while the dwarf, with half-shut eyes and\npuckered face, stood waiting for an answer.  Receiving none, he turned\ntowards his more familiar acquaintance.\n\n'Christopher's mother!' he cried.  'Such a dear lady, such a worthy\nwoman, so blest in her honest son!  How is Christopher's mother?  Have\nchange of air and scene improved her?  Her little family too, and\nChristopher?  Do they thrive?  Do they flourish?  Are they growing into\nworthy citizens, eh?'\n\nMaking his voice ascend in the scale with every succeeding question, Mr\nQuilp finished in a shrill squeak, and subsided into the panting look\nwhich was customary with him, and which, whether it were assumed or\nnatural, had equally the effect of banishing all expression from his\nface, and rendering it, as far as it afforded any index to his mood or\nmeaning, a perfect blank.\n\n'Mr Quilp,' said the single gentleman.\n\nThe dwarf put his hand to his great flapped ear, and counterfeited the\nclosest attention.\n\n'We two have met before--'\n\n'Surely,' cried Quilp, nodding his head.  'Oh surely, sir.  Such an\nhonour and pleasure--it's both, Christopher's mother, it's both--is\nnot to be forgotten so soon.  By no means!'\n\n'You may remember that the day I arrived in London, and found the house\nto which I drove, empty and deserted, I was directed by some of the\nneighbours to you, and waited upon you without stopping for rest or\nrefreshment?'\n\n'How precipitate that was, and yet what an earnest and vigorous\nmeasure!' said Quilp, conferring with himself, in imitation of his\nfriend Mr Sampson Brass.\n\n'I found,' said the single gentleman, 'you most unaccountably, in\npossession of everything that had so recently belonged to another man,\nand that other man, who up to the time of your entering upon his\nproperty had been looked upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beggary,\nand driven from house and home.'\n\n'We had warrant for what we did, my good sir,' rejoined Quilp, 'we had\nour warrant.  Don't say driven either.  He went of his own\naccord--vanished in the night, sir.'\n\n'No matter,' said the single gentleman angrily.  'He was gone.'\n\n'Yes, he was gone,' said Quilp, with the same exasperating composure.\n'No doubt he was gone.  The only question was, where.  And it's a\nquestion still.'\n\n'Now, what am I to think,' said the single gentleman, sternly regarding\nhim, 'of you, who, plainly indisposed to give me any information\nthen--nay, obviously holding back, and sheltering yourself with all\nkinds of cunning, trickery, and evasion--are dogging my footsteps now?'\n\n'I dogging!' cried Quilp.\n\n'Why, are you not?' returned his questioner, fretted into a state of\nthe utmost irritation.  'Were you not a few hours since, sixty miles\noff, and in the chapel to which this good woman goes to say her\nprayers?'\n\n'She was there too, I think?' said Quilp, still perfectly unmoved.  'I\nmight say, if I was inclined to be rude, how do I know but you are\ndogging MY footsteps.  Yes, I was at chapel.  What then?  I've read in\nbooks that pilgrims were used to go to chapel before they went on\njourneys, to put up petitions for their safe return.  Wise men!\njourneys are very perilous--especially outside the coach.  Wheels come\noff, horses take fright, coachmen drive too fast, coaches overturn.  I\nalways go to chapel before I start on journeys.  It's the last thing I\ndo on such occasions, indeed.'\n\nThat Quilp lied most heartily in this speech, it needed no very great\npenetration to discover, although for anything that he suffered to\nappear in his face, voice, or manner, he might have been clinging to\nthe truth with the quiet constancy of a martyr.\n\n'In the name of all that's calculated to drive one crazy, man,' said\nthe unfortunate single gentleman, 'have you not, for some reason of\nyour own, taken upon yourself my errand?  don't you know with what\nobject I have come here, and if you do know, can you throw no light\nupon it?'\n\n'You think I'm a conjuror, sir,' replied Quilp, shrugging up his\nshoulders.  'If I was, I should tell my own fortune--and make it.'\n\n'Ah! we have said all we need say, I see,' returned the other, throwing\nhimself impatiently upon a sofa.  'Pray leave us, if you please.'\n\n'Willingly,' returned Quilp.  'Most willingly.  Christopher's mother,\nmy good soul, farewell.  A pleasant journey--back, sir.  Ahem!'\n\nWith these parting words, and with a grin upon his features altogether\nindescribable, but which seemed to be compounded of every monstrous\ngrimace of which men or monkeys are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated\nand closed the door behind him.\n\n'Oho!' he said when he had regained his own room, and sat himself down\nin a chair with his arms akimbo.  'Oho!  Are you there, my friend?\nIn-deed!'\n\nChuckling as though in very great glee, and recompensing himself for\nthe restraint he had lately put upon his countenance by twisting it\ninto all imaginable varieties of ugliness, Mr Quilp, rocking himself to\nand fro in his chair and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell\ninto certain meditations, of which it may be necessary to relate the\nsubstance.\n\nFirst, he reviewed the circumstances which had led to his repairing to\nthat spot, which were briefly these.  Dropping in at Mr Sampson Brass's\noffice on the previous evening, in the absence of that gentleman and\nhis learned sister, he had lighted upon Mr Swiveller, who chanced at\nthe moment to be sprinkling a glass of warm gin and water on the dust\nof the law, and to be moistening his clay, as the phrase goes, rather\ncopiously.  But as clay in the abstract, when too much moistened,\nbecomes of a weak and uncertain consistency, breaking down in\nunexpected places, retaining impressions but faintly, and preserving no\nstrength or steadiness of character, so Mr Swiveller's clay, having\nimbibed a considerable quantity of moisture, was in a very loose and\nslippery state, insomuch that the various ideas impressed upon it were\nfast losing their distinctive character, and running into each other.\nIt is not uncommon for human clay in this condition to value itself\nabove all things upon its great prudence and sagacity; and Mr\nSwiveller, especially prizing himself upon these qualities, took\noccasion to remark that he had made strange discoveries in connection\nwith the single gentleman who lodged above, which he had determined to\nkeep within his own bosom, and which neither tortures nor cajolery\nshould ever induce him to reveal.  Of this determination Mr Quilp\nexpressed his high approval, and setting himself in the same breath to\ngoad Mr Swiveller on to further hints, soon made out that the single\ngentleman had been seen in communication with Kit, and that this was\nthe secret which was never to be disclosed.\n\nPossessed of this piece of information, Mr Quilp directly supposed that\nthe single gentleman above stairs must be the same individual who had\nwaited on him, and having assured himself by further inquiries that\nthis surmise was correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the\nconclusion that the intent and object of his correspondence with Kit\nwas the recovery of his old client and the child.  Burning with\ncuriosity to know what proceedings were afoot, he resolved to pounce\nupon Kit's mother as the person least able to resist his arts, and\nconsequently the most likely to be entrapped into such revelations as\nhe sought; so taking an abrupt leave of Mr Swiveller, he hurried to her\nhouse.  The good woman being from home, he made inquiries of a\nneighbour, as Kit himself did soon afterwards, and being directed to\nthe chapel be took himself there, in order to waylay her, at the\nconclusion of the service.\n\nHe had not sat in the chapel more than a quarter of an hour, and with\nhis eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling was chuckling inwardly over the\njoke of his being there at all, when Kit himself appeared.  Watchful as\na lynx, one glance showed the dwarf that he had come on business.\nAbsorbed in appearance, as we have seen, and feigning a profound\nabstraction, he noted every circumstance of his behaviour, and when he\nwithdrew with his family, shot out after him.  In fine, he traced them\nto the notary's house; learnt the destination of the carriage from one\nof the postilions; and knowing that a fast night-coach started for the\nsame place, at the very hour which was on the point of striking, from a\nstreet hard by, darted round to the coach-office without more ado, and\ntook his seat upon the roof.  After passing and repassing the carriage\non the road, and being passed and repassed by it sundry times in the\ncourse of the night, according as their stoppages were longer or\nshorter; or their rate of travelling varied, they reached the town\nalmost together.  Quilp kept the chaise in sight, mingled with the\ncrowd, learnt the single gentleman's errand, and its failure, and\nhaving possessed himself of all that it was material to know, hurried\noff, reached the inn before him, had the interview just now detailed,\nand shut himself up in the little room in which he hastily reviewed all\nthese occurrences.\n\n'You are there, are you, my friend?' he repeated, greedily biting his\nnails.  'I am suspected and thrown aside, and Kit's the confidential\nagent, is he?  I shall have to dispose of him, I fear.  If we had come\nup with them this morning,' he continued, after a thoughtful pause, 'I\nwas ready to prove a pretty good claim.  I could have made my profit.\nBut for these canting hypocrites, the lad and his mother, I could get\nthis fiery gentleman as comfortably into my net as our old friend--our\nmutual friend, ha! ha!--and chubby, rosy Nell.  At the worst, it's a\ngolden opportunity, not to be lost.  Let us find them first, and I'll\nfind means of draining you of some of your superfluous cash, sir, while\nthere are prison bars, and bolts, and locks, to keep your friend or\nkinsman safely.  I hate your virtuous people!' said the dwarf, throwing\noff a bumper of brandy, and smacking his lips, 'ah! I hate 'em every\none!'\n\nThis was not a mere empty vaunt, but a deliberate avowal of his real\nsentiments; for Mr Quilp, who loved nobody, had by little and little\ncome to hate everybody nearly or remotely connected with his ruined\nclient:--the old man himself, because he had been able to deceive him\nand elude his vigilance--the child, because she was the object of Mrs\nQuilp's commiseration and constant self-reproach--the single gentleman,\nbecause of his unconcealed aversion to himself--Kit and his mother,\nmost mortally, for the reasons shown.  Above and beyond that general\nfeeling of opposition to them, which would have been inseparable from\nhis ravenous desire to enrich himself by these altered circumstances,\nDaniel Quilp hated them every one.\n\nIn this amiable mood, Mr Quilp enlivened himself and his hatreds with\nmore brandy, and then, changing his quarters, withdrew to an obscure\nalehouse, under cover of which seclusion he instituted all possible\ninquiries that might lead to the discovery of the old man and his\ngrandchild.  But all was in vain.  Not the slightest trace or clue\ncould be obtained.  They had left the town by night; no one had seen\nthem go; no one had met them on the road; the driver of no coach, cart,\nor waggon, had seen any travellers answering their description; nobody\nhad fallen in with them, or heard of them.  Convinced at last that for\nthe present all such attempts were hopeless, he appointed two or three\nscouts, with promises of large rewards in case of their forwarding him\nany intelligence, and returned to London by next day's coach.\n\nIt was some gratification to Mr Quilp to find, as he took his place\nupon the roof, that Kit's mother was alone inside; from which\ncircumstance he derived in the course of the journey much cheerfulness\nof spirit, inasmuch as her solitary condition enabled him to terrify\nher with many extraordinary annoyances; such as hanging over the side\nof the coach at the risk of his life, and staring in with his great\ngoggle eyes, which seemed in hers the more horrible from his face being\nupside down; dodging her in this way from one window to another;\ngetting nimbly down whenever they changed horses and thrusting his head\nin at the window with a dismal squint: which ingenious tortures had\nsuch an effect upon Mrs Nubbles, that she was quite unable for the time\nto resist the belief that Mr Quilp did in his own person represent and\nembody that Evil Power, who was so vigorously attacked at Little\nBethel, and who, by reason of her backslidings in respect of Astley's\nand oysters, was now frolicsome and rampant.\n\nKit, having been apprised by letter of his mother's intended return,\nwas waiting for her at the coach-office; and great was his surprise\nwhen he saw, leering over the coachman's shoulder like some familiar\ndemon, invisible to all eyes but his, the well-known face of Quilp.\n\n'How are you, Christopher?' croaked the dwarf from the coach-top.  'All\nright, Christopher.  Mother's inside.'\n\n'Why, how did he come here, mother?' whispered Kit.\n\n'I don't know how he came or why, my dear,' rejoined Mrs Nubbles,\ndismounting with her son's assistance, 'but he has been a terrifying of\nme out of my seven senses all this blessed day.'\n\n'He has?' cried Kit.\n\n'You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't,' replied his mother, 'but\ndon't say a word to him, for I really don't believe he's human.  Hush!\nDon't turn round as if I was talking of him, but he's a squinting at me\nnow in the full blaze of the coach-lamp, quite awful!'\n\nIn spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned sharply round to look.\nMr Quilp was serenely gazing at the stars, quite absorbed in celestial\ncontemplation.\n\n'Oh, he's the artfullest creetur!' cried Mrs Nubbles.  'But come away.\nDon't speak to him for the world.'\n\n'Yes I will, mother.  What nonsense.  I say, sir--'\n\nMr Quilp affected to start, and looked smilingly round.\n\n'You let my mother alone, will you?' said Kit.  'How dare you tease a\npoor lone woman like her, making her miserable and melancholy as if she\nhadn't got enough to make her so, without you.  An't you ashamed of\nyourself, you little monster?'\n\n'Monster!' said Quilp inwardly, with a smile.  'Ugliest dwarf that\ncould be seen anywhere for a penny--monster--ah!'\n\n'You show her any of your impudence again,' resumed Kit, shouldering\nthe bandbox, 'and I tell you what, Mr Quilp, I won't bear with you any\nmore.  You have no right to do it; I'm sure we never interfered with\nyou.  This isn't the first time; and if ever you worry or frighten her\nagain, you'll oblige me (though I should be very sorry to do it, on\naccount of your size) to beat you.'\n\nQuilp said not a word in reply, but walking so close to Kit as to bring\nhis eyes within two or three inches of his face, looked fixedly at him,\nretreated a little distance without averting his gaze, approached\nagain, again withdrew, and so on for half-a-dozen times, like a head in\na phantasmagoria.  Kit stood his ground as if in expectation of an\nimmediate assault, but finding that nothing came of these gestures,\nsnapped his fingers and walked away; his mother dragging him off as\nfast as she could, and, even in the midst of his news of little Jacob\nand the baby, looking anxiously over her shoulder to see if Quilp were\nfollowing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 49\n\nKit's mother might have spared herself the trouble of looking back so\noften, for nothing was further from Mr Quilp's thoughts than any\nintention of pursuing her and her son, or renewing the quarrel with\nwhich they had parted.  He went his way, whistling from time to time\nsome fragments of a tune; and with a face quite tranquil and composed,\njogged pleasantly towards home; entertaining himself as he went with\nvisions of the fears and terrors of Mrs Quilp, who, having received no\nintelligence of him for three whole days and two nights, and having had\nno previous notice of his absence, was doubtless by that time in a\nstate of distraction, and constantly fainting away with anxiety and\ngrief.\n\nThis facetious probability was so congenial to the dwarf's humour, and\nso exquisitely amusing to him, that he laughed as he went along until\nthe tears ran down his cheeks; and more than once, when he found\nhimself in a bye-street, vented his delight in a shrill scream, which\ngreatly terrifying any lonely passenger, who happened to be walking on\nbefore him expecting nothing so little, increased his mirth, and made\nhim remarkably cheerful and light-hearted.\n\nIn this happy flow of spirits, Mr Quilp reached Tower Hill, when,\ngazing up at the window of his own sitting-room, he thought he descried\nmore light than is usual in a house of mourning.  Drawing nearer, and\nlistening attentively, he could hear several voices in earnest\nconversation, among which he could distinguish, not only those of his\nwife and mother-in-law, but the tongues of men.\n\n'Ha!' cried the jealous dwarf, 'What's this!  Do they entertain\nvisitors while I'm away!'\n\nA smothered cough from above, was the reply.  He felt in his pockets\nfor his latch-key, but had forgotten it.  There was no resource but to\nknock at the door.\n\n'A light in the passage,' said Quilp, peeping through the keyhole.  'A\nvery soft knock; and, by your leave, my lady, I may yet steal upon you\nunawares.  Soho!'\n\nA very low and gentle rap received no answer from within.  But after a\nsecond application to the knocker, no louder than the first, the door\nwas softly opened by the boy from the wharf, whom Quilp instantly\ngagged with one hand, and dragged into the street with the other.\n\n'You'll throttle me, master,' whispered the boy.  'Let go, will you.'\n\n'Who's up stairs, you dog?' retorted Quilp in the same tone.  'Tell me.\nAnd don't speak above your breath, or I'll choke you in good earnest.'\n\nThe boy could only point to the window, and reply with a stifled\ngiggle, expressive of such intense enjoyment, that Quilp clutched him\nby the throat and might have carried his threat into execution, or at\nleast have made very good progress towards that end, but for the boy's\nnimbly extricating himself from his grasp, and fortifying himself\nbehind the nearest post, at which, after some fruitless attempts to\ncatch him by the hair of the head, his master was obliged to come to a\nparley.\n\n'Will you answer me?' said Quilp.  'What's going on, above?'\n\n'You won't let one speak,' replied the boy.  'They--ha, ha, ha!--they\nthink you're--you're dead.  Ha ha ha!'\n\n'Dead!' cried Quilp, relaxing into a grim laugh himself.  'No.  Do\nthey?  Do they really, you dog?'\n\n'They think you're--you're drowned,' replied the boy, who in his\nmalicious nature had a strong infusion of his master.  'You was last\nseen on the brink of the wharf, and they think you tumbled over.  Ha\nha!'\n\nThe prospect of playing the spy under such delicious circumstances, and\nof disappointing them all by walking in alive, gave more delight to\nQuilp than the greatest stroke of good fortune could possibly have\ninspired him with.  He was no less tickled than his hopeful assistant,\nand they both stood for some seconds, grinning and gasping and wagging\ntheir heads at each other, on either side of the post, like an\nunmatchable pair of Chinese idols.\n\n'Not a word,' said Quilp, making towards the door on tiptoe.  'Not a\nsound, not so much as a creaking board, or a stumble against a cobweb.\nDrowned, eh, Mrs Quilp!  Drowned!'\n\nSo saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off his shoes, and groped his\nway up stairs; leaving his delighted young friend in an ecstasy of\nsummersets on the pavement.\n\nThe bedroom-door on the staircase being unlocked, Mr Quilp slipped in,\nand planted himself behind the door of communication between that\nchamber and the sitting-room, which standing ajar to render both more\nairy, and having a very convenient chink (of which he had often availed\nhimself for purposes of espial, and had indeed enlarged with his\npocket-knife), enabled him not only to hear, but to see distinctly,\nwhat was passing.\n\nApplying his eye to this convenient place, he descried Mr Brass seated\nat the table with pen, ink, and paper, and the case-bottle of rum--his\nown case-bottle, and his own particular Jamaica--convenient to his\nhand; with hot water, fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and all things\nfitting; from which choice materials, Sampson, by no means insensible\nto their claims upon his attention, had compounded a mighty glass of\npunch reeking hot; which he was at that very moment stirring up with a\nteaspoon, and contemplating with looks in which a faint assumption of\nsentimental regret, struggled but weakly with a bland and comfortable\njoy.  At the same table, with both her elbows upon it, was Mrs Jiniwin;\nno longer sipping other people's punch feloniously with teaspoons, but\ntaking deep draughts from a jorum of her own; while her daughter--not\nexactly with ashes on her head, or sackcloth on her back, but\npreserving a very decent and becoming appearance of sorrow\nnevertheless--was reclining in an easy chair, and soothing her grief\nwith a smaller allowance of the same glib liquid.  There were also\npresent, a couple of water-side men, bearing between them certain\nmachines called drags; even these fellows were accommodated with a\nstiff glass a-piece; and as they drank with a great relish, and were\nnaturally of a red-nosed, pimple-faced, convivial look, their presence\nrather increased than detracted from that decided appearance of\ncomfort, which was the great characteristic of the party.\n\n'If I could poison that dear old lady's rum and water,' murmured Quilp,\n'I'd die happy.'\n\n'Ah!' said Mr Brass, breaking the silence, and raising his eyes to the\nceiling with a sigh, 'Who knows but he may be looking down upon us now!\nWho knows but he may be surveying of us from--from somewheres or\nanother, and contemplating us with a watchful eye!  Oh Lor!'\n\nHere Mr Brass stopped to drink half his punch, and then resumed;\nlooking at the other half, as he spoke, with a dejected smile.\n\n'I can almost fancy,' said the lawyer shaking his head, 'that I see his\neye glistening down at the very bottom of my liquor.  When shall we\nlook upon his like again?  Never, never!' One minute we are\nhere'--holding his tumbler before his eyes--'the next we are\nthere'--gulping down its contents, and striking himself emphatically a\nlittle below the chest--'in the silent tomb.  To think that I should be\ndrinking his very rum!  It seems like a dream.'\n\nWith the view, no doubt, of testing the reality of his position, Mr\nBrass pushed his tumbler as he spoke towards Mrs Jiniwin for the\npurpose of being replenished; and turned towards the attendant mariners.\n\n'The search has been quite unsuccessful then?'\n\n'Quite, master.  But I should say that if he turns up anywhere, he'll\ncome ashore somewhere about Grinidge to-morrow, at ebb tide, eh, mate?'\n\nThe other gentleman assented, observing that he was expected at the\nHospital, and that several pensioners would be ready to receive him\nwhenever he arrived.\n\n'Then we have nothing for it but resignation,' said Mr Brass; 'nothing\nbut resignation and expectation.  It would be a comfort to have his\nbody; it would be a dreary comfort.'\n\n'Oh, beyond a doubt,' assented Mrs Jiniwin hastily; 'if we once had\nthat, we should be quite sure.'\n\n'With regard to the descriptive advertisement,' said Sampson Brass,\ntaking up his pen.  'It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits.\nRespecting his legs now--?'\n\n'Crooked, certainly,' said Mrs Jiniwin.  'Do you think they WERE\ncrooked?' said Brass, in an insinuating tone.  'I think I see them now\ncoming up the street very wide apart, in nankeen' pantaloons a little\nshrunk and without straps.  Ah! what a vale of tears we live in. Do we\nsay crooked?'\n\n'I think they were a little so,' observed Mrs Quilp with a sob.\n\n'Legs crooked,' said Brass, writing as he spoke.  'Large head, short\nbody, legs crooked--'\n\n'Very crooked,' suggested Mrs Jiniwin.\n\n'We'll not say very crooked, ma'am,' said Brass piously.  'Let us not\nbear hard upon the weaknesses of the deceased.  He is gone, ma'am, to\nwhere his legs will never come in question.--We will content ourselves\nwith crooked, Mrs Jiniwin.'\n\n'I thought you wanted the truth,' said the old lady.  'That's all.'\n\n'Bless your eyes, how I love you,' muttered Quilp.  'There she goes\nagain.  Nothing but punch!'\n\n'This is an occupation,' said the lawyer, laying down his pen and\nemptying his glass, 'which seems to bring him before my eyes like the\nGhost of Hamlet's father, in the very clothes that he wore on\nwork-a-days.  His coat, his waistcoat, his shoes and stockings, his\ntrousers, his hat, his wit and humour, his pathos and his umbrella, all\ncome before me like visions of my youth.  His linen!' said Mr Brass\nsmiling fondly at the wall, 'his linen which was always of a particular\ncolour, for such was his whim and fancy--how plain I see his linen now!'\n\n'You had better go on, sir,' said Mrs Jiniwin impatiently.\n\n'True, ma'am, true,' cried Mr Brass.  'Our faculties must not freeze\nwith grief.  I'll trouble you for a little more of that, ma'am.  A\nquestion now arises, with relation to his nose.'\n\n'Flat,' said Mrs Jiniwin.\n\n'Aquiline!' cried Quilp, thrusting in his head, and striking the\nfeature with his fist.  'Aquiline, you hag.  Do you see it?  Do you\ncall this flat?  Do you?  Eh?'\n\n'Oh capital, capital!' shouted Brass, from the mere force of habit.\n'Excellent!  How very good he is!  He's a most remarkable man--so\nextremely whimsical!  Such an amazing power of taking people by\nsurprise!'\n\nQuilp paid no regard whatever to these compliments, nor to the dubious\nand frightened look into which the lawyer gradually subsided, nor to\nthe shrieks of his wife and mother-in-law, nor to the latter's running\nfrom the room, nor to the former's fainting away.  Keeping his eye\nfixed on Sampson Brass, he walked up to the table, and beginning with\nhis glass, drank off the contents, and went regularly round until he\nhad emptied the other two, when he seized the case-bottle, and hugging\nit under his arm, surveyed him with a most extraordinary leer.\n\n'Not yet, Sampson,' said Quilp.  'Not just yet!'\n\n'Oh very good indeed!' cried Brass, recovering his spirits a little.\n'Ha ha ha!  Oh exceedingly good!  There's not another man alive who\ncould carry it off like that.  A most difficult position to carry off.\nBut he has such a flow of good-humour, such an amazing flow!'\n\n'Good night,' said the dwarf, nodding expressively.\n\n'Good night, sir, good night,' cried the lawyer, retreating backwards\ntowards the door.  'This is a joyful occasion indeed, extremely joyful.\nHa ha ha! oh very rich, very rich indeed, remarkably so!'\n\nWaiting until Mr Brass's ejaculations died away in the distance (for he\ncontinued to pour them out, all the way down stairs), Quilp advanced\ntowards the two men, who yet lingered in a kind of stupid amazement.\n\n'Have you been dragging the river all day, gentlemen?' said the dwarf,\nholding the door open with great politeness.\n\n'And yesterday too, master.'\n\n'Dear me, you've had a deal of trouble.  Pray consider everything yours\nthat you find upon the--upon the body.  Good night!'\n\nThe men looked at each other, but had evidently no inclination to argue\nthe point just then, and shuffled out of the room.  The speedy\nclearance effected, Quilp locked the doors; and still embracing the\ncase-bottle with shrugged-up shoulders and folded arms, stood looking\nat his insensible wife like a dismounted nightmare.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 50\n\nMatrimonial differences are usually discussed by the parties concerned\nin the form of dialogue, in which the lady bears at least her full half\nshare.  Those of Mr and Mrs Quilp, however, were an exception to the\ngeneral rule; the remarks which they occasioned being limited to a long\nsoliloquy on the part of the gentleman, with perhaps a few deprecatory\nobservations from the lady, not extending beyond a trembling\nmonosyllable uttered at long intervals, and in a very submissive and\nhumble tone.  On the present occasion, Mrs Quilp did not for a long\ntime venture even on this gentle defence, but when she had recovered\nfrom her fainting-fit, sat in a tearful silence, meekly listening to\nthe reproaches of her lord and master.\n\nOf these Mr Quilp delivered himself with the utmost animation and\nrapidity, and with so many distortions of limb and feature, that even\nhis wife, although tolerably well accustomed to his proficiency in\nthese respects, was well-nigh beside herself with alarm.  But the\nJamaica rum, and the joy of having occasioned a heavy disappointment,\nby degrees cooled Mr Quilp's wrath; which from being at savage heat,\ndropped slowly to the bantering or chuckling point, at which it\nsteadily remained.\n\n'So you thought I was dead and gone, did you?' said Quilp.  'You\nthought you were a widow, eh?  Ha, ha, ha, you jade.'\n\n'Indeed, Quilp,' returned his wife.  'I'm very sorry--'\n\n'Who doubts it!' cried the dwarf.  'You very sorry! to be sure you are.\nWho doubts that you're VERY sorry!'\n\n'I don't mean sorry that you have come home again alive and well,' said\nhis wife, 'but sorry that I should have been led into such a belief.  I\nam glad to see you, Quilp; indeed I am.'\n\nIn truth Mrs Quilp did seem a great deal more glad to behold her lord\nthan might have been expected, and did evince a degree of interest in\nhis safety which, all things considered, was rather unaccountable.\nUpon Quilp, however, this circumstance made no impression, farther than\nas it moved him to snap his fingers close to his wife's eyes, with\ndivers grins of triumph and derision.\n\n'How could you go away so long, without saying a word to me or letting\nme hear of you or know anything about you?' asked the poor little\nwoman, sobbing.  'How could you be so cruel, Quilp?'\n\n'How could I be so cruel! cruel!' cried the dwarf.  'Because I was in\nthe humour.  I'm in the humour now.  I shall be cruel when I like.  I'm\ngoing away again.'\n\n'Not again!'\n\n'Yes, again.  I'm going away now.  I'm off directly.  I mean to go and\nlive wherever the fancy seizes me--at the wharf--at the\ncounting-house--and be a jolly bachelor.  You were a widow in\nanticipation.  Damme,' screamed the dwarf, 'I'll be a bachelor in\nearnest.'\n\n'You can't be serious, Quilp,' sobbed his wife.\n\n'I tell you,' said the dwarf, exulting in his project, 'that I'll be a\nbachelor, a devil-may-care bachelor; and I'll have my bachelor's hall\nat the counting-house, and at such times come near it if you dare.  And\nmind too that I don't pounce in upon you at unseasonable hours again,\nfor I'll be a spy upon you, and come and go like a mole or a weazel.\nTom Scott--where's Tom Scott?'\n\n'Here I am, master,' cried the voice of the boy, as Quilp threw up the\nwindow.\n\n'Wait there, you dog,' returned the dwarf, 'to carry a bachelor's\nportmanteau.  Pack it up, Mrs Quilp.  Knock up the dear old lady to\nhelp; knock her up.  Halloa there!  Halloa!'\n\nWith these exclamations, Mr Quilp caught up the poker, and hurrying to\nthe door of the good lady's sleeping-closet, beat upon it therewith\nuntil she awoke in inexpressible terror, thinking that her amiable\nson-in-law surely intended to murder her in justification of the legs\nshe had slandered.  Impressed with this idea, she was no sooner fairly\nawake than she screamed violently, and would have quickly precipitated\nherself out of the window and through a neighbouring skylight, if her\ndaughter had not hastened in to undeceive her, and implore her\nassistance.  Somewhat reassured by her account of the service she was\nrequired to render, Mrs Jiniwin made her appearance in a flannel\ndressing-gown; and both mother and daughter, trembling with terror and\ncold--for the night was now far advanced--obeyed Mr Quilp's directions\nin submissive silence.  Prolonging his preparations as much as\npossible, for their greater comfort, that eccentric gentleman\nsuperintended the packing of his wardrobe, and having added to it with\nhis own hands, a plate, knife and fork, spoon, teacup and saucer, and\nother small household matters of that nature, strapped up the\nportmanteau, took it on his shoulders, and actually marched off without\nanother word, and with the case-bottle (which he had never once put\ndown) still tightly clasped under his arm.  Consigning his heavier\nburden to the care of Tom Scott when he reached the street, taking a\ndram from the bottle for his own encouragement, and giving the boy a\nrap on the head with it as a small taste for himself, Quilp very\ndeliberately led the way to the wharf, and reached it at between three\nand four o'clock in the morning.\n\n'Snug!' said Quilp, when he had groped his way to the wooden\ncounting-house, and opened the door with a key he carried about with\nhim.  'Beautifully snug!  Call me at eight, you dog.'\n\nWith no more formal leave-taking or explanation, he clutched the\nportmanteau, shut the door on his attendant, and climbing on the desk,\nand rolling himself up as round as a hedgehog, in an old boat-cloak,\nfell fast asleep.\n\nBeing roused in the morning at the appointed time, and roused with\ndifficulty, after his late fatigues, Quilp instructed Tom Scott to make\na fire in the yard of sundry pieces of old timber, and to prepare some\ncoffee for breakfast; for the better furnishing of which repast he\nentrusted him with certain small moneys, to be expended in the purchase\nof hot rolls, butter, sugar, Yarmouth bloaters, and other articles of\nhousekeeping; so that in a few minutes a savoury meal was smoking on\nthe board.  With this substantial comfort, the dwarf regaled himself to\nhis heart's content; and being highly satisfied with this free and\ngipsy mode of life (which he had often meditated, as offering, whenever\nhe chose to avail himself of it, an agreeable freedom from the\nrestraints of matrimony, and a choice means of keeping Mrs Quilp and\nher mother in a state of incessant agitation and suspense), bestirred\nhimself to improve his retreat, and render it more commodious and\ncomfortable.\n\nWith this view, he issued forth to a place hard by, where sea-stores\nwere sold, purchased a second-hand hammock, and had it slung in\nseamanlike fashion from the ceiling of the counting-house.  He also\ncaused to be erected, in the same mouldy cabin, an old ship's stove\nwith a rusty funnel to carry the smoke through the roof; and these\narrangements completed, surveyed them with ineffable delight.\n\n'I've got a country-house like Robinson Crusoe,' said the dwarf, ogling\nthe accommodations; 'a solitary, sequestered, desolate-island sort of\nspot, where I can be quite alone when I have business on hand, and be\nsecure from all spies and listeners.  Nobody near me here, but rats,\nand they are fine stealthy secret fellows.  I shall be as merry as a\ngrig among these gentry.  I'll look out for one like Christopher, and\npoison him--ha, ha, ha!  Business though--business--we must be mindful\nof business in the midst of pleasure, and the time has flown this\nmorning, I declare.'\n\nEnjoining Tom Scott to await his return, and not to stand upon his\nhead, or throw a summerset, or so much as walk upon his hands\nmeanwhile, on pain of lingering torments, the dwarf threw himself into\na boat, and crossing to the other side of the river, and then speeding\naway on foot, reached Mr Swiveller's usual house of entertainment in\nBevis Marks, just as that gentleman sat down alone to dinner in its\ndusky parlour.\n\n'Dick,' said the dwarf, thrusting his head in at the door, 'my pet, my\npupil, the apple of my eye, hey, hey!'\n\n'Oh you're there, are you?' returned Mr Swiveller; 'how are you?'\n\n'How's Dick?' retorted Quilp.  'How's the cream of clerkship, eh?'\n\n'Why, rather sour, sir,' replied Mr Swiveller.  'Beginning to border\nupon cheesiness, in fact.'\n\n'What's the matter?' said the dwarf, advancing.  'Has Sally proved\nunkind.  \"Of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like--\" eh,\nDick!'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Mr Swiveller, eating his dinner with great\ngravity, 'none like her.  She's the sphynx of private life, is Sally B.'\n\n'You're out of spirits,' said Quilp, drawing up a chair.  'What's the\nmatter?'\n\n'The law don't agree with me,' returned Dick.  'It isn't moist enough,\nand there's too much confinement.  I have been thinking of running\naway.'\n\n'Bah!' said the dwarf.  'Where would you run to, Dick?'\n\n'I don't know' returned Mr Swiveller.  'Towards Highgate, I suppose.\nPerhaps the bells might strike up \"Turn again Swiveller, Lord Mayor of\nLondon.\" Whittington's name was Dick.  I wish cats were scarcer.'\n\nQuilp looked at his companion with his eyes screwed up into a comical\nexpression of curiosity, and patiently awaited his further explanation;\nupon which, however, Mr Swiveller appeared in no hurry to enter, as he\nate a very long dinner in profound silence, finally pushed away his\nplate, threw himself back into his chair, folded his arms, and stared\nruefully at the fire, in which some ends of cigars were smoking on\ntheir own account, and sending up a fragrant odour.\n\n'Perhaps you'd like a bit of cake'--said Dick, at last turning to the\ndwarf.  'You're quite welcome to it.  You ought to be, for it's of your\nmaking.'\n\n'What do you mean?' said Quilp.\n\nMr Swiveller replied by taking from his pocket a small and very greasy\nparcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum-cake\nextremely indigestible in appearance, and bordered with a paste of\nwhite sugar an inch and a half deep.\n\n'What should you say this was?' demanded Mr Swiveller.\n\n'It looks like bride-cake,' replied the dwarf, grinning.\n\n'And whose should you say it was?' inquired Mr Swiveller, rubbing the\npastry against his nose with a dreadful calmness.  'Whose?'\n\n'Not--'\n\n'Yes,' said Dick, 'the same.  You needn't mention her name.  There's no\nsuch name now.  Her name is Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs.  Yet loved I as\nman never loved that hadn't wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is\nbreaking for the love of Sophy Cheggs.'\n\nWith this extemporary adaptation of a popular ballad to the distressing\ncircumstances of his own case, Mr Swiveller folded up the parcel again,\nbeat it very flat between the palms of his hands, thrust it into his\nbreast, buttoned his coat over it, and folded his arms upon the whole.\n\n'Now, I hope you're satisfied, sir,' said Dick; 'and I hope Fred's\nsatisfied.  You went partners in the mischief, and I hope you like it.\nThis is the triumph I was to have, is it?  It's like the old\ncountry-dance of that name, where there are two gentlemen to one lady,\nand one has her, and the other hasn't, but comes limping up behind to\nmake out the figure.  But it's Destiny, and mine's a crusher.'\n\nDisguising his secret joy in Mr Swiveller's defeat, Daniel Quilp\nadopted the surest means of soothing him, by ringing the bell, and\nordering in a supply of rosy wine (that is to say, of its usual\nrepresentative), which he put about with great alacrity, calling upon\nMr Swiveller to pledge him in various toasts derisive of Cheggs, and\neulogistic of the happiness of single men.  Such was their impression\non Mr Swiveller, coupled with the reflection that no man could oppose\nhis destiny, that in a very short space of time his spirits rose\nsurprisingly, and he was enabled to give the dwarf an account of the\nreceipt of the cake, which, it appeared, had been brought to Bevis\nMarks by the two surviving Miss Wackleses in person, and delivered at\nthe office door with much giggling and joyfulness.\n\n'Ha!' said Quilp.  'It will be our turn to giggle soon.  And that\nreminds me--you spoke of young Trent--where is he?'\n\nMr Swiveller explained that his respectable friend had recently\naccepted a responsible situation in a locomotive gaming-house, and was\nat that time absent on a professional tour among the adventurous\nspirits of Great Britain.\n\n'That's unfortunate,' said the dwarf, 'for I came, in fact, to ask you\nabout him.  A thought has occurred to me, Dick; your friend over the\nway--'\n\n'Which friend?'\n\n'In the first floor.'\n\n'Yes?'\n\n'Your friend in the first floor, Dick, may know him.'\n\n'No, he don't,' said Mr Swiveller, shaking his head.\n\n'Don't!  No, because he has never seen him,' rejoined Quilp; 'but if we\nwere to bring them together, who knows, Dick, but Fred, properly\nintroduced, would serve his turn almost as well as little Nell or her\ngrandfather--who knows but it might make the young fellow's fortune,\nand, through him, yours, eh?'\n\n'Why, the fact is, you see,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that they HAVE been\nbrought together.'\n\n'Have been!' cried the dwarf, looking suspiciously at his companion.\n'Through whose means?'\n\n'Through mine,' said Dick, slightly confused. 'Didn't I mention it to\nyou the last time you called over yonder?'\n\n'You know you didn't,' returned the dwarf.\n\n'I believe you're right,' said Dick.  'No.  I didn't, I recollect.  Oh\nyes, I brought 'em together that very day.  It was Fred's suggestion.'\n\n'And what came of it?'\n\n'Why, instead of my friend's bursting into tears when he knew who Fred\nwas, embracing him kindly, and telling him that he was his grandfather,\nor his grandmother in disguise (which we fully expected), he flew into\na tremendous passion; called him all manner of names; said it was in a\ngreat measure his fault that little Nell and the old gentleman had ever\nbeen brought to poverty; didn't hint at our taking anything to drink;\nand--and in short rather turned us out of the room than otherwise.'\n\n'That's strange,' said the dwarf, musing.\n\n'So we remarked to each other at the time,' returned Dick coolly, 'but\nquite true.'\n\nQuilp was plainly staggered by this intelligence, over which he brooded\nfor some time in moody silence, often raising his eyes to Mr\nSwiveller's face, and sharply scanning its expression.  As he could\nread in it, however, no additional information or anything to lead him\nto believe he had spoken falsely; and as Mr Swiveller, left to his own\nmeditations, sighed deeply, and was evidently growing maudlin on the\nsubject of Mrs Cheggs; the dwarf soon broke up the conference and took\nhis departure, leaving the bereaved one to his melancholy ruminations.\n\n'Have been brought together, eh?' said the dwarf as he walked the\nstreets alone.  'My friend has stolen a march upon me.  It led him to\nnothing, and therefore is no great matter, save in the intention.  I'm\nglad he has lost his mistress.  Ha ha!  The blockhead mustn't leave the\nlaw at present.  I'm sure of him where he is, whenever I want him for\nmy own purposes, and, besides, he's a good unconscious spy on Brass,\nand tells, in his cups, all that he sees and hears.  You're useful to\nme, Dick, and cost nothing but a little treating now and then.  I am\nnot sure that it may not be worth while, before long, to take credit\nwith the stranger, Dick, by discovering your designs upon the child;\nbut for the present we'll remain the best friends in the world, with\nyour good leave.'\n\nPursuing these thoughts, and gasping as he went along, after his own\npeculiar fashion, Mr Quilp once more crossed the Thames, and shut\nhimself up in his Bachelor's Hall, which, by reason of its\nnewly-erected chimney depositing the smoke inside the room and carrying\nnone of it off, was not quite so agreeable as more fastidious people\nmight have desired.  Such inconveniences, however, instead of\ndisgusting the dwarf with his new abode, rather suited his humour; so,\nafter dining luxuriously from the public-house, he lighted his pipe,\nand smoked against the chimney until nothing of him was visible through\nthe mist but a pair of red and highly inflamed eyes, with sometimes a\ndim vision of his head and face, as, in a violent fit of coughing, he\nslightly stirred the smoke and scattered the heavy wreaths by which\nthey were obscured.  In the midst of this atmosphere, which must\ninfallibly have smothered any other man, Mr Quilp passed the evening\nwith great cheerfulness; solacing himself all the time with the pipe\nand the case-bottle; and occasionally entertaining himself with a\nmelodious howl, intended for a song, but bearing not the faintest\nresemblance to any scrap of any piece of music, vocal or instrumental,\never invented by man.  Thus he amused himself until nearly midnight,\nwhen he turned into his hammock with the utmost satisfaction.\n\nThe first sound that met his ears in the morning--as he half opened his\neyes, and, finding himself so unusually near the ceiling, entertained a\ndrowsy idea that he must have been transformed into a fly or\nblue-bottle in the course of the night,--was that of a stifled sobbing\nand weeping in the room.  Peeping cautiously over the side of his\nhammock, he descried Mrs Quilp, to whom, after contemplating her for\nsome time in silence, he communicated a violent start by suddenly\nyelling out--'Halloa!'\n\n'Oh, Quilp!' cried his poor little wife, looking up.  'How you\nfrightened me!'\n\n'I meant to, you jade,' returned the dwarf.  'What do you want here?\nI'm dead, an't I?'\n\n'Oh, please come home, do come home,' said Mrs Quilp, sobbing; 'we'll\nnever do so any more, Quilp, and after all it was only a mistake that\ngrew out of our anxiety.'\n\n'Out of your anxiety,' grinned the dwarf.  'Yes, I know that--out of\nyour anxiety for my death.  I shall come home when I please, I tell\nyou.  I shall come home when I please, and go when I please.  I'll be a\nWill o' the Wisp, now here, now there, dancing about you always,\nstarting up when you least expect me, and keeping you in a constant\nstate of restlessness and irritation.  Will you begone?'\n\nMrs Quilp durst only make a gesture of entreaty.\n\n'I tell you no,' cried the dwarf.  'No.  If you dare to come here again\nunless you're sent for, I'll keep watch-dogs in the yard that'll growl\nand bite--I'll have man-traps, cunningly altered and improved for\ncatching women--I'll have spring guns, that shall explode when you\ntread upon the wires, and blow you into little pieces.  Will you\nbegone?'\n\n'Do forgive me.  Do come back,' said his wife, earnestly.\n\n'No-o-o-o-o!' roared Quilp.  'Not till my own good time, and then I'll\nreturn again as often as I choose, and be accountable to nobody for my\ngoings or comings.  You see the door there.  Will you go?'\n\nMr Quilp delivered this last command in such a very energetic voice,\nand moreover accompanied it with such a sudden gesture, indicative of\nan intention to spring out of his hammock, and, night-capped as he was,\nbear his wife home again through the public streets, that she sped away\nlike an arrow.  Her worthy lord stretched his neck and eyes until she\nhad crossed the yard, and then, not at all sorry to have had this\nopportunity of carrying his point, and asserting the sanctity of his\ncastle, fell into an immoderate fit of laughter, and laid himself down\nto sleep again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 51\n\nThe bland and open-hearted proprietor of Bachelor's Hall slept on\namidst the congenial accompaniments of rain, mud, dirt, damp, fog, and\nrats, until late in the day; when, summoning his valet Tom Scott to\nassist him to rise, and to prepare breakfast, he quitted his couch, and\nmade his toilet.  This duty performed, and his repast ended, he again\nbetook himself to Bevis Marks.\n\nThis visit was not intended for Mr Swiveller, but for his friend and\nemployer Mr Sampson Brass.  Both gentlemen however were from home, nor\nwas the life and light of law, Miss Sally, at her post either.  The\nfact of their joint desertion of the office was made known to all\ncomers by a scrap of paper in the hand-writing of Mr Swiveller, which\nwas attached to the bell-handle, and which, giving the reader no clue\nto the time of day when it was first posted, furnished him with the\nrather vague and unsatisfactory information that that gentleman would\n'return in an hour.'\n\n'There's a servant, I suppose,' said the dwarf, knocking at the\nhouse-door.  'She'll do.'\n\nAfter a sufficiently long interval, the door was opened, and a small\nvoice immediately accosted him with, 'Oh please will you leave a card\nor message?'\n\n'Eh?' said the dwarf, looking down, (it was something quite new to him)\nupon the small servant.\n\nTo this, the child, conducting her conversation as upon the occasion of\nher first interview with Mr Swiveller, again replied, 'Oh please will\nyou leave a card or message?'\n\n'I'll write a note,' said the dwarf, pushing past her into the office;\n'and mind your master has it directly he comes home.'  So Mr Quilp\nclimbed up to the top of a tall stool to write the note, and the small\nservant, carefully tutored for such emergencies, looked on with her\neyes wide open, ready, if he so much as abstracted a wafer, to rush\ninto the street and give the alarm to the police.\n\nAs Mr Quilp folded his note (which was soon written: being a very short\none) he encountered the gaze of the small servant.  He looked at her,\nlong and earnestly.\n\n'How are you?' said the dwarf, moistening a wafer with horrible\ngrimaces.\n\nThe small servant, perhaps frightened by his looks, returned no audible\nreply; but it appeared from the motion of her lips that she was\ninwardly repeating the same form of expression concerning the note or\nmessage.\n\n'Do they use you ill here?  is your mistress a Tartar?' said Quilp with\na chuckle.\n\nIn reply to the last interrogation, the small servant, with a look of\ninfinite cunning mingled with fear, screwed up her mouth very tight and\nround, and nodded violently.  Whether there was anything in the\npeculiar slyness of her action which fascinated Mr Quilp, or anything\nin the expression of her features at the moment which attracted his\nattention for some other reason; or whether it merely occurred to him\nas a pleasant whim to stare the small servant out of countenance;\ncertain it is, that he planted his elbows square and firmly on the\ndesk, and squeezing up his cheeks with his hands, looked at her fixedly.\n\n'Where do you come from?' he said after a long pause, stroking his chin.\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'What's your name?'\n\n'Nothing.'\n\n'Nonsense!' retorted Quilp.  'What does your mistress call you when she\nwants you?'\n\n'A little devil,' said the child.\n\nShe added in the same breath, as if fearful of any further questioning,\n'But please will you leave a card or message?'\n\nThese unusual answers might naturally have provoked some more\ninquiries.  Quilp, however, without uttering another word, withdrew his\neyes from the small servant, stroked his chin more thoughtfully than\nbefore, and then, bending over the note as if to direct it with\nscrupulous and hair-breadth nicety, looked at her, covertly but very\nnarrowly, from under his bushy eyebrows.  The result of this secret\nsurvey was, that he shaded his face with his hands, and laughed slyly\nand noiselessly, until every vein in it was swollen almost to bursting.\nPulling his hat over his brow to conceal his mirth and its effects, he\ntossed the letter to the child, and hastily withdrew.\n\nOnce in the street, moved by some secret impulse, he laughed, and held\nhis sides, and laughed again, and tried to peer through the dusty area\nrailings as if to catch another glimpse of the child, until he was\nquite tired out.  At last, he travelled back to the Wilderness, which\nwas within rifle-shot of his bachelor retreat, and ordered tea in the\nwooden summer-house that afternoon for three persons; an invitation to\nMiss Sally Brass and her brother to partake of that entertainment at\nthat place, having been the object both of his journey and his note.\n\nIt was not precisely the kind of weather in which people usually take\ntea in summer-houses, far less in summer-houses in an advanced state of\ndecay, and overlooking the slimy banks of a great river at low water.\nNevertheless, it was in this choice retreat that Mr Quilp ordered a\ncold collation to be prepared, and it was beneath its cracked and leaky\nroof that he, in due course of time, received Mr Sampson and his sister\nSally.\n\n'You're fond of the beauties of nature,' said Quilp with a grin.  'Is\nthis charming, Brass?  Is it unusual, unsophisticated, primitive?'\n\n'It's delightful indeed, sir,' replied the lawyer.\n\n'Cool?' said Quilp.\n\n'N-not particularly so, I think, sir,' rejoined Brass, with his teeth\nchattering in his head.\n\n'Perhaps a little damp and ague-ish?' said Quilp.\n\n'Just damp enough to be cheerful, sir,' rejoined Brass.  'Nothing more,\nsir, nothing more.'\n\n'And Sally?' said the delighted dwarf.  'Does she like it?'\n\n'She'll like it better,' returned that strong-minded lady, 'when she\nhas tea; so let us have it, and don't bother.'\n\n'Sweet Sally!' cried Quilp, extending his arms as if about to embrace\nher.  'Gentle, charming, overwhelming Sally.'\n\n'He's a very remarkable man indeed!' soliloquised Mr Brass.  'He's\nquite a Troubadour, you know; quite a Troubadour!'\n\nThese complimentary expressions were uttered in a somewhat absent and\ndistracted manner; for the unfortunate lawyer, besides having a bad\ncold in his head, had got wet in coming, and would have willingly borne\nsome pecuniary sacrifice if he could have shifted his present raw\nquarters to a warm room, and dried himself at a fire.  Quilp,\nhowever--who, beyond the gratification of his demon whims, owed Sampson\nsome acknowledgment of the part he had played in the mourning scene of\nwhich he had been a hidden witness, marked these symptoms of uneasiness\nwith a delight past all expression, and derived from them a secret joy\nwhich the costliest banquet could never have afforded him.\n\nIt is worthy of remark, too, as illustrating a little feature in the\ncharacter of Miss Sally Brass, that, although on her own account she\nwould have borne the discomforts of the Wilderness with a very ill\ngrace, and would probably, indeed, have walked off before the tea\nappeared, she no sooner beheld the latent uneasiness and misery of her\nbrother than she developed a grim satisfaction, and began to enjoy\nherself after her own manner.  Though the wet came stealing through the\nroof and trickling down upon their heads, Miss Brass uttered no\ncomplaint, but presided over the tea equipage with imperturbable\ncomposure.  While Mr Quilp, in his uproarious hospitality, seated\nhimself upon an empty beer-barrel, vaunted the place as the most\nbeautiful and comfortable in the three kingdoms, and elevating his\nglass, drank to their next merry-meeting in that jovial spot; and Mr\nBrass, with the rain plashing down into his tea-cup, made a dismal\nattempt to pluck up his spirits and appear at his ease; and Tom Scott,\nwho was in waiting at the door under an old umbrella, exulted in his\nagonies, and bade fair to split his sides with laughing; while all this\nwas passing, Miss Sally Brass, unmindful of the wet which dripped down\nupon her own feminine person and fair apparel, sat placidly behind the\ntea-board, erect and grizzly, contemplating the unhappiness of her\nbrother with a mind at ease, and content, in her amiable disregard of\nself, to sit there all night, witnessing the torments which his\navaricious and grovelling nature compelled him to endure and forbade\nhim to resent.  And this, it must be observed, or the illustration\nwould be incomplete, although in a business point of view she had the\nstrongest sympathy with Mr Sampson, and would have been beyond measure\nindignant if he had thwarted their client in any one respect.\n\nIn the height of his boisterous merriment, Mr Quilp, having on some\npretence dismissed his attendant sprite for the moment, resumed his\nusual manner all at once, dismounted from his cask, and laid his hand\nupon the lawyer's sleeve.\n\n'A word,' said the dwarf, 'before we go farther.  Sally, hark'ee for a\nminute.'\n\nMiss Sally drew closer, as if accustomed to business conferences with\ntheir host which were the better for not having air.\n\n'Business,' said the dwarf, glancing from brother to sister.  'Very\nprivate business.  Lay your heads together when you're by yourselves.'\n\n'Certainly, sir,' returned Brass, taking out his pocket-book and\npencil.  'I'll take down the heads if you please, sir.  Remarkable\ndocuments,' added the lawyer, raising his eyes to the ceiling, 'most\nremarkable documents.  He states his points so clearly that it's a\ntreat to have 'em!  I don't know any act of parliament that's equal to\nhim in clearness.'\n\n'I shall deprive you of a treat,' said Quilp.  'Put up your book.  We\ndon't want any documents.  So.  There's a lad named Kit--'\n\nMiss Sally nodded, implying that she knew of him.\n\n'Kit!' said Mr Sampson.--'Kit!  Ha! I've heard the name before, but I\ndon't exactly call to mind--I don't exactly--'\n\n'You're as slow as a tortoise, and more thick-headed than a\nrhinoceros,' returned his obliging client with an impatient gesture.\n\n'He's extremely pleasant!' cried the obsequious Sampson.  'His\nacquaintance with Natural History too is surprising.  Quite a Buffoon,\nquite!'\n\nThere is no doubt that Mr Brass intended some compliment or other; and\nit has been argued with show of reason that he would have said Buffon,\nbut made use of a superfluous vowel.  Be this as it may, Quilp gave him\nno time for correction, as he performed that office himself by more\nthan tapping him on the head with the handle of his umbrella.\n\n'Don't let's have any wrangling,' said Miss Sally, staying his hand.\n'I've showed you that I know him, and that's enough.'\n\n'She's always foremost!' said the dwarf, patting her on the back and\nlooking contemptuously at Sampson.  'I don't like Kit, Sally.'\n\n'Nor I,' rejoined Miss Brass.\n\n'Nor I,' said Sampson.\n\n'Why, that's right!' cried Quilp.  'Half our work is done already.\nThis Kit is one of your honest people; one of your fair characters; a\nprowling prying hound; a hypocrite; a double-faced, white-livered,\nsneaking spy; a crouching cur to those that feed and coax him, and a\nbarking yelping dog to all besides.'\n\n'Fearfully eloquent!' cried Brass with a sneeze.  'Quite appalling!'\n\n'Come to the point,' said Miss Sally, 'and don't talk so much.'\n\n'Right again!' exclaimed Quilp, with another contemptuous look at\nSampson, 'always foremost!  I say, Sally, he is a yelping, insolent dog\nto all besides, and most of all, to me.  In short, I owe him a grudge.'\n'That's enough, sir,' said Sampson.\n\n'No, it's not enough, sir,' sneered Quilp; 'will you hear me out?\nBesides that I owe him a grudge on that account, he thwarts me at this\nminute, and stands between me and an end which might otherwise prove a\ngolden one to us all.  Apart from that, I repeat that he crosses my\nhumour, and I hate him.  Now, you know the lad, and can guess the rest.\nDevise your own means of putting him out of my way, and execute them.\nShall it be done?'\n\n'It shall, sir,' said Sampson.\n\n'Then give me your hand,' retorted Quilp.  'Sally, girl, yours.  I rely\nas much, or more, on you than him.  Tom Scott comes back.  Lantern,\npipes, more grog, and a jolly night of it!'\n\nNo other word was spoken, no other look exchanged, which had the\nslightest reference to this, the real occasion of their meeting.  The\ntrio were well accustomed to act together, and were linked to each\nother by ties of mutual interest and advantage, and nothing more was\nneeded.  Resuming his boisterous manner with the same ease with which\nhe had thrown it off, Quilp was in an instant the same uproarious,\nreckless little savage he had been a few seconds before.  It was ten\no'clock at night before the amiable Sally supported her beloved and\nloving brother from the Wilderness, by which time he needed the utmost\nsupport her tender frame could render; his walk being from some unknown\nreason anything but steady, and his legs constantly doubling up in\nunexpected places.\n\nOverpowered, notwithstanding his late prolonged slumbers, by the\nfatigues of the last few days, the dwarf lost no time in creeping to\nhis dainty house, and was soon dreaming in his hammock.  Leaving him to\nvisions, in which perhaps the quiet figures we quitted in the old\nchurch porch were not without their share, be it our task to rejoin\nthem as they sat and watched.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 52\n\nAfter a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the\nchurchyard, and hurried towards them, Tingling in his hand, as he came\nalong, a bundle of rusty keys.  He was quite breathless with pleasure\nand haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only point\ntowards the old building which the child had been contemplating so\nearnestly.\n\n'You see those two old houses,' he said at last.\n\n'Yes, surely,' replied Nell.  'I have been looking at them nearly all\nthe time you have been away.'\n\n'And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you could\nhave guessed what I have to tell you,' said her friend.  'One of those\nhouses is mine.'\n\nWithout saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the\nschoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with\nexultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.\n\nThey stopped before its low arched door.  After trying several of the\nkeys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which\nturned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.\n\nThe room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once nobly\nornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful\ngroined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient\nsplendour.  Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery of\nNature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times the leaves outside\nhad come and gone, while it lived on unchanged.  The broken figures\nsupporting the burden of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were\nstill distinguishable for what they had been--far different from the\ndust without--and showed sadly by the empty hearth, like creatures who\nhad outlived their kind, and mourned their own too slow decay.\n\nIn some old time--for even change was old in that old place--a wooden\npartition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to form a\nsleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the same period\nby a rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall.  This screen,\ntogether with two seats in the broad chimney, had at some forgotten\ndate been part of the church or convent; for the oak, hastily\nappropriated to its present purpose, had been little altered from its\nformer shape, and presented to the eye a pile of fragments of rich\ncarving from old monkish stalls.\n\nAn open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that\ncame through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of\nthe ruin.  It was not quite destitute of furniture.  A few strange\nchairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled away\nwith age; a table, the very spectre of its race: a great old chest that\nhad once held records in the church, with other quaintly-fashioned\ndomestic necessaries, and store of fire-wood for the winter, were\nscattered around, and gave evident tokens of its occupation as a\ndwelling-place at no very distant time.\n\nThe child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we\ncontemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the\ngreat ocean of eternity.  The old man had followed them, but they were\nall three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they\nfeared to break the silence even by so slight a sound.\n\n'It is a very beautiful place!' said the child, in a low voice.\n\n'I almost feared you thought otherwise,' returned the schoolmaster.\n'You shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy.'\n\n'It was not that,' said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder.\n'Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside, from\nthe church porch, the same feeling came over me.  It is its being so\nold and grey perhaps.'\n\n'A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so?' said her friend.\n\n'Oh yes,' rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly.  'A quiet,\nhappy place--a place to live and learn to die in!' She would have said\nmore, but that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter,\nand come in trembling whispers from her lips.\n\n\n'A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body\nin,' said the schoolmaster; 'for this old house is yours.'\n\n'Ours!' cried the child.\n\n'Ay,' returned the schoolmaster gaily, 'for many a merry year to come,\nI hope.  I shall be a close neighbour--only next door--but this house\nis yours.'\n\nHaving now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster\nsat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt that\nancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old\nperson, nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the church,\nopened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how\nshe had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill\nthe office; how, learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who\nwas confined to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention\nof his fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably received by that\nhigh authority, that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to\npropound the matter to the clergyman.  In a word, the result of his\nexertions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried before\nthe last-named gentleman next day; and, his approval of their conduct\nand appearance reserved as a matter of form, that they were already\nappointed to the vacant post.\n\n'There's a small allowance of money,' said the schoolmaster.  'It is\nnot much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot.  By\nclubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that.'\n\n'Heaven bless and prosper you!' sobbed the child.\n\n'Amen, my dear,' returned her friend cheerfully; 'and all of us, as it\nwill, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this\ntranquil life.  But we must look at MY house now.  Come!'\n\nThey repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at\nlength found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door.  It led\ninto a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come,\nbut not so spacious, and having only one other little room attached.\nIt was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right the\nschoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself the least\ncommodious, in his care and regard for them.  Like the adjoining\nhabitation, it held such old articles of furniture as were absolutely\nnecessary, and had its stack of fire-wood.\n\nTo make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could,\nwas now their pleasant care.  In a short time, each had its cheerful\nfire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old\nwall with a hale and healthy blush.  Nell, busily plying her needle,\nrepaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that\ntime had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole\nand decent.  The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the\ndoor, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which\nhung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer\nwalls a cheery air of home.  The old man, sometimes by his side and\nsometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on\nlittle patient services, and was happy.  Neighbours, too, as they came\nfrom work, proffered their help; or sent their children with such small\npresents or loans as the strangers needed most.  It was a busy day; and\nnight came on, and found them wondering that there was yet so much to\ndo, and that it should be dark so soon.\n\nThey took their supper together, in the house which may be henceforth\ncalled the child's; and, when they had finished their meal, drew round\nthe fire, and almost in whispers--their hearts were too quiet and glad\nfor loud expression--discussed their future plans.  Before they\nseparated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and then, full of\ngratitude and happiness, they parted for the night.\n\nAt that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully in\nhis bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the\ndying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a\ndream And she only now awoke.  The glare of the sinking flame,\nreflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in the\ndusky roof--the aged walls, where strange shadows came and went with\nevery flickering of the fire--the solemn presence, within, of that\ndecay which falls on senseless things the most enduring in their\nnature: and, without, and round about on every side, of Death--filled\nher with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none of terror or\nalarm.  A change had been gradually stealing over her, in the time of\nher loneliness and sorrow.  With failing strength and heightening\nresolution, there had sprung up a purified and altered mind; there had\ngrown in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the portion of\nfew but the weak and drooping.  There were none to see the frail,\nperishable figure, as it glided from the fire and leaned pensively at\nthe open casement; none but the stars, to look into the upturned face\nand read its history.  The old church bell rang out the hour with a\nmournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing with the\ndead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen leaves rustled; the\ngrass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping.\n\nSome of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the\nchurch--touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and\nprotection.  Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of\ntrees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them; others,\namong the graves of little children.  Some had desired to rest beneath\nthe very ground they had trodden in their daily walks; some, where the\nsetting sun might shine upon their beds; some, where its light would\nfall upon them when it rose.  Perhaps not one of the imprisoned souls\nhad been able quite to separate itself in living thought from its old\ncompanion.  If any had, it had still felt for it a love like that which\ncaptives have been known to bear towards the cell in which they have\nbeen long confined, and, even at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds\naffectionately.\n\nIt was long before the child closed the window, and approached her bed.\nAgain something of the same sensation as before--an involuntary\nchill--a momentary feeling akin to fear--but vanishing directly, and\nleaving no alarm behind.  Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of\nthe roof opening, and a column of bright faces, rising far away into\nthe sky, as she had seen in some old scriptural picture once, and\nlooking down on her, asleep.  It was a sweet and happy dream.  The\nquiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the same, saving that there was\nmusic in the air, and a sound of angels' wings.  After a time the\nsisters came there, hand in hand, and stood among the graves.  And then\nthe dream grew dim, and faded.\n\nWith the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of yesterday's\nlabours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its\nenergies, cheerfulness, and hope.  They worked gaily in ordering and\narranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.\n\nHe was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued spirit,\naccustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the world,\nwhich he had left many years before to come and settle in that place.\nHis wife had died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long\nsince lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it.\n\nHe received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell;\nasking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had\nled her there, and so forth.  The schoolmaster had already told her\nstory.  They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had\ncome to share his fortunes.  He loved the child as though she were his\nown.\n\n'Well, well,' said the clergyman.  'Let it be as you desire.  She is\nvery young.'\n\n'Old in adversity and trial, sir,' replied the schoolmaster.\n\n'God help her.  Let her rest, and forget them,' said the old gentleman.\n'But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you,\nmy child.'\n\n'Oh no, sir,' returned Nell.  'I have no such thoughts, indeed.'\n\n'I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights,' said the old\ngentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly, 'than have\nher sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches.  You must look to\nthis, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among these solemn\nruins.  Your request is granted, friend.'\n\nAfter more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to the child's\nhouse; where they were yet in conversation on their happy fortune, when\nanother friend appeared.\n\nThis was a little old gentleman, who lived in the parsonage-house, and\nhad resided there (so they learnt soon afterwards) ever since the death\nof the clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen years before.  He\nhad been his college friend and always his close companion; in the\nfirst shock of his grief he had come to console and comfort him; and\nfrom that time they had never parted company.  The little old gentleman\nwas the active spirit of the place, the adjuster of all differences,\nthe promoter of all merry-makings, the dispenser of his friend's\nbounty, and of no small charity of his own besides; the universal\nmediator, comforter, and friend.  None of the simple villagers had\ncared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in their\nmemory.  Perhaps from some vague rumour of his college honours which\nhad been whispered abroad on his first arrival, perhaps because he was\nan unmarried, unencumbered gentleman, he had been called the bachelor.\nThe name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the\nBachelor he had ever since remained.  And the bachelor it was, it may\nbe added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which\nthe wanderers had found in their new habitation.\n\nThe bachelor, then--to call him by his usual appellation--lifted the\nlatch, showed his little round mild face for a moment at the door, and\nstepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it.\n\n'You are Mr Marton, the new schoolmaster?' he said, greeting Nell's\nkind friend.\n\n'I am, sir.'\n\n'You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you.  I should have\nbeen in the way yesterday, expecting you, but I rode across the country\nto carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some\nmiles off, and have but just now returned.  This is our young\nchurch-keeper?  You are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake, or\nfor this old man's; nor the worse teacher for having learnt humanity.'\n'She has been ill, sir, very lately,' said the schoolmaster, in answer\nto the look with which their visitor regarded Nell when he had kissed\nher cheek.\n\n'Yes, yes.  I know she has,' he rejoined.  'There have been suffering\nand heartache here.'\n\n'Indeed there have, sir.'\n\nThe little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at\nthe child, whose hand he took tenderly in his, and held.\n\n'You will be happier here,' he said; 'we will try, at least, to make\nyou so.  You have made great improvements here already.  Are they the\nwork of your hands?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'We may make some others--not better in themselves, but with better\nmeans perhaps,' said the bachelor.  'Let us see now, let us see.'\n\nNell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both the\nhouses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he\nengaged to supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he had at\nhome, and which must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive one,\nas it comprehended the most opposite articles imaginable.  They all\ncame, however, and came without loss of time; for the little old\ngentleman, disappearing for some five or ten minutes, presently\nreturned, laden with old shelves, rugs, blankets, and other household\ngear, and followed by a boy bearing a similar load.  These being cast\non the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a quantity of occupation in\narranging, erecting, and putting away; the superintendence of which\ntask evidently afforded the old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged\nhim for some time with great briskness and activity.  When nothing more\nwas left to be done, he charged the boy to run off and bring his\nschoolmates to be marshalled before their new master, and solemnly\nreviewed.\n\n'As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see,' he said,\nturning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; 'but I don't let 'em\nknow I think so.  That wouldn't do, at all.'\n\nThe messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins, great\nand small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house door,\nfell into various convulsions of politeness; clutching their hats and\ncaps, squeezing them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making\nall manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentleman\ncontemplated with excessive satisfaction, and expressed his approval of\nby a great many nods and smiles.  Indeed, his approbation of the boys\nwas by no means so scrupulously disguised as he had led the\nschoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud\nwhispers and confidential remarks which were perfectly audible to them\nevery one.\n\n'This first boy, schoolmaster,' said the bachelor, 'is John\nOwen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper; but too\nthoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far.  That boy, my good\nsir, would break his neck with pleasure, and deprive his parents of\ntheir chief comfort--and between ourselves, when you come to see him at\nhare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and\nsliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it.\nIt's beautiful!'\n\nJohn Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect possession of\nthe speech aside, the bachelor singled out another boy.\n\n'Now, look at that lad, sir,' said the bachelor.  'You see that fellow?\nRichard Evans his name is, sir.  An amazing boy to learn, blessed with\na good memory, and a ready understanding, and moreover with a good\nvoice and ear for psalm-singing, in which he is the best among us.\nYet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed;\nhe's always falling asleep in sermon-time--and to tell you the truth,\nMr Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain\nthat it was natural to my constitution and I couldn't help it.'\n\nThis hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor\nturned to another.\n\n'But if we talk of examples to be shunned,' said he, 'if we come to\nboys that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here's\nthe one, and I hope you won't spare him.  This is the lad, sir; this\none with the blue eyes and light hair.  This is a swimmer, sir, this\nfellow--a diver, Lord save us!  This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for\nplunging into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing\nup a blind man's dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain\nand collar, while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank,\nbewailing the loss of his guide and friend.  I sent the boy two guineas\nanonymously, sir,' added the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper,\n'directly I heard of it; but never mention it on any account, for he\nhasn't the least idea that it came from me.'\n\nHaving disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and\nfrom him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for\ntheir wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting\nemphasis on such of their propensities as were dearest to his heart and\nwere unquestionably referrable to his own precept and example.\nThoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable by\nhis severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an admonition\nto walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out\nof the way; which injunction, he informed the schoolmaster in the same\naudible confidence, he did not think he could have obeyed when he was a\nboy, had his life depended on it.\n\nHailing these little tokens of the bachelor's disposition as so many\nassurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster\nparted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and deemed\nhimself one of the happiest men on earth.  The windows of the two old\nhouses were ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the\ncheerful fires that burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend,\npausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk,\nspoke softly together of the beautiful child, and looked round upon the\nchurchyard with a sigh.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 53\n\nNell was stirring early in the morning, and having discharged her\nhousehold tasks, and put everything in order for the good schoolmaster\n(though sorely against his will, for he would have spared her the\npains), took down, from its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of\nkeys with which the bachelor had formally invested her on the previous\nday, and went out alone to visit the old church.\n\nThe sky was serene and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh\nscent of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense.  The\nneighbouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward with a tuneful sound;\nthe dew glistened on the green mounds, like tears shed by Good Spirits\nover the dead.  Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid\nfrom each other, with laughing faces.  They had an infant with them,\nand had laid it down asleep upon a child's grave, in a little bed of\nleaves.  It was a new grave--the resting-place, perhaps, of some little\ncreature, who, meek and patient in its illness, had often sat and\nwatched them, and now seemed, to their minds, scarcely changed.\n\nShe drew near and asked one of them whose grave it was.  The child\nanswered that that was not its name; it was a garden--his brother's.\nIt was greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds\nloved it better because he had been used to feed them.  When he had\ndone speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and\nnestling for a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily\naway.\n\nShe passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the\nwicket gate, and so into the village.  The old sexton, leaning on a\ncrutch, was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good\nmorrow.\n\n'You are better?' said the child, stopping to speak with him.\n\n'Ay surely,' returned the old man.  'I'm thankful to say, much better.'\n\n'_You_ will be quite well soon.'\n\n'With Heaven's leave, and a little patience.  But come in, come in!'\nThe old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step,\nwhich he achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into\nhis little cottage.\n\n'It is but one room you see.  There is another up above, but the stair\nhas got harder to climb o' late years, and I never use it.  I'm\nthinking of taking to it again, next summer, though.'\n\nThe child wondered how a grey-headed man like him--one of his trade\ntoo--could talk of time so easily.  He saw her eyes wandering to the\ntools that hung upon the wall, and smiled.\n\n'I warrant now,' he said, 'that you think all those are used in making\ngraves.'\n\n'Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many.'\n\n'And well you might.  I am a gardener.  I dig the ground, and plant\nthings that are to live and grow.  My works don't all moulder away, and\nrot in the earth.  You see that spade in the centre?'\n\n'The very old one--so notched and worn?  Yes.'\n\n'That's the sexton's spade, and it's a well-used one, as you see.\nWe're healthy people here, but it has done a power of work.  If it\ncould speak now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected\njob that it and I have done together; but I forget 'em, for my memory's\na poor one.--That's nothing new,' he added hastily.  'It always was.'\n\n'There are flowers and shrubs to speak to your other work,' said the\nchild.\n\n'Oh yes.  And tall trees.  But they are not so separate from the\nsexton's labours as you think.'\n\n'No!'\n\n'Not in my mind, and recollection--such as it is,' said the old man.\n'Indeed they often help it.  For say that I planted such a tree for\nsuch a man.  There it stands, to remind me that he died.  When I look\nat its broad shadow, and remember what it was in his time, it helps me\nto the age of my other work, and I can tell you pretty nearly when I\nmade his grave.'\n\n'But it may remind you of one who is still alive,' said the child.\n\n'Of twenty that are dead, in connexion with that one who lives, then,'\nrejoined the old man; 'wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters,\nchildren, friends--a score at least.  So it happens that the sexton's\nspade gets worn and battered.  I shall need a new one--next summer.'\n\nThe child looked quickly towards him, thinking that he jested with his\nage and infirmity: but the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest.\n\n'Ah!' he said, after a brief silence.  'People never learn.  They never\nlearn.  It's only we who turn up the ground, where nothing grows and\neverything decays, who think of such things as these--who think of\nthem properly, I mean.  You have been into the church?'\n\n'I am going there now,' the child replied.\n\n'There's an old well there,' said the sexton, 'right underneath the\nbelfry; a deep, dark, echoing well.  Forty year ago, you had only to\nlet down the bucket till the first knot in the rope was free of the\nwindlass, and you heard it splashing in the cold dull water.  By little\nand little the water fell away, so that in ten year after that, a\nsecond knot was made, and you must unwind so much rope, or the bucket\nswung tight and empty at the end.  In ten years' time, the water fell\nagain, and a third knot was made.  In ten years more, the well dried\nup; and now, if you lower the bucket till your arms are tired, and let\nout nearly all the cord, you'll hear it, of a sudden, clanking and\nrattling on the ground below; with a sound of being so deep and so far\ndown, that your heart leaps into your mouth, and you start away as if\nyou were falling in.'\n\n'A dreadful place to come on in the dark!' exclaimed the child, who had\nfollowed the old man's looks and words until she seemed to stand upon\nits brink.\n\n'What is it but a grave!' said the sexton.  'What else!  And which of\nour old folks, knowing all this, thought, as the spring subsided, of\ntheir own failing strength, and lessening life?  Not one!'\n\n'Are you very old yourself?' asked the child, involuntarily.\n\n'I shall be seventy-nine--next summer.'\n\n'You still work when you are well?'\n\n'Work!  To be sure.  You shall see my gardens hereabout.  Look at the\nwindow there.  I made, and have kept, that plot of ground entirely with\nmy own hands.  By this time next year I shall hardly see the sky, the\nboughs will have grown so thick.  I have my winter work at night\nbesides.'\n\nHe opened, as he spoke, a cupboard close to where he sat, and produced\nsome miniature boxes, carved in a homely manner and made of old wood.\n\n'Some gentlefolks who are fond of ancient days, and what belongs to\nthem,' he said, 'like to buy these keepsakes from our church and ruins.\nSometimes, I make them of scraps of oak, that turn up here and there;\nsometimes of bits of coffins which the vaults have long preserved.  See\nhere--this is a little chest of the last kind, clasped at the edges\nwith fragments of brass plates that had writing on 'em once, though it\nwould be hard to read it now.  I haven't many by me at this time of\nyear, but these shelves will be full--next summer.'\n\nThe child admired and praised his work, and shortly afterwards\ndeparted; thinking, as she went, how strange it was, that this old man,\ndrawing from his pursuits, and everything around him, one stern moral,\nnever contemplated its application to himself; and, while he dwelt upon\nthe uncertainty of human life, seemed both in word and deed to deem\nhimself immortal.  But her musings did not stop here, for she was wise\nenough to think that by a good and merciful adjustment this must be\nhuman nature, and that the old sexton, with his plans for next summer,\nwas but a type of all mankind.\n\nFull of these meditations, she reached the church.  It was easy to find\nthe key belonging to the outer door, for each was labelled on a scrap\nof yellow parchment.  Its very turning in the lock awoke a hollow\nsound, and when she entered with a faltering step, the echoes that it\nraised in closing, made her start.\n\nIf the peace of the simple village had moved the child more strongly,\nbecause of the dark and troubled ways that lay beyond, and through\nwhich she had journeyed with such failing feet, what was the deep\nimpression of finding herself alone in that solemn building, where the\nvery light, coming through sunken windows, seemed old and grey, and the\nair, redolent of earth and mould, seemed laden with decay, purified by\ntime of all its grosser particles, and sighing through arch and aisle,\nand clustered pillars, like the breath of ages gone!  Here was the\nbroken pavement, worn, so long ago, by pious feet, that Time, stealing\non the pilgrims' steps, had trodden out their track, and left but\ncrumbling stones.  Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the\nsapped and mouldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the stately tomb\non which no epitaph remained--all--marble, stone, iron, wood, and\ndust--one common monument of ruin.  The best work and the worst, the\nplainest and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing--both\nof Heaven's work and Man's--all found one common level here, and told\none common tale.\n\nSome part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and here were\neffigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of stone with folded\nhands--cross-legged, those who had fought in the Holy Wars--girded\nwith their swords, and cased in armour as they had lived.  Some of\nthese knights had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging\nupon the walls hard by, and dangling from rusty hooks.  Broken and\ndilapidated as they were, they yet retained their ancient form, and\nsomething of their ancient aspect.  Thus violent deeds live after men\nupon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in\nmournful shapes long after those who worked the desolation are but\natoms of earth themselves.\n\nThe child sat down, in this old, silent place, among the stark figures\non the tombs--they made it more quiet there, than elsewhere, to her\nfancy--and gazing round with a feeling of awe, tempered with a calm\ndelight, felt that now she was happy, and at rest.  She took a Bible\nfrom the shelf, and read; then, laying it down, thought of the summer\ndays and the bright springtime that would come--of the rays of sun that\nwould fall in aslant, upon the sleeping forms--of the leaves that would\nflutter at the window, and play in glistening shadows on the\npavement--of the songs of birds, and growth of buds and blossoms out of\ndoors--of the sweet air, that would steal in, and gently wave the\ntattered banners overhead.  What if the spot awakened thoughts of\ndeath!  Die who would, it would still remain the same; these sights and\nsounds would still go on, as happily as ever.  It would be no pain to\nsleep amidst them.\n\nShe left the chapel--very slowly and often turning back to gaze\nagain--and coming to a low door, which plainly led into the tower,\nopened it, and climbed the winding stair in darkness; save where she\nlooked down, through narrow loopholes, on the place she had left, or\ncaught a glimmering vision of the dusty bells.  At length she gained\nthe end of the ascent and stood upon the turret top.\n\nOh! the glory of the sudden burst of light; the freshness of the fields\nand woods, stretching away on every side, and meeting the bright blue\nsky; the cattle grazing in the pasturage; the smoke, that, coming from\namong the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth; the\nchildren yet at their gambols down below--all, everything, so beautiful\nand happy!  It was like passing from death to life; it was drawing\nnearer Heaven.\n\nThe children were gone, when she emerged into the porch, and locked the\ndoor.  As she passed the school-house she could hear the busy hum of\nvoices.  Her friend had begun his labours only on that day.  The noise\ngrew louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys come trooping out and\ndisperse themselves with merry shouts and play.  'It's a good thing,'\nthought the child, 'I am very glad they pass the church.'  And then she\nstopped, to fancy how the noise would sound inside, and how gently it\nwould seem to die away upon the ear.\n\nAgain that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the old chapel, and\nin her former seat read from the same book, or indulged the same quiet\ntrain of thought.  Even when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of\ncoming night made it more solemn still, the child remained, like one\nrooted to the spot, and had no fear or thought of stirring.\n\nThey found her there, at last, and took her home.  She looked pale but\nvery happy, until they separated for the night; and then, as the poor\nschoolmaster stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear\nupon his face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 54\n\nThe bachelor, among his various occupations, found in the old church a\nconstant source of interest and amusement.  Taking that pride in it\nwhich men conceive for the wonders of their own little world, he had\nmade its history his study; and many a summer day within its walls, and\nmany a winter's night beside the parsonage fire, had found the bachelor\nstill poring over, and adding to, his goodly store of tale and legend.\n\nAs he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip fair Truth of\nevery little shadowy vestment in which time and teeming fancies love to\narray her--and some of which become her pleasantly enough, serving,\nlike the waters of her well, to add new graces to the charms they half\nconceal and half suggest, and to awaken interest and pursuit rather\nthan languor and indifference--as, unlike this stern and obdurate\nclass, he loved to see the goddess crowned with those garlands of wild\nflowers which tradition wreathes for her gentle wearing, and which are\noften freshest in their homeliest shapes--he trod with a light step and\nbore with a light hand upon the dust of centuries, unwilling to\ndemolish any of the airy shrines that had been raised above it, if any\ngood feeling or affection of the human heart were hiding thereabouts.\nThus, in the case of an ancient coffin of rough stone, supposed, for\nmany generations, to contain the bones of a certain baron, who, after\nravaging, with cut, and thrust, and plunder, in foreign lands, came\nback with a penitent and sorrowing heart to die at home, but which had\nbeen lately shown by learned antiquaries to be no such thing, as the\nbaron in question (so they contended) had died hard in battle, gnashing\nhis teeth and cursing with his latest breath--the bachelor stoutly\nmaintained that the old tale was the true one; that the baron,\nrepenting him of the evil, had done great charities and meekly given up\nthe ghost; and that, if ever baron went to heaven, that baron was then\nat peace.  In like manner, when the aforesaid antiquaries did argue and\ncontend that a certain secret vault was not the tomb of a grey-haired\nlady who had been hanged and drawn and quartered by glorious Queen Bess\nfor succouring a wretched priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at\nher door, the bachelor did solemnly maintain, against all comers, that\nthe church was hallowed by the said poor lady's ashes; that her remains\nhad been collected in the night from four of the city's gates, and\nthither in secret brought, and there deposited; and the bachelor did\nfurther (being highly excited at such times) deny the glory of Queen\nBess, and assert the immeasurably greater glory of the meanest woman in\nher realm, who had a merciful and tender heart.  As to the assertion\nthat the flat stone near the door was not the grave of the miser who\nhad disowned his only child and left a sum of money to the church to\nbuy a peal of bells, the bachelor did readily admit the same, and that\nthe place had given birth to no such man.  In a word, he would have had\nevery stone, and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds whose\nmemory should survive.  All others he was willing to forget.  They\nmight be buried in consecrated ground, but he would have had them\nburied deep, and never brought to light again.\n\nIt was from the lips of such a tutor, that the child learnt her easy\ntask.  Already impressed, beyond all telling, by the silent building\nand the peaceful beauty of the spot in which it stood--majestic age\nsurrounded by perpetual youth--it seemed to her, when she heard these\nthings, sacred to all goodness and virtue.  It was another world, where\nsin and sorrow never came; a tranquil place of rest, where nothing evil\nentered.\n\nWhen the bachelor had given her in connection with almost every tomb\nand flat grave-stone some history of its own, he took her down into the\nold crypt, now a mere dull vault, and showed her how it had been\nlighted up in the time of the monks, and how, amid lamps depending from\nthe roof, and swinging censers exhaling scented odours, and habits\nglittering with gold and silver, and pictures, and precious stuffs, and\njewels all flashing and glistening through the low arches, the chaunt\nof aged voices had been many a time heard there, at midnight, in old\ndays, while hooded figures knelt and prayed around, and told their\nrosaries of beads.  Thence, he took her above ground again, and showed\nher, high up in the old walls, small galleries, where the nuns had been\nwont to glide along--dimly seen in their dark dresses so far off--or\nto pause like gloomy shadows, listening to the prayers.  He showed her\ntoo, how the warriors, whose figures rested on the tombs, had worn\nthose rotting scraps of armour up above--how this had been a helmet,\nand that a shield, and that a gauntlet--and how they had wielded the\ngreat two-handed swords, and beaten men down, with yonder iron mace.\nAll that he told the child she treasured in her mind; and sometimes,\nwhen she awoke at night from dreams of those old times, and rising from\nher bed looked out at the dark church, she almost hoped to see the\nwindows lighted up, and hear the organ's swell, and sound of voices, on\nthe rushing wind.\n\nThe old sexton soon got better, and was about again.  From him the\nchild learnt many other things, though of a different kind.  He was not\nable to work, but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to\noverlook the man who dug it.  He was in a talkative mood; and the\nchild, at first standing by his side, and afterwards sitting on the\ngrass at his feet, with her thoughtful face raised towards his, began\nto converse with him.\n\nNow, the man who did the sexton's duty was a little older than he,\nthough much more active.  But he was deaf; and when the sexton (who\nperadventure, on a pinch, might have walked a mile with great\ndifficulty in half-a-dozen hours) exchanged a remark with him about his\nwork, the child could not help noticing that he did so with an\nimpatient kind of pity for his infirmity, as if he were himself the\nstrongest and heartiest man alive.\n\n'I'm sorry to see there is this to do,' said the child when she\napproached.  'I heard of no one having died.'\n\n'She lived in another hamlet, my dear,' returned the sexton.  'Three\nmile away.'\n\n'Was she young?'\n\n'Ye-yes' said the sexton; not more than sixty-four, I think.  David,\nwas she more than sixty-four?'\n\nDavid, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the question.  The\nsexton, as he could not reach to touch him with his crutch, and was too\ninfirm to rise without assistance, called his attention by throwing a\nlittle mould upon his red nightcap.\n\n'What's the matter now?' said David, looking up.\n\n'How old was Becky Morgan?' asked the sexton.\n\n'Becky Morgan?' repeated David.\n\n'Yes,' replied the sexton; adding in a half compassionate, half\nirritable tone, which the old man couldn't hear, 'you're getting very\ndeaf, Davy, very deaf to be sure!'\n\nThe old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade with a piece\nof slate he had by him for the purpose--and scraping off, in the\nprocess, the essence of Heaven knows how many Becky Morgans--set\nhimself to consider the subject.\n\n'Let me think' quoth he.  'I saw last night what they had put upon the\ncoffin--was it seventy-nine?'\n\n'No, no,' said the sexton.\n\n'Ah yes, it was though,' returned the old man with a sigh.  'For I\nremember thinking she was very near our age.  Yes, it was seventy-nine.'\n\n'Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, Davy?' asked the sexton,\nwith signs of some emotion.\n\n'What?' said the old man.  'Say that again.'\n\n'He's very deaf.  He's very deaf indeed,' cried the sexton petulantly;\n'are you sure you're right about the figures?'\n\n'Oh quite,' replied the old man.  'Why not?'\n\n'He's exceedingly deaf,' muttered the sexton to himself.  'I think he's\ngetting foolish.'\n\nThe child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say\nthe truth, the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely\nmore robust.  As the sexton said nothing more just then, however, she\nforgot it for the time, and spoke again.\n\n'You were telling me,' she said, 'about your gardening.  Do you ever\nplant things here?'\n\n'In the churchyard?' returned the sexton, 'Not I.'\n\n'I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about,' the child rejoined;\n'there are some over there, you see.  I thought they were of your\nrearing, though indeed they grow but poorly.'\n\n'They grow as Heaven wills,' said the old man; 'and it kindly ordains\nthat they shall never flourish here.'\n\n'I do not understand you.'\n\n'Why, this it is,' said the sexton.  'They mark the graves of those who\nhad very tender, loving friends.'\n\n'I was sure they did!' the child exclaimed.  'I am very glad to know\nthey do!'\n\n'Aye,' returned the old man, 'but stay.  Look at them.  See how they\nhang their heads, and droop, and wither.  Do you guess the reason?'\n\n'No,' the child replied.\n\n'Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away so soon.  At\nfirst they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come\nless frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week to\nonce a month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all.\nSuch tokens seldom flourish long.  I have known the briefest summer\nflowers outlive them.'\n\n'I grieve to hear it,' said the child.\n\n'Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them,'\nreturned the old man, shaking his head, 'but I say otherwise.  \"It's a\npretty custom you have in this part of the country,\" they say to me\nsometimes, \"to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see these\nthings all withering or dead.\" I crave their pardon and tell them that,\nas I take it, 'tis a good sign for the happiness of the living.  And so\nit is.  It's nature.'\n\n'Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the\nstars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in\ngraves,' said the child in an earnest voice.\n\n'Perhaps so,' replied the old man doubtfully.  'It may be.'\n\n'Whether it be as I believe it is, or no,' thought the child within\nherself, 'I'll make this place my garden.  It will be no harm at least\nto work here day by day, and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am\nsure.'\n\nHer glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who\nturned towards old David, and called him by his name.  It was plain\nthat Becky Morgan's age still troubled him; though why, the child could\nscarcely understand.\n\nThe second or third repetition of his name attracted the old man's\nattention.  Pausing from his work, he leant on his spade, and put his\nhand to his dull ear.\n\n'Did you call?' he said.\n\n'I have been thinking, Davy,' replied the sexton, 'that she,' he\npointed to the grave, 'must have been a deal older than you or me.'\n\n'Seventy-nine,' answered the old man with a shake of the head, 'I tell\nyou that I saw it.'\n\n'Saw it?' replied the sexton; 'aye, but, Davy, women don't always tell\nthe truth about their age.'\n\n'That's true indeed,' said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in\nhis eye.  'She might have been older.'\n\n'I'm sure she must have been.  Why, only think how old she looked.  You\nand I seemed but boys to her.'\n\n'She did look old,' rejoined David.  'You're right.  She did look old.'\n\n'Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year, and say if\nshe could be but seventy-nine at last--only our age,' said the sexton.\n\n'Five year older at the very least!' cried the other.\n\n'Five!' retorted the sexton.  'Ten.  Good eighty-nine.  I call to mind\nthe time her daughter died.  She was eighty-nine if she was a day, and\ntries to pass upon us now, for ten year younger.  Oh!  human vanity!'\n\nThe other old man was not behindhand with some moral reflections on\nthis fruitful theme, and both adduced a mass of evidence, of such\nweight as to render it doubtful--not whether the deceased was of the\nage suggested, but whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal\nterm of a hundred.  When they had settled this question to their mutual\nsatisfaction, the sexton, with his friend's assistance, rose to go.\n\n'It's chilly, sitting here, and I must be careful--till the summer,' he\nsaid, as he prepared to limp away.\n\n'What?' asked old David.\n\n'He's very deaf, poor fellow!' cried the sexton.  'Good-bye!'\n\n'Ah!' said old David, looking after him.  'He's failing very fast.\nHe ages every day.'\n\nAnd so they parted; each persuaded that the other had less life in him\nthan himself; and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little\nfiction they had agreed upon, respecting Becky Morgan, whose decease\nwas no longer a precedent of uncomfortable application, and would be no\nbusiness of theirs for half a score of years to come.\n\nThe child remained, for some minutes, watching the deaf old man as he\nthrew out the earth with his shovel, and, often stopping to cough and\nfetch his breath, still muttered to himself, with a kind of sober\nchuckle, that the sexton was wearing fast.  At length she turned away,\nand walking thoughtfully through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon\nthe schoolmaster, who was sitting on a green grave in the sun, reading.\n\n'Nell here?' he said cheerfully, as he closed his book.  'It does me\ngood to see you in the air and light.  I feared you were again in the\nchurch, where you so often are.'\n\n'Feared!' replied the child, sitting down beside him.  'Is it not a\ngood place?'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster.  'But you must be gay\nsometimes--nay, don't shake your head and smile so sadly.'\n\n'Not sadly, if you knew my heart.  Do not look at me as if you thought\nme sorrowful.  There is not a happier creature on earth, than I am now.'\n\nFull of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and folded it\nbetween her own.  'It's God's will!' she said, when they had been\nsilent for some time.\n\n'What?'\n\n'All this,' she rejoined; 'all this about us.  But which of us is sad\nnow?  You see that I am smiling.'\n\n'And so am I,' said the schoolmaster; 'smiling to think how often we\nshall laugh in this same place.  Were you not talking yonder?'\n\n'Yes,'the child rejoined.\n\n'Of something that has made you sorrowful?'\n\nThere was a long pause.\n\n'What was it?' said the schoolmaster, tenderly.  'Come.  Tell me what\nit was.'\n\n'I rather grieve--I _do_ rather grieve to think,' said the child,\nbursting into tears, 'that those who die about us, are so soon\nforgotten.'\n\n'And do you think,' said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had\nthrown around, 'that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded\nflower or two, are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect?  Do you\nthink there are no deeds, far away from here, in which these dead may\nbe best remembered?  Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in the world,\nat this instant, in whose good actions and good thoughts these very\ngraves--neglected as they look to us--are the chief instruments.'\n\n'Tell me no more,' said the child quickly.  'Tell me no more.  I feel,\nI know it.  How could I be unmindful of it, when I thought of you?'\n\n'There is nothing,' cried her friend, 'no, nothing innocent or good,\nthat dies, and is forgotten.  Let us hold to that faith, or none.  An\ninfant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the\nbetter thoughts of those who loved it, and will play its part, through\nthem, in the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt\nto ashes or drowned in the deepest sea.  There is not an angel added to\nthe Host of Heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those that\nloved it here.  Forgotten! oh, if the good deeds of human creatures\ncould be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear;\nfor how much charity, mercy, and purified affection, would be seen to\nhave their growth in dusty graves!'\n\n'Yes,' said the child, 'it is the truth; I know it is.  Who should feel\nits force so much as I, in whom your little scholar lives again!  Dear,\ndear, good friend, if you knew the comfort you have given me!'\n\nThe poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent over her in silence;\nfor his heart was full.\n\nThey were yet seated in the same place, when the grandfather\napproached.  Before they had spoken many words together, the church\nclock struck the hour of school, and their friend withdrew.\n\n'A good man,' said the grandfather, looking after him; 'a kind man.\nSurely he will never harm us, Nell.  We are safe here, at last, eh?  We\nwill never go away from here?'\n\nThe child shook her head and smiled.\n\n'She needs rest,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'too pale--too\npale.  She is not like what she was.'\n\n'When?' asked the child.\n\n'Ha!' said the old man, 'to be sure--when?  How many weeks ago?  Could\nI count them on my fingers?  Let them rest though; they're better\ngone.'\n\n'Much better, dear,' replied the child.  'We will forget them;\nor, if we ever call them to mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream\nthat has passed away.'\n\n'Hush!' said the old man, motioning hastily to her with his hand and\nlooking over his shoulder; 'no more talk of the dream, and all the\nmiseries it brought.  There are no dreams here.  'Tis a quiet place,\nand they keep away.  Let us never think about them, lest they should\npursue us again.  Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks--wet, cold, and\nfamine--and horrors before them all, that were even worse--we must\nforget such things if we would be tranquil here.'\n\n'Thank Heaven!' inwardly exclaimed the child, 'for this most happy\nchange!'\n\n'I will be patient,' said the old man, 'humble, very thankful, and\nobedient, if you will let me stay.  But do not hide from me; do not\nsteal away alone; let me keep beside you.  Indeed, I will be very true\nand faithful, Nell.'\n\n'I steal away alone! why that,' replied the child, with assumed gaiety,\n'would be a pleasant jest indeed.  See here, dear grandfather, we'll\nmake this place our garden--why not!  It is a very good one--and\nto-morrow we'll begin, and work together, side by side.'\n\n'It is a brave thought!' cried her grandfather.  'Mind, darling--we\nbegin to-morrow!'\n\nWho so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their labour!\nWho so unconscious of all associations connected with the spot, as he!\nThey plucked the long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the\npoor shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of the\nleaves and weeds.  They were yet in the ardour of their work, when the\nchild, raising her head from the ground over which she bent, observed\nthat the bachelor was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in\nsilence.\n\n'A kind office,' said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell as she\ncurtseyed to him.  'Have you done all that, this morning?'\n\n'It is very little, sir,' returned the child, with downcast eyes, 'to\nwhat we mean to do.'\n\n'Good work, good work,' said the bachelor.  'But do you only labour at\nthe graves of children, and young people?'\n\n'We shall come to the others in good time, sir,' replied Nell, turning\nher head aside, and speaking softly.\n\nIt was a slight incident, and might have been design or accident, or\nthe child's unconscious sympathy with youth.  But it seemed to strike\nupon her grandfather, though he had not noticed it before.  He looked\nin a hurried manner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then\npressed her to his side, and bade her stop to rest.  Something he had\nlong forgotten, appeared to struggle faintly in his mind.  It did not\npass away, as weightier things had done; but came uppermost again, and\nyet again, and many times that day, and often afterwards.  Once, while\nthey were yet at work, the child, seeing that he often turned and\nlooked uneasily at her, as though he were trying to resolve some\npainful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts, urged him to tell\nthe reason.  But he said it was nothing--nothing--and, laying her head\nupon his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered that\nshe grew stronger every day, and would be a woman, soon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 55\n\nFrom that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude\nabout the child which never slept or left him.  There are chords in the\nhuman heart--strange, varying strings--which are only struck by\naccident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most\npassionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual\ntouch.  In the most insensible or childish minds, there is some train\nof reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill assist, but which\nwill reveal itself, as great truths have done, by chance, and when the\ndiscoverer has the plainest end in view.  From that time, the old man\nnever, for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion of the child;\nfrom the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling by\nhis side through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely\nthought of her otherwise than as the partner of miseries which he felt\nseverely in his own person, and deplored for his own sake at least as\nmuch as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her, and what those\nmiseries had made her.  Never, no, never once, in one unguarded moment\nfrom that time to the end, did any care for himself, any thought of his\nown comfort, any selfish consideration or regard distract his thoughts\nfrom the gentle object of his love.\n\nHe would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean\nupon his arm--he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner,\ncontent to watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon\nhim as of old--he would discharge by stealth, those household duties\nwhich tasked her powers too heavily--he would rise, in the cold dark\nnights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch\nfor hours by her bedside only to touch her hand.  He who knows all, can\nonly know what hopes, and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were\nin that one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on the poor\nold man.  Sometimes--weeks had crept on, then--the child, exhausted,\nthough with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside\nthe fire.  At such times, the schoolmaster would bring in books, and\nread to her aloud; and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor came\nin, and took his turn of reading.  The old man sat and listened--with\nlittle understanding for the words, but with his eyes fixed upon the\nchild--and if she smiled or brightened with the story, he would say it\nwas a good one, and conceive a fondness for the very book.  When, in\ntheir evening talk, the bachelor told some tale that pleased her (as\nhis tales were sure to do), the old man would painfully try to store it\nin his mind; nay, when the bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip\nout after him, and humbly beg that he would tell him such a part again,\nthat he might learn to win a smile from Nell.\n\nBut these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be out\nof doors, and walking in her solemn garden.  Parties, too, would come\nto see the church; and those who came, speaking to others of the child,\nsent more; so even at that season of the year they had visitors almost\ndaily.  The old man would follow them at a little distance through the\nbuilding, listening to the voice he loved so well; and when the\nstrangers left, and parted from Nell, he would mingle with them to\ncatch up fragments of their conversation; or he would stand for the\nsame purpose, with his grey head uncovered, at the gate as they passed\nthrough.\n\nThey always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was proud\nto hear them!  But what was that, so often added, which wrung his\nheart, and made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner!  Alas!\neven careless strangers--they who had no feeling for her, but the\ninterest of the moment--they who would go away and forget next week\nthat such a being lived--even they saw it--even they pitied her--even\nthey bade him good day compassionately, and whispered as they passed.\n\nThe people of the village, too, of whom there was not one but grew to\nhave a fondness for poor Nell; even among them, there was the same\nfeeling; a tenderness towards her--a compassionate regard for her,\nincreasing every day.  The very schoolboys, light-hearted and\nthoughtless as they were, even they cared for her.  The roughest among\nthem was sorry if he missed her in the usual place upon his way to\nschool, and would turn out of the path to ask for her at the latticed\nwindow.  If she were sitting in the church, they perhaps might peep in\nsoftly at the open door; but they never spoke to her, unless she rose\nand went to speak to them.  Some feeling was abroad which raised the\nchild above them all.\n\nSo, when Sunday came.  They were all poor country people in the church,\nfor the castle in which the old family had lived, was an empty ruin,\nand there were none but humble folks for seven miles around.  There, as\nelsewhere, they had an interest in Nell.  They would gather round her\nin the porch, before and after service; young children would cluster at\nher skirts; and aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her\nkindly greeting.  None of them, young or old, thought of passing the\nchild without a friendly word.  Many who came from three or four miles\ndistant, brought her little presents; the humblest and rudest had good\nwishes to bestow.\n\nShe had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in the\nchurchyard.  One of these--he who had spoken of his brother--was her\nlittle favourite and friend, and often sat by her side in the church,\nor climbed with her to the tower-top.  It was his delight to help her,\nor to fancy that he did so, and they soon became close companions.\n\nIt happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by herself one\nday, this child came running in with his eyes full of tears, and after\nholding her from him, and looking at her eagerly for a moment, clasped\nhis little arms passionately about her neck.\n\n'What now?' said Nell, soothing him.  'What is the matter?'\n\n'She is not one yet!' cried the boy, embracing her still more closely.\n'No, no.  Not yet.'\n\nShe looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his face,\nand kissing him, asked what he meant.\n\n'You must not be one, dear Nell,' cried the boy.  'We can't see them.\nThey never come to play with us, or talk to us.  Be what you are.  You\nare better so.'\n\n'I do not understand you,' said the child.  'Tell me what you mean.'\n\n'Why, they say,' replied the boy, looking up into her face, that you\nwill be an Angel, before the birds sing again.  But you won't be, will\nyou?  Don't leave us Nell, though the sky is bright.  Do not leave us!'\n\nThe child dropped her head, and put her hands before her face.\n\n'She cannot bear the thought!' cried the boy, exulting through his\ntears.  'You will not go.  You know how sorry we should be.  Dear Nell,\ntell me that you'll stay amongst us.  Oh!  Pray, pray, tell me that you\nwill.'\n\nThe little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at her feet.\n\n'Only look at me, Nell,' said the boy, 'and tell me that you'll stop,\nand then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no more.  Won't\nyou say yes, Nell?'\n\nStill the drooping head and hidden face, and the child quite\nsilent--save for her sobs.\n\n'After a time,' pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, 'the kind\nangels will be glad to think that you are not among them, and that you\nstayed here to be with us.  Willy went away, to join them; but if he\nhad known how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never\nwould have left me, I am sure.'\n\nYet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed as though her heart\nwere bursting.  'Why would you go, dear Nell?  I know you would not be\nhappy when you heard that we were crying for your loss.  They say that\nWilly is in Heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm\nsure he grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn\nto kiss me.  But if you do go, Nell,' said the boy, caressing her, and\npressing his face to hers, 'be fond of him for my sake.  Tell him how I\nlove him still, and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two\nare together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you\npain by doing wrong--indeed I never will!'\n\nThe child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck.\nThere was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon\nhim with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that\nshe would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would let her.  He\nclapped his hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being\ncharged to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an\nearnest promise that he never would.\n\nNor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet\ncompanion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the\ntheme, which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of\nits cause.  Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he\nwould often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice\noutside the door to know if she were safe within; and being answered\nyes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her\nfeet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek, and take him\nhome.  Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house\nto ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or night, go where she\nwould, he would forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her\ncompany.\n\n'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her once.\n'When his elder brother died--elder seems a strange word, for he was\nonly seven years old--I remember this one took it sorely to heart.'\n\nThe child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how\nits truth was shadowed out even in this infant.\n\n'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old man,\n'though for that he is merry enough at times.  I'd wager now that you\nand he have been listening by the old well.'\n\n'Indeed we have not,' the child replied.  'I have been afraid to go\nnear it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not\nknow the ground.'\n\n'Come down with me,' said the old man.  'I have known it from a boy.\nCome!'\n\nThey descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused\namong the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.\n\n'This is the place,' said the old man.  'Give me your hand while you\nthrow back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in.  I am too\nold--I mean rheumatic--to stoop, myself.'\n\n'A black and dreadful place!' exclaimed the child.\n\n'Look in,' said the old man, pointing downward with his finger.\n\nThe child complied, and gazed down into the pit.\n\n'It looks like a grave itself,' said the old man.\n\n'It does,' replied the child.\n\n'I have often had the fancy,' said the sexton, 'that it might have been\ndug at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old monks more\nreligious.  It's to be closed up, and built over.'\n\nThe child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault.\n\n'We shall see,' said the sexton, 'on what gay heads other earth will\nhave closed, when the light is shut out from here.  God knows!  They'll\nclose it up, next spring.'\n\n'The birds sing again in spring,' thought the child, as she leaned at\nher casement window, and gazed at the declining sun.  'Spring! a\nbeautiful and happy time!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 56\n\nA day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller\nwalked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone\nin that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking\nfrom his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to\nfolding and pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a hatband.\nHaving completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his\nwork with great complacency, and put his hat on again--very much over\none eye, to increase the mournfulness of the effect.  These\narrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands\ninto his pockets, and walked up and down the office with measured steps.\n\n'It has always been the same with me,' said Mr Swiveller, 'always.\n'Twas ever thus--from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes\ndecay, I never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away;\nI never nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but\nwhen it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a\nmarket-gardener.'\n\nOverpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short at the\nclients' chair, and flung himself into its open arms.\n\n'And this,' said Mr Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, 'is\nlife, I believe.  Oh, certainly.  Why not!  I'm quite satisfied.  I\nshall wear,' added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard\nat it, as if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from\nspurning it with his foot, 'I shall wear this emblem of woman's\nperfidy, in remembrance of her with whom I shall never again thread the\nwindings of the mazy; whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy; who,\nduring the short remainder of my existence, will murder the balmy.  Ha,\nha, ha!'\n\nIt may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any\nincongruity in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not\nwind up with a cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been\nundoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in\na theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is\ndesignated in melodramas 'laughing like a fiend,'--for it seems that\nyour fiends always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables,\nnever more nor less, which is a remarkable property in such gentry, and\none worthy of remembrance.\n\nThe baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still\nsitting in a very grim state in the clients' chair, when there came a\nring--or, if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell--at\nthe office bell.  Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the\nexpressive countenance of Mr Chuckster, between whom and himself a\nfraternal greeting ensued.\n\n'You're devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter-house,' said\nthat gentleman, poising himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an\neasy manner.\n\n'Rather,' returned Dick.\n\n'Rather!' retorted Mr Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling\nwhich so well became him.  'I should think so.  Why, my good feller, do\nyou know what o'clock it is--half-past nine a.m. in the morning?'\n\n'Won't you come in?' said Dick.  'All alone.  Swiveller solus.  \"'Tis\nnow the witching--\"'\n\n'\"Hour of night!\"'\n\n'\"When churchyards yawn,\"'\n\n'\"And graves give up their dead.\"'\n\nAt the end of this quotation in dialogue, each gentleman struck an\nattitude, and immediately subsiding into prose walked into the office.\nSuch morsels of enthusiasm are common among the Glorious Apollos, and\nwere indeed the links that bound them together, and raised them above\nthe cold dull earth.\n\n'Well, and how are you my buck?' said Mr Chuckster, taking a stool.  'I\nwas forced to come into the City upon some little private matters of my\nown, and couldn't pass the corner of the street without looking in, but\nupon my soul I didn't expect to find you.  It is so everlastingly\nearly.'\n\nMr Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments; and it appearing on further\nconversation that he was in good health, and that Mr Chuckster was in\nthe like enviable condition, both gentlemen, in compliance with a\nsolemn custom of the ancient Brotherhood to which they belonged, joined\nin a fragment of the popular duet of 'All's Well,' with a long shake\nat the end.\n\n'And what's the news?' said Richard.\n\n'The town's as flat, my dear feller,' replied Mr Chuckster, 'as the\nsurface of a Dutch oven.  There's no news.  By-the-bye, that lodger of\nyours is a most extraordinary person.  He quite eludes the most\nvigorous comprehension, you know.  Never was such a feller!'\n\n'What has he been doing now?' said Dick.\n\n'By Jove, Sir,' returned Mr Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuff-box,\nthe lid whereof was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in\nbrass, 'that man is an unfathomable.  Sir, that man has made friends\nwith our articled clerk.  There's no harm in him, but he is so\namazingly slow and soft.  Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he\nhave one that knew a thing or two, and could do him some good by his\nmanners and conversation.  I have my faults, sir,' said Mr Chuckster--\n\n'No, no,' interposed Mr Swiveller.\n\n'Oh yes I have, I have my faults, no man knows his faults better than I\nknow mine.  But,' said Mr Chuckster, 'I'm not meek.  My worst\nenemies--every man has his enemies, Sir, and I have mine--never\naccused me of being meek.  And I tell you what, Sir, if I hadn't more\nof these qualities that commonly endear man to man, than our articled\nclerk has, I'd steal a Cheshire cheese, tie it round my neck, and drown\nmyself.  I'd die degraded, as I had lived.  I would upon my honour.'\n\nMr Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head exactly on the nose with the\nknuckle of the fore-finger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily\nat Mr Swiveller, as much as to say that if he thought he was going to\nsneeze, he would find himself mistaken.\n\n'Not contented, Sir,' said Mr Chuckster, 'with making friends with\nAbel, he has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother.\nSince he came home from that wild-goose chase, he has been there--\nactually been there.  He patronises young Snobby besides; you'll find,\nSir, that he'll be constantly coming backwards and forwards to this\nplace: yet I don't suppose that beyond the common forms of civility, he\nhas ever exchanged half-a-dozen words with me.  Now, upon my soul, you\nknow,' said Mr Chuckster, shaking his head gravely, as men are wont to\ndo when they consider things are going a little too far, 'this is\naltogether such a low-minded affair, that if I didn't feel for the\ngovernor, and know that he could never get on without me, I should be\nobliged to cut the connection.  I should have no alternative.'\n\nMr Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred\nthe fire in an excess of sympathy, but said nothing.\n\n'As to young Snob, sir,' pursued Mr Chuckster with a prophetic look,\n'you'll find he'll turn out bad.  In our profession we know something\nof human nature, and take my word for it, that the feller that came\nback to work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in\nhis true colours.  He's a low thief, sir.  He must be.'\n\nMr Chuckster being roused, would probably have pursued this subject\nfurther, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door,\nwhich seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused\nhim to assume a greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps quite\nconsistent with his late declaration.  Mr Swiveller, hearing the same\nsound, caused his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it brought\nhim to his desk, into which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of\nhis spirits to part with the poker, he thrust it as he cried 'Come in!'\n\nWho should present himself but that very Kit who had been the theme of\nMr Chuckster's wrath!  Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly,\nor look so fierce, as Mr Chuckster when he found it was he.  Mr\nSwiveller stared at him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool,\nand drawing out the poker from its place of concealment, performed the\nbroad-sword exercise with all the cuts and guards complete, in a\nspecies of frenzy.\n\n'Is the gentleman at home?' said Kit, rather astonished by this\nuncommon reception.\n\nBefore Mr Swiveller could make any reply, Mr Chuckster took occasion to\nenter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry; which he held\nto be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the\ninquirer, seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have\nspoken of the other gentleman; or rather (for it was not impossible\nthat the object of his search might be of inferior quality) should have\nmentioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree\nas they thought proper.  Mr Chuckster likewise remarked, that he had\nsome reason to believe this form of address was personal to himself,\nand that he was not a man to be trifled with--as certain snobs (whom he\ndid not more particularly mention or describe) might find to their cost.\n\n'I mean the gentleman up-stairs,' said Kit, turning to Richard\nSwiveller.  'Is he at home?'\n\n'Why?' rejoined Dick.\n\n'Because if he is, I have a letter for him.'\n\n'From whom?' said Dick.\n\n'From Mr Garland.'\n\n'Oh!' said Dick, with extreme politeness.  'Then you may hand it over,\nSir.  And if you're to wait for an answer, Sir, you may wait in the\npassage, Sir, which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir.'\n\n'Thank you,' returned Kit.  'But I am to give it to himself, if you\nplease.'\n\nThe excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered Mr Chuckster, and\nso moved his tender regard for his friend's honour, that he declared,\nif he were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly\nhave annihilated Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront which\nhe did consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation\nattending it, could but have met with the proper sanction and approval\nof a jury of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a\nverdict of justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the\nmorals and character of the Avenger.  Mr Swiveller, without being quite\nso hot upon the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement,\nand not a little puzzled how to act (Kit being quite cool and\ngood-humoured), when the single gentleman was heard to call violently\ndown the stairs.\n\n'Didn't I see somebody for me, come in?' cried the lodger.\n\n'Yes, Sir,' replied Dick.  'Certainly, Sir.'\n\n'Then where is he?' roared the single gentleman.\n\n'He's here, sir,' rejoined Mr Swiveller.  'Now young man, don't you\nhear you're to go up-stairs?  Are you deaf?'\n\nKit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any\naltercation, but hurried off and left the Glorious Apollos gazing at\neach other in silence.\n\n'Didn't I tell you so?' said Mr Chuckster.  'What do you think of that?'\n\nMr Swiveller being in the main a good-natured fellow, and not\nperceiving in the conduct of Kit any villany of enormous magnitude,\nscarcely knew what answer to return.  He was relieved from his\nperplexity, however, by the entrance of Mr Sampson and his sister,\nSally, at sight of whom Mr Chuckster precipitately retired.\n\nMr Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a\nconsultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great\ninterest and importance.  On the occasion of such conferences, they\ngenerally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual\ntime, and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and\ndesigns had tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their\ntoilsome way.  In the present instance, they seemed particularly gay;\nMiss Sally's aspect being of a most oily kind, and Mr Brass rubbing his\nhands in an exceedingly jocose and light-hearted manner.\n\n'Well, Mr Richard,' said Brass.  'How are we this morning?  Are we\npretty fresh and cheerful sir--eh, Mr Richard?'\n\n'Pretty well, sir,' replied Dick.\n\n'That's well,' said Brass.  'Ha ha!  We should be as gay as larks, Mr\nRichard--why not?  It's a pleasant world we live in sir, a very\npleasant world.  There are bad people in it, Mr Richard, but if there\nwere no bad people, there would be no good lawyers.  Ha ha!  Any\nletters by the post this morning, Mr Richard?'\n\nMr Swiveller answered in the negative.\n\n'Ha!' said Brass, 'no matter.  If there's little business to-day,\nthere'll be more to-morrow.  A contented spirit, Mr Richard, is the\nsweetness of existence.  Anybody been here, sir?'\n\n'Only my friend'--replied Dick.  'May we ne'er want a--'\n\n'Friend,' Brass chimed in quickly, 'or a bottle to give him.  Ha ha!\nThat's the way the song runs, isn't it?  A very good song, Mr Richard,\nvery good.  I like the sentiment of it.  Ha ha!  Your friend's the\nyoung man from Witherden's office I think--yes--May we ne'er want a--\nNobody else at all, been, Mr Richard?'\n\n'Only somebody to the lodger,' replied Mr Swiveller.\n\n'Oh indeed!' cried Brass.  'Somebody to the lodger eh?  Ha ha!  May we\nne'er want a friend, or a----  Somebody to the lodger, eh, Mr Richard?'\n\n'Yes,' said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of\nspirits which his employer displayed.  'With him now.'\n\n'With him now!' cried Brass; 'Ha ha!  There let 'em be, merry and free,\ntoor rul lol le.  Eh, Mr Richard?  Ha ha!'\n\n'Oh certainly,' replied Dick.\n\n'And who,' said Brass, shuffling among his papers, 'who is the lodger's\nvisitor--not a lady visitor, I hope, eh, Mr Richard?  The morals of the\nMarks you know, sir--\"when lovely women stoops to folly\"--and all\nthat--eh, Mr Richard?'\n\n'Another young man, who belongs to Witherden's too, or half belongs\nthere,' returned Richard.  'Kit, they call him.'\n\n'Kit, eh!' said Brass.  'Strange name--name of a dancing-master's\nfiddle, eh, Mr Richard?  Ha ha!  Kit's there, is he?  Oh!'\n\nDick looked at Miss Sally, wondering that she didn't check this\nuncommon exuberance on the part of Mr Sampson; but as she made no\nattempt to do so, and rather appeared to exhibit a tacit acquiescence\nin it, he concluded that they had just been cheating somebody, and\nreceiving the bill.\n\n'Will you have the goodness, Mr Richard,' said Brass, taking a letter\nfrom his desk, 'just to step over to Peckham Rye with that?  There's no\nanswer, but it's rather particular and should go by hand.  Charge the\noffice with your coach-hire back, you know; don't spare the office; get\nas much out of it as you can--clerk's motto--Eh, Mr Richard?  Ha ha!'\n\nMr Swiveller solemnly doffed the aquatic jacket, put on his coat, took\ndown his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed.  As soon\nas he was gone, up rose Miss Sally Brass, and smiling sweetly at her\nbrother (who nodded and smote his nose in return) withdrew also.\n\nSampson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set the office-door\nwide open, and establishing himself at his desk directly opposite, so\nthat he could not fail to see anybody who came down-stairs and passed\nout at the street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and\nassiduity; humming as he did so, in a voice that was anything but\nmusical, certain vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the\nunion between Church and State, inasmuch as they were compounded of the\nEvening Hymn and God save the King.\n\nThus, the attorney of Bevis Marks sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a\nlong time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cunning face,\nand hearing nothing, went on humming louder, and writing slower than\never.  At length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's door\nopened and shut, and footsteps coming down the stairs.  Then, Mr Brass\nleft off writing entirely, and, with his pen in his hand, hummed his\nvery loudest; shaking his head meanwhile from side to side, like a man\nwhose whole soul was in the music, and smiling in a manner quite\nseraphic.\n\nIt was towards this moving spectacle that the staircase and the sweet\nsounds guided Kit; on whose arrival before his door, Mr Brass stopped\nhis singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably: at the same time\nbeckoning to him with his pen.\n\n'Kit,' said Mr Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, 'how do you\ndo?'\n\nKit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his\nhand upon the lock of the street door when Mr Brass called him softly\nback.\n\n'You are not to go, if you please, Kit,' said the attorney in a\nmysterious and yet business-like way.  'You are to step in here, if you\nplease.  Dear me, dear me!  When I look at you,' said the lawyer,\nquitting his stool, and standing before the fire with his back towards\nit, 'I am reminded of the sweetest little face that ever my eyes\nbeheld.  I remember your coming there, twice or thrice, when we were in\npossession.  Ah Kit, my dear fellow, gentleman in my profession have\nsuch painful duties to perform sometimes, that you needn't envy us--you\nneedn't indeed!'\n\n'I don't, sir,' said Kit, 'though it isn't for the like of me to judge.'\n\n'Our only consolation, Kit,' pursued the lawyer, looking at him in a\nsort of pensive abstraction, 'is, that although we cannot turn away the\nwind, we can soften it; we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn\nlambs.'\n\n'Shorn indeed!' thought Kit.  'Pretty close!' But he didn't say _so_.\n\n'On that occasion, Kit,' said Mr Brass, 'on that occasion that I have\njust alluded to, I had a hard battle with Mr Quilp (for Mr Quilp is a\nvery hard man) to obtain them the indulgence they had.  It might have\ncost me a client.  But suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed.'\n\n'He's not so bad after all,' thought honest Kit, as the attorney pursed\nup his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better\nfeelings.\n\n'I respect you, Kit,' said Brass with emotion.  'I saw enough of your\nconduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble,\nand your fortune lowly.  It isn't the waistcoat that I look at.  It is\nthe heart.  The checks in the waistcoat are but the wires of the cage.\nBut the heart is the bird.  Ah!  How many sich birds are perpetually\nmoulting, and putting their beaks through the wires to peck at all\nmankind!'\n\nThis poetic figure, which Kit took to be in a special allusion to his\nown checked waistcoat, quite overcame him; Mr Brass's voice and manner\nadded not a little to its effect, for he discoursed with all the mild\nausterity of a hermit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of his\nrusty surtout, and a skull on the chimney-piece, to be completely set\nup in that line of business.\n\n'Well, well,' said Sampson, smiling as good men smile when they\ncompassionate their own weakness or that of their fellow-creatures,\n'this is wide of the bull's-eye.  You're to take that, if you please.'\nAs he spoke, he pointed to a couple of half-crowns on the desk.\n\nKit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson, and hesitated.\n\n'For yourself,' said Brass.  'From--'\n\n'No matter about the person they came from,' replied the lawyer.  'Say\nme, if you like.  We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we\nmustn't ask questions or talk too much--you understand?  You're to take\nthem, that's all; and between you and me, I don't think they'll be the\nlast you'll have to take from the same place.  I hope not.  Good bye,\nKit.  Good bye!'\n\nWith many thanks, and many more self-reproaches for having on such\nslight grounds suspected one who in their very first conversation\nturned out such a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the\nmoney and made the best of his way home.  Mr Brass remained airing\nhimself at the fire, and resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic\nsmile, simultaneously.\n\n'May I come in?' said Miss Sally, peeping.\n\n'Oh yes, you may come in,' returned her brother.\n\n'Ahem!' coughed Miss Brass interrogatively.\n\n'Why, yes,' returned Sampson, 'I should say as good as done.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 57\n\nMr Chuckster's indignant apprehensions were not without foundation.\nCertainly the friendship between the single gentleman and Mr Garland\nwas not suffered to cool, but had a rapid growth and flourished\nexceedingly.  They were soon in habits of constant intercourse and\ncommunication; and the single gentleman labouring at this time under a\nslight attack of illness--the consequence most probably of his late\nexcited feelings and subsequent disappointment--furnished a reason for\ntheir holding yet more frequent correspondence; so that some one of the\ninmates of Abel Cottage, Finchley, came backwards and forwards between\nthat place and Bevis Marks, almost every day.\n\nAs the pony had now thrown off all disguise, and without any mincing of\nthe matter or beating about the bush, sturdily refused to be driven by\nanybody but Kit, it generally happened that whether old Mr Garland\ncame, or Mr Abel, Kit was of the party.  Of all messages and inquiries,\nKit was, in right of his position, the bearer; thus it came about that,\nwhile the single gentleman remained indisposed, Kit turned into Bevis\nMarks every morning with nearly as much regularity as the General\nPostman.\n\nMr Sampson Brass, who no doubt had his reasons for looking sharply\nabout him, soon learnt to distinguish the pony's trot and the clatter\nof the little chaise at the corner of the street.  Whenever the sound\nreached his ears, he would immediately lay down his pen and fall to\nrubbing his hands and exhibiting the greatest glee.\n\n'Ha ha!' he would cry.  'Here's the pony again!  Most remarkable pony,\nextremely docile, eh, Mr Richard, eh sir?'\n\nDick would return some matter-of-course reply, and Mr Brass standing on\nthe bottom rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the street over\nthe top of the window-blind, would take an observation of the visitors.\n\n'The old gentleman again!' he would exclaim, 'a very prepossessing old\ngentleman, Mr Richard--charming countenance, sir--extremely\ncalm--benevolence in every feature, sir.  He quite realises my idea of\nKing Lear, as he appeared when in possession of his kingdom, Mr\nRichard--the same good humour, the same white hair and partial\nbaldness, the same liability to be imposed upon.  Ah!  A sweet subject\nfor contemplation, sir, very sweet!'\n\nThen Mr Garland having alighted and gone up-stairs, Sampson would nod\nand smile to Kit from the window, and presently walk out into the\nstreet to greet him, when some such conversation as the following would\nensue.\n\n'Admirably groomed, Kit'--Mr Brass is patting the pony--'does you great\ncredit--amazingly sleek and bright to be sure.  He literally looks as\nif he had been varnished all over.'\n\nKit touches his hat, smiles, pats the pony himself, and expresses his\nconviction, 'that Mr Brass will not find many like him.'\n\n'A beautiful animal indeed!' cries Brass.  'Sagacious too?'\n\n'Bless you!' replies Kit, 'he knows what you say to him as well as a\nChristian does.'\n\n'Does he indeed!' cries Brass, who has heard the same thing in the same\nplace from the same person in the same words a dozen times, but is\nparalysed with astonishment notwithstanding.  'Dear me!'\n\n'I little thought the first time I saw him, Sir,' says Kit, pleased\nwith the attorney's strong interest in his favourite, 'that I should\ncome to be as intimate with him as I am now.'\n\n'Ah!' rejoins Mr Brass, brim-full of moral precepts and love of virtue.\n'A charming subject of reflection for you, very charming.  A subject of\nproper pride and congratulation, Christopher.  Honesty is the best\npolicy.--I always find it so myself.  I lost forty-seven pound ten by\nbeing honest this morning.  But it's all gain, it's gain!'\n\nMr Brass slyly tickles his nose with his pen, and looks at Kit with the\nwater standing in his eyes.  Kit thinks that if ever there was a good\nman who belied his appearance, that man is Sampson Brass.\n\n'A man,' says Sampson, 'who loses forty-seven pound ten in one morning\nby his honesty, is a man to be envied.  If it had been eighty pound,\nthe luxuriousness of feeling would have been increased.  Every pound\nlost, would have been a hundredweight of happiness gained.  The still\nsmall voice, Christopher,' cries Brass, smiling, and tapping himself on\nthe bosom, 'is a-singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness\nand joy!'\n\nKit is so improved by the conversation, and finds it go so completely\nhome to his feelings, that he is considering what he shall say, when Mr\nGarland appears.  The old gentleman is helped into the chaise with\ngreat obsequiousness by Mr Sampson Brass; and the pony, after shaking\nhis head several times, and standing for three or four minutes with all\nhis four legs planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made up his\nmind never to stir from that spot, but there to live and die, suddenly\ndarts off, without the smallest notice, at the rate of twelve English\nmiles an hour.  Then, Mr Brass and his sister (who has joined him at\nthe door) exchange an odd kind of smile--not at all a pleasant one in\nits expression--and return to the society of Mr Richard Swiveller,\nwho, during their absence, has been regaling himself with various feats\nof pantomime, and is discovered at his desk, in a very flushed and\nheated condition, violently scratching out nothing with half a penknife.\n\nWhenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened\nthat Sampson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr Swiveller,\nif not to Peckham Rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place\nfrom which he could not be expected to return for two or three hours,\nor in all probability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not,\nto say the truth, renowned for using great expedition on such\noccasions, but rather for protracting and spinning out the time to the\nvery utmost limit of possibility.  Mr Swiveller out of sight, Miss\nSally immediately withdrew.  Mr Brass would then set the office-door\nwide open, hum his old tune with great gaiety of heart, and smile\nseraphically as before.  Kit coming down-stairs would be called in;\nentertained with some moral and agreeable conversation; perhaps\nentreated to mind the office for an instant while Mr Brass stepped over\nthe way; and afterwards presented with one or two half-crowns as the\ncase might be.  This occurred so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but\nthat they came from the single gentleman who had already rewarded his\nmother with great liberality, could not enough admire his generosity;\nand bought so many cheap presents for her, and for little Jacob, and\nfor the baby, and for Barbara to boot, that one or other of them was\nhaving some new trifle every day of their lives.\n\nWhile these acts and deeds were in progress in and out of the office of\nSampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein, began\nto find the time hang heavy on his hands.  For the better preservation\nof his cheerfulness therefore, and to prevent his faculties from\nrusting, he provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards,\nand accustomed himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty,\nthirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds aside, besides many\nhazardous bets to a considerable amount.\n\nAs these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the\nmagnitude of the interests involved, Mr Swiveller began to think that\non those evenings when Mr and Miss Brass were out (and they often went\nout now) he heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the\ndirection of the door, which it occurred to him, after some reflection,\nmust proceed from the small servant, who always had a cold from damp\nliving.  Looking intently that way one night, he plainly distinguished\nan eye gleaming and glistening at the keyhole; and having now no doubt\nthat his suspicions were correct, he stole softly to the door, and\npounced upon her before she was aware of his approach.\n\n'Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my word I didn't,' cried the\nsmall servant, struggling like a much larger one.  'It's so very dull,\ndown-stairs, Please don't you tell upon me, please don't.'\n\n'Tell upon you!' said Dick.  'Do you mean to say you were looking\nthrough the keyhole for company?'\n\n'Yes, upon my word I was,' replied the small servant.\n\n'How long have you been cooling your eye there?' said Dick.\n\n'Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before.'\n\nVague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had\nrefreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which,\nno doubt, the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr\nSwiveller; but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered\nhimself speedily.\n\n'Well--come in'--he said, after a little consideration.  'Here--sit\ndown, and I'll teach you how to play.'\n\n'Oh! I durstn't do it,' rejoined the small servant; 'Miss Sally 'ud\nkill me, if she know'd I come up here.'\n\n'Have you got a fire down-stairs?' said Dick.\n\n'A very little one,' replied the small servant.\n\n'Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I'll\ncome,' said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket.  'Why, how thin\nyou are!  What do you mean by it?'\n\n'It ain't my fault.'\n\n'Could you eat any bread and meat?' said Dick, taking down his hat.\n'Yes?  Ah! I thought so.  Did you ever taste beer?'\n\n'I had a sip of it once,' said the small servant.\n\n'Here's a state of things!' cried Mr Swiveller, raising his eyes to the\nceiling.  'She never tasted it--it can't be tasted in a sip!  Why, how\nold are you?'\n\n'I don't know.'\n\nMr Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a\nmoment; then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back,\nvanished straightway.\n\nPresently, he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who\nbore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great\npot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a\ngrateful steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular\nrecipe which Mr Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a period\nwhen he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his\nfriendship.  Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging\nhis little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr Swiveller\nfollowed her into the kitchen.\n\n'There!' said Richard, putting the plate before her.  'First of all\nclear that off, and then you'll see what's next.'\n\nThe small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon\nempty.\n\n'Next,' said Dick, handing the purl, 'take a pull at that; but moderate\nyour transports, you know, for you're not used to it.  Well, is it\ngood?'\n\n'Oh! isn't it?' said the small servant.\n\nMr Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply,\nand took a long draught himself, steadfastly regarding his companion\nwhile he did so.  These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself\nto teaching her the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being\nboth sharp-witted and cunning.\n\n'Now,' said Mr Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and\ntrimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt,\n'those are the stakes.  If you win, you get 'em all.  If I win, I get\n'em.  To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the\nMarchioness, do you hear?'\n\nThe small servant nodded.\n\n'Then, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'fire away!'\n\nThe Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered\nwhich to play, and Mr Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air\nwhich such society required, took another pull at the tankard, and\nwaited for her lead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 58\n\nMr Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying\nsuccess, until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the\npurl, and the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that\ngentleman mindful of the flight of Time, and the expediency of\nwithdrawing before Mr Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned.\n\n'With which object in view, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller gravely, 'I\nshall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and\nto retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely\nobserving, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care\nnot how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still\nis growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run.  Marchioness,\nyour health.  You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is\ndamp, and the marble floor is--if I may be allowed the\nexpression--sloppy.'\n\nAs a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr Swiveller had\nbeen sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude\nhe now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly\nsipped the last choice drops of nectar.\n\n'The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the\nPlay?' said Mr Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table,\nand raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a\ntheatrical bandit.\n\nThe Marchioness nodded.\n\n'Ha!' said Mr Swiveller, with a portentous frown.  ''Tis well.\nMarchioness!--but no matter.  Some wine there.  Ho!' He illustrated\nthese melodramatic morsels by handing the tankard to himself with great\nhumility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and\nsmacking his lips fiercely.\n\nThe small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical\nconventionalities as Mr Swiveller (having indeed never seen a play, or\nheard one spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors and in\nother forbidden places), was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel\nin their nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that\nMr Swiveller felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one\nmore suitable to private life, as he asked,\n\n'Do they often go where glory waits 'em, and leave you here?'\n\n'Oh, yes; I believe you they do,' returned the small servant.  'Miss\nSally's such a one-er for that, she is.'\n\n'Such a what?' said Dick.\n\n'Such a one-er,' returned the Marchioness.\n\nAfter a moment's reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his\nresponsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on; as\nit was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her\nopportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a\nmomentary check of little consequence.\n\n'They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp,' said the small servant with a\nshrewd look; 'they go to a many places, bless you!'\n\n'Is Mr Brass a wunner?' said Dick.\n\n'Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't,' replied the small servant,\nshaking her head.  'Bless you, he'd never do anything without her.'\n\n'Oh!  He wouldn't, wouldn't he?' said Dick.\n\n'Miss Sally keeps him in such order,' said the small servant; 'he\nalways asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes.  Bless\nyou, you wouldn't believe how much he catches it.'\n\n'I suppose,' said Dick, 'that they consult together, a good deal, and\ntalk about a great many people--about me for instance, sometimes, eh,\nMarchioness?'\n\nThe Marchioness nodded amazingly.\n\n'Complimentary?' said Mr Swiveller.\n\nThe Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left\noff nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side, with a\nvehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck.\n\n'Humph!' Dick muttered.  'Would it be any breach of confidence,\nMarchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has\nnow the honour to--?'\n\n'Miss Sally says you're a funny chap,' replied his friend.\n\n'Well, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that's not uncomplimentary.\nMerriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading quality.  Old King\nCole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages\nof history.'\n\n'But she says,' pursued his companion, 'that you an't to be trusted.'\n\n'Why, really Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully; 'several\nladies and gentlemen--not exactly professional persons, but\ntradespeople, ma'am, tradespeople--have made the same remark.  The\nobscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to\nthat opinion to-night when I ordered him to prepare the banquet.  It's\na popular prejudice, Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don't know why,\nfor I have been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can\nsafely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me--never.\nMr Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?'\n\nHis friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that\nMr Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and\nseeming to recollect herself, added imploringly, 'But don't you ever\ntell upon me, or I shall be beat to death.'\n\n'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, rising, 'the word of a gentleman is\nas good as his bond--sometimes better, as in the present case, where\nhis bond might prove but a doubtful sort of security.  I am your\nfriend, and I hope we shall play many more rubbers together in this\nsame saloon.  But, Marchioness,' added Richard, stopping in his way to\nthe door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant, who was\nfollowing with the candle; 'it occurs to me that you must be in the\nconstant habit of airing your eye at keyholes, to know all this.'\n\n'I only wanted,' replied the trembling Marchioness, 'to know where the\nkey of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn't have taken much,\nif I had found it--only enough to squench my hunger.'\n\n'You didn't find it then?' said Dick.  'But of course you didn't, or\nyou'd be plumper.  Good night, Marchioness.  Fare thee well, and if for\never, then for ever fare thee well--and put up the chain, Marchioness,\nin case of accidents.'\n\nWith this parting injunction, Mr Swiveller emerged from the house; and\nfeeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as\npromised to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong\nand heady compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings,\nand to bed at once.  Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments\n(for he still retained the plural fiction) being at no great distance\nfrom the office, he was soon seated in his own bed-chamber, where,\nhaving pulled off one boot and forgotten the other, he fell into deep\ncogitation.\n\n'This Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, folding his arms, 'is a very\nextraordinary person--surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of\nbeer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and\ntaking a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors--can\nthese things be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an\nopposition to the decrees of fate?  It is a most inscrutable and\nunmitigated staggerer!'\n\nWhen his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became\naware of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity he\nproceeded to divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity\nall the time, and sighing deeply.\n\n'These rubbers,' said Mr Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly\nthe same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial\nfireside.  Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise.  She rings\nthe changes on 'em now.  From sport to sport they hurry her to banish\nher regrets, and when they win a smile from her, they think that she\nforgets--but she don't.  By this time, I should say,' added Richard,\ngetting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the\nreflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; 'by\nthis time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul.  It serves\nher right!'\n\nMelting from this stern and obdurate, into the tender and pathetic\nmood, Mr Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and\neven made a show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better\nof, and wrenched the tassel from his nightcap instead.  At last,\nundressing himself with a gloomy resolution, he got into bed.\n\nSome men in his blighted position would have taken to drinking; but as\nMr Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the\nnews that Sophy Wackles was lost to him for ever, to playing the flute;\nthinking after mature consideration that it was a good, sound, dismal\noccupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but\ncalculated to awaken a fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours.\nIn pursuance of this resolution, he now drew a little table to his\nbedside, and arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the\nbest advantage, took his flute from its box, and began to play most\nmournfully.\n\nThe air was 'Away with melancholy'--a composition, which, when it is\nplayed very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage\nof being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the\ninstrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find\nthe next, has not a lively effect.  Yet, for half the night, or more,\nMr Swiveller, lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the\nceiling, and sometimes half out of bed to correct himself by the book,\nplayed this unhappy tune over and over again; never leaving off, save\nfor a minute or two at a time to take breath and soliloquise about the\nMarchioness, and then beginning again with renewed vigour.  It was not\nuntil he had quite exhausted his several subjects of meditation, and\nhad breathed into the flute the whole sentiment of the purl down to its\nvery dregs, and had nearly maddened the people of the house, and at\nboth the next doors, and over the way--that he shut up the music-book,\nextinguished the candle, and finding himself greatly lightened and\nrelieved in his mind, turned round and fell asleep.\n\nHe awoke in the morning, much refreshed; and having taken half an\nhour's exercise at the flute, and graciously received a notice to quit\nfrom his landlady, who had been in waiting on the stairs for that\npurpose since the dawn of day, repaired to Bevis Marks; where the\nbeautiful Sally was already at her post, bearing in her looks a\nradiance, mild as that which beameth from the virgin moon.\n\nMr Swiveller acknowledged her presence by a nod, and exchanged his coat\nfor the aquatic jacket; which usually took some time fitting on, for in\nconsequence of a tightness in the sleeves, it was only to be got into\nby a series of struggles.  This difficulty overcome, he took his seat\nat the desk.\n\n'I say'--quoth Miss Brass, abruptly breaking silence, 'you haven't seen\na silver pencil-case this morning, have you?'\n\n'I didn't meet many in the street,' rejoined Mr Swiveller.  'I saw\none--a stout pencil-case of respectable appearance--but as he was in\ncompany with an elderly penknife, and a young toothpick with whom he\nwas in earnest conversation, I felt a delicacy in speaking to him.'\n\n'No, but have you?' returned Miss Brass.  'Seriously, you know.'\n\n'What a dull dog you must be to ask me such a question seriously,' said\nMr Swiveller.  'Haven't I this moment come?'\n\n'Well, all I know is,' replied Miss Sally, 'that it's not to be found,\nand that it disappeared one day this week, when I left it on the desk.'\n\n'Halloa!' thought Richard, 'I hope the Marchioness hasn't been at work\nhere.'\n\n'There was a knife too,' said Miss Sally, 'of the same pattern.  They\nwere given to me by my father, years ago, and are both gone.  You\nhaven't missed anything yourself, have you?'\n\nMr Swiveller involuntarily clapped his hands to the jacket to be quite\nsure that it WAS a jacket and not a skirted coat; and having satisfied\nhimself of the safety of this, his only moveable in Bevis Marks, made\nanswer in the negative.\n\n'It's a very unpleasant thing, Dick,' said Miss Brass, pulling out the\ntin box and refreshing herself with a pinch of snuff; 'but between you\nand me--between friends you know, for if Sammy knew it, I should never\nhear the last of it--some of the office-money, too, that has been left\nabout, has gone in the same way.  In particular, I have missed three\nhalf-crowns at three different times.'\n\n'You don't mean that?' cried Dick.  'Be careful what you say, old boy,\nfor this is a serious matter.  Are you quite sure?  Is there no\nmistake?'\n\n'It is so, and there can't be any mistake at all,' rejoined Miss Brass\nemphatically.\n\n'Then by Jove,' thought Richard, laying down his pen, 'I am afraid the\nMarchioness is done for!'\n\nThe more he discussed the subject in his thoughts, the more probable it\nappeared to Dick that the miserable little servant was the culprit.\nWhen he considered on what a spare allowance of food she lived, how\nneglected and untaught she was, and how her natural cunning had been\nsharpened by necessity and privation, he scarcely doubted it.  And yet\nhe pitied her so much, and felt so unwilling to have a matter of such\ngravity disturbing the oddity of their acquaintance, that he thought,\nand thought truly, that rather than receive fifty pounds down, he would\nhave the Marchioness proved innocent.\n\nWhile he was plunged in very profound and serious meditation upon this\ntheme, Miss Sally sat shaking her head with an air of great mystery and\ndoubt; when the voice of her brother Sampson, carolling a cheerful\nstrain, was heard in the passage, and that gentleman himself, beaming\nwith virtuous smiles, appeared.\n\n'Mr Richard, sir, good morning!  Here we are again, sir, entering upon\nanother day, with our bodies strengthened by slumber and breakfast, and\nour spirits fresh and flowing.  Here we are, Mr Richard, rising with\nthe sun to run our little course--our course of duty, sir--and, like\nhim, to get through our day's work with credit to ourselves and\nadvantage to our fellow-creatures.  A charming reflection sir, very\ncharming!'\n\nWhile he addressed his clerk in these words, Mr Brass was, somewhat\nostentatiously, engaged in minutely examining and holding up against\nthe light a five-pound bank note, which he had brought in, in his hand.\n\nMr Richard not receiving his remarks with anything like enthusiasm, his\nemployer turned his eyes to his face, and observed that it wore a\ntroubled expression.\n\n'You're out of spirits, sir,' said Brass.  'Mr Richard, sir, we should\nfall to work cheerfully, and not in a despondent state.  It becomes us,\nMr Richard, sir, to--'\n\nHere the chaste Sarah heaved a loud sigh.\n\n'Dear me!' said Mr Sampson, 'you too!  Is anything the matter?  Mr\nRichard, sir--'\n\nDick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that she was making signals to him,\nto acquaint her brother with the subject of their recent conversation.\nAs his own position was not a very pleasant one until the matter was\nset at rest one way or other, he did so; and Miss Brass, plying her\nsnuff-box at a most wasteful rate, corroborated his account.\n\nThe countenance of Sampson fell, and anxiety overspread his features.\nInstead of passionately bewailing the loss of his money, as Miss Sally\nhad expected, he walked on tiptoe to the door, opened it, looked\noutside, shut it softly, returned on tiptoe, and said in a whisper,\n\n'This is a most extraordinary and painful circumstance--Mr Richard,\nsir, a most painful circumstance.  The fact is, that I myself have\nmissed several small sums from the desk, of late, and have refrained\nfrom mentioning it, hoping that accident would discover the offender;\nbut it has not done so--it has not done so.  Sally--Mr Richard,\nsir--this is a particularly distressing affair!'\n\nAs Sampson spoke, he laid the bank-note upon the desk among some\npapers, in an absent manner, and thrust his hands into his pockets.\nRichard Swiveller pointed to it, and admonished him to take it up.\n\n'No, Mr Richard, sir,' rejoined Brass with emotion, 'I will not take it\nup.  I will let it lie there, sir.  To take it up, Mr Richard, sir,\nwould imply a doubt of you; and in you, sir, I have unlimited\nconfidence.  We will let it lie there, Sir, if you please, and we will\nnot take it up by any means.'  With that, Mr Brass patted him twice or\nthrice on the shoulder, in a most friendly manner, and entreated him to\nbelieve that he had as much faith in his honesty as he had in his own.\n\nAlthough at another time Mr Swiveller might have looked upon this as a\ndoubtful compliment, he felt it, under the then-existing circumstances,\na great relief to be assured that he was not wrongfully suspected.\nWhen he had made a suitable reply, Mr Brass wrung him by the hand, and\nfell into a brown study, as did Miss Sally likewise.  Richard too\nremained in a thoughtful state; fearing every moment to hear the\nMarchioness impeached, and unable to resist the conviction that she\nmust be guilty.\n\nWhen they had severally remained in this condition for some minutes,\nMiss Sally all at once gave a loud rap upon the desk with her clenched\nfist, and cried, 'I've hit it!'--as indeed she had, and chipped a piece\nout of it too; but that was not her meaning.\n\n'Well,' cried Brass anxiously.  'Go on, will you!'\n\n'Why,' replied his sister with an air of triumph, 'hasn't there been\nsomebody always coming in and out of this office for the last three or\nfour weeks; hasn't that somebody been left alone in it\nsometimes--thanks to you; and do you mean to tell me that that somebody\nisn't the thief!'\n\n'What somebody?' blustered Brass.\n\n'Why, what do you call him--Kit.'\n\n'Mr Garland's young man?'\n\n'To be sure.'\n\n'Never!' cried Brass.  'Never.  I'll not hear of it.  Don't tell\nme'--said Sampson, shaking his head, and working with both his hands as\nif he were clearing away ten thousand cobwebs.  'I'll never believe it\nof him.  Never!'\n\n'I say,' repeated Miss Brass, taking another pinch of snuff, 'that he's\nthe thief.'\n\n'I say,' returned Sampson violently, 'that he is not.  What do you\nmean?  How dare you?  Are characters to be whispered away like this?\nDo you know that he's the honestest and faithfullest fellow that ever\nlived, and that he has an irreproachable good name?  Come in, come in!'\n\nThese last words were not addressed to Miss Sally, though they partook\nof the tone in which the indignant remonstrances that preceded them had\nbeen uttered.  They were addressed to some person who had knocked at\nthe office-door; and they had hardly passed the lips of Mr Brass, when\nthis very Kit himself looked in.\n\n'Is the gentleman up-stairs, sir, if you please?'\n\n'Yes, Kit,' said Brass, still fired with an honest indignation, and\nfrowning with knotted brows upon his sister; 'Yes Kit, he is.  I am\nglad to see you Kit, I am rejoiced to see you.  Look in again, as you\ncome down-stairs, Kit.  That lad a robber!' cried Brass when he had\nwithdrawn, 'with that frank and open countenance!  I'd trust him with\nuntold gold.  Mr Richard, sir, have the goodness to step directly to\nWrasp and Co.'s in Broad Street, and inquire if they have had\ninstructions to appear in Carkem and Painter.  THAT lad a robber,'\nsneered Sampson, flushed and heated with his wrath.  'Am I blind, deaf,\nsilly; do I know nothing of human nature when I see it before me?  Kit\na robber!  Bah!'\n\nFlinging this final interjection at Miss Sally with immeasurable scorn\nand contempt, Sampson Brass thrust his head into his desk, as if to\nshut the base world from his view, and breathed defiance from under its\nhalf-closed lid.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 59\n\nWhen Kit, having discharged his errand, came down-stairs from the\nsingle gentleman's apartment after the lapse of a quarter of an hour or\nso, Mr Sampson Brass was alone in the office.  He was not singing as\nusual, nor was he seated at his desk.  The open door showed him\nstanding before the fire with his back towards it, and looking so very\nstrange that Kit supposed he must have been suddenly taken ill.\n\n'Is anything the matter, sir?' said Kit.\n\n'Matter!' cried Brass.  'No.  Why anything the matter?'\n\n'You are so very pale,' said Kit, 'that I should hardly have known you.'\n\n'Pooh pooh! mere fancy,' cried Brass, stooping to throw up the cinders.\n'Never better, Kit, never better in all my life.  Merry too.  Ha ha!\nHow's our friend above-stairs, eh?'\n\n'A great deal better,' said Kit.\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' rejoined Brass; 'thankful, I may say.  An\nexcellent gentleman--worthy, liberal, generous, gives very little\ntrouble--an admirable lodger.  Ha ha!  Mr Garland--he's well I hope,\nKit--and the pony--my friend, my particular friend you know.  Ha ha!'\n\nKit gave a satisfactory account of all the little household at Abel\nCottage.  Mr Brass, who seemed remarkably inattentive and impatient,\nmounted on his stool, and beckoning him to come nearer, took him by the\nbutton-hole.\n\n'I have been thinking, Kit,' said the lawyer, 'that I could throw some\nlittle emoluments in your mother's way--You have a mother, I think?  If\nI recollect right, you told me--'\n\n'Oh yes, Sir, yes certainly.'\n\n'A widow, I think? an industrious widow?'\n\n'A harder-working woman or a better mother never lived, Sir.'\n\n'Ah!' cried Brass.  'That's affecting, truly affecting.  A poor widow\nstruggling to maintain her orphans in decency and comfort, is a\ndelicious picture of human goodness.--Put down your hat, Kit.'\n\n'Thank you Sir, I must be going directly.'\n\n'Put it down while you stay, at any rate,' said Brass, taking it from\nhim and making some confusion among the papers, in finding a place for\nit on the desk.  'I was thinking, Kit, that we have often houses to let\nfor people we are concerned for, and matters of that sort.  Now you\nknow we're obliged to put people into those houses to take care of\n'em--very often undeserving people that we can't depend upon.  What's\nto prevent our having a person that we CAN depend upon, and enjoying\nthe delight of doing a good action at the same time?  I say, what's to\nprevent our employing this worthy woman, your mother?  What with one\njob and another, there's lodging--and good lodging too--pretty well\nall the year round, rent free, and a weekly allowance besides, Kit,\nthat would provide her with a great many comforts she don't at present\nenjoy.  Now what do you think of that?  Do you see any objection?  My\nonly desire is to serve you, Kit; therefore if you do, say so freely.'\n\nAs Brass spoke, he moved the hat twice or thrice, and shuffled among\nthe papers again, as if in search of something.\n\n'How can I see any objection to such a kind offer, sir?' replied Kit\nwith his whole heart.  'I don't know how to thank you sir, I don't\nindeed.'\n\n'Why then,' said Brass, suddenly turning upon him and thrusting his\nface close to Kit's with such a repulsive smile that the latter, even\nin the very height of his gratitude, drew back, quite startled.  'Why\nthen, it's done.'\n\nKit looked at him in some confusion.\n\n'Done, I say,' added Sampson, rubbing his hands and veiling himself\nagain in his usual oily manner.  'Ha ha! and so you shall find Kit, so\nyou shall find.  But dear me,' said Brass, 'what a time Mr Richard is\ngone!  A sad loiterer to be sure!  Will you mind the office one minute,\nwhile I run up-stairs?  Only one minute.  I'll not detain you an\ninstant longer, on any account, Kit.'\n\nTalking as he went, Mr Brass bustled out of the office, and in a very\nshort time returned.  Mr Swiveller came back, almost at the same\ninstant; and as Kit was leaving the room hastily, to make up for lost\ntime, Miss Brass herself encountered him in the doorway.\n\n'Oh!' sneered Sally, looking after him as she entered.  'There goes\nyour pet, Sammy, eh?'\n\n'Ah!  There he goes,' replied Brass.  'My pet, if you please.  An\nhonest fellow, Mr Richard, sir--a worthy fellow indeed!'\n\n'Hem!' coughed Miss Brass.\n\n'I tell you, you aggravating vagabond,' said the angry Sampson, 'that\nI'd stake my life upon his honesty.  Am I never to hear the last of\nthis?  Am I always to be baited, and beset, by your mean suspicions?\nHave you no regard for true merit, you malignant fellow?  If you come\nto that, I'd sooner suspect your honesty than his.'\n\nMiss Sally pulled out the tin snuff-box, and took a long, slow pinch,\nregarding her brother with a steady gaze all the time.\n\n'She drives me wild, Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass, 'she exasperates me\nbeyond all bearing.  I am heated and excited, sir, I know I am.  These\nare not business manners, sir, nor business looks, but she carries me\nout of myself.'\n\n'Why don't you leave him alone?' said Dick.\n\n'Because she can't, sir,' retorted Brass; 'because to chafe and vex me\nis a part of her nature, Sir, and she will and must do it, or I don't\nbelieve she'd have her health.  But never mind,' said Brass, 'never\nmind.  I've carried my point.  I've shown my confidence in the lad.  He\nhas minded the office again.  Ha ha!  Ugh, you viper!'\n\nThe beautiful virgin took another pinch, and put the snuff-box in her\npocket; still looking at her brother with perfect composure.\n\n'He has minded the office again,' said Brass triumphantly; 'he has had\nmy confidence, and he shall continue to have it; he--why, where's the--'\n\n'What have you lost?' inquired Mr Swiveller.\n\n'Dear me!' said Brass, slapping all his pockets, one after another, and\nlooking into his desk, and under it, and upon it, and wildly tossing\nthe papers about, 'the note, Mr Richard, sir, the five-pound note--what\ncan have become of it?  I laid it down here--God bless me!'\n\n'What!' cried Miss Sally, starting up, clapping her hands, and\nscattering the papers on the floor.  'Gone!  Now who's right?  Now\nwho's got it?  Never mind five pounds--what's five pounds?  He's\nhonest, you know, quite honest.  It would be mean to suspect him.\nDon't run after him.  No, no, not for the world!'\n\n'Is it really gone though?' said Dick, looking at Brass with a face as\npale as his own.\n\n'Upon my word, Mr Richard, Sir,' replied the lawyer, feeling in all his\npockets with looks of the greatest agitation, 'I fear this is a black\nbusiness.  It's certainly gone, Sir.  What's to be done?'\n\n'Don't run after him,' said Miss Sally, taking more snuff.  'Don't run\nafter him on any account.  Give him time to get rid of it, you know.\nIt would be cruel to find him out!'\n\nMr Swiveller and Sampson Brass looked from Miss Sally to each other, in\na state of bewilderment, and then, as by one impulse, caught up their\nhats and rushed out into the street--darting along in the middle of the\nroad, and dashing aside all obstructions, as though they were running\nfor their lives.\n\nIt happened that Kit had been running too, though not so fast, and\nhaving the start of them by some few minutes, was a good distance\nahead.  As they were pretty certain of the road he must have taken,\nhowever, and kept on at a great pace, they came up with him, at the\nvery moment when he had taken breath, and was breaking into a run again.\n\n'Stop!' cried Sampson, laying his hand on one shoulder, while Mr\nSwiveller pounced upon the other.  'Not so fast sir.  You're in a\nhurry?'\n\n'Yes, I am,' said Kit, looking from one to the other in great surprise.\n\n'I--I--can hardly believe it,' panted Sampson, 'but something of value\nis missing from the office.  I hope you don't know what.'\n\n'Know what! good Heaven, Mr Brass!' cried Kit, trembling from head to\nfoot; 'you don't suppose--'\n\n'No, no,' rejoined Brass quickly, 'I don't suppose anything.  Don't say\nI said you did.  You'll come back quietly, I hope?'\n\n'Of course I will,' returned Kit.  'Why not?'\n\n'To be sure!' said Brass.  'Why not?  I hope there may turn out to be\nno why not.  If you knew the trouble I've been in, this morning,\nthrough taking your part, Christopher, you'd be sorry for it.'\n\n'And I am sure you'll be sorry for having suspected me sir,' replied\nKit.  'Come.  Let us make haste back.'\n\n'Certainly!' cried Brass, 'the quicker, the better.  Mr Richard--have\nthe goodness, sir, to take that arm.  I'll take this one.  It's not\neasy walking three abreast, but under these circumstances it must be\ndone, sir; there's no help for it.'\n\nKit did turn from white to red, and from red to white again, when they\nsecured him thus, and for a moment seemed disposed to resist.  But,\nquickly recollecting himself, and remembering that if he made any\nstruggle, he would perhaps be dragged by the collar through the public\nstreets, he only repeated, with great earnestness and with the tears\nstanding in his eyes, that they would be sorry for this--and suffered\nthem to lead him off.  While they were on the way back, Mr Swiveller,\nupon whom his present functions sat very irksomely, took an opportunity\nof whispering in his ear that if he would confess his guilt, even by so\nmuch as a nod, and promise not to do so any more, he would connive at\nhis kicking Sampson Brass on the shins and escaping up a court; but Kit\nindignantly rejecting this proposal, Mr Richard had nothing for it, but\nto hold him tight until they reached Bevis Marks, and ushered him into\nthe presence of the charming Sarah, who immediately took the precaution\nof locking the door.\n\n'Now, you know,' said Brass, 'if this is a case of innocence, it is a\ncase of that description, Christopher, where the fullest disclosure is\nthe best satisfaction for everybody.  Therefore if you'll consent to an\nexamination,' he demonstrated what kind of examination he meant by\nturning back the cuffs of his coat, 'it will be a comfortable and\npleasant thing for all parties.'\n\n'Search me,' said Kit, proudly holding up his arms.  'But mind, sir--I\nknow you'll be sorry for this, to the last day of your life.'\n\n'It is certainly a very painful occurrence,' said Brass with a sigh, as\nhe dived into one of Kit's pockets, and fished up a miscellaneous\ncollection of small articles; 'very painful.  Nothing here, Mr Richard,\nSir, all perfectly satisfactory.  Nor here, sir.  Nor in the waistcoat,\nMr Richard, nor in the coat tails.  So far, I am rejoiced, I am sure.'\n\nRichard Swiveller, holding Kit's hat in his hand, was watching the\nproceedings with great interest, and bore upon his face the slightest\npossible indication of a smile, as Brass, shutting one of his eyes,\nlooked with the other up the inside of one of the poor fellow's sleeves\nas if it were a telescope--when Sampson turning hastily to him, bade\nhim search the hat.\n\n'Here's a handkerchief,' said Dick.\n\n'No harm in that sir,' rejoined Brass, applying his eye to the other\nsleeve, and speaking in the voice of one who was contemplating an\nimmense extent of prospect.  'No harm in a handkerchief Sir, whatever.\nThe faculty don't consider it a healthy custom, I believe, Mr Richard,\nto carry one's handkerchief in one's hat--I have heard that it keeps\nthe head too warm--but in every other point of view, its being there,\nis extremely satisfactory--extremely so.'\n\nAn exclamation, at once from Richard Swiveller, Miss Sally, and Kit\nhimself, cut the lawyer short.  He turned his head, and saw Dick\nstanding with the bank-note in his hand.\n\n'In the hat?' cried Brass in a sort of shriek.\n\n'Under the handkerchief, and tucked beneath the lining,' said Dick,\naghast at the discovery.\n\nMr Brass looked at him, at his sister, at the walls, at the ceiling, at\nthe floor--everywhere but at Kit, who stood quite stupefied and\nmotionless.\n\n'And this,' cried Sampson, clasping his hands, 'is the world that turns\nupon its own axis, and has Lunar influences, and revolutions round\nHeavenly Bodies, and various games of that sort!  This is human natur,\nis it!  Oh natur, natur!  This is the miscreant that I was going to\nbenefit with all my little arts, and that, even now, I feel so much\nfor, as to wish to let him go!  But,' added Mr Brass with greater\nfortitude, 'I am myself a lawyer, and bound to set an example in\ncarrying the laws of my happy country into effect.  Sally my dear,\nforgive me, and catch hold of him on the other side.  Mr Richard, sir,\nhave the goodness to run and fetch a constable.  The weakness is past\nand over sir, and moral strength returns.  A constable, sir, if you\nplease!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 60\n\nKit stood as one entranced, with his eyes opened wide and fixed upon\nthe ground, regardless alike of the tremulous hold which Mr Brass\nmaintained on one side of his cravat, and of the firmer grasp of Miss\nSally upon the other; although this latter detention was in itself no\nsmall inconvenience, as that fascinating woman, besides screwing her\nknuckles inconveniently into his throat from time to time, had fastened\nupon him in the first instance with so tight a grip that even in the\ndisorder and distraction of his thoughts he could not divest himself of\nan uneasy sense of choking.  Between the brother and sister he remained\nin this posture, quite unresisting and passive, until Mr Swiveller\nreturned, with a police constable at his heels.\n\nThis functionary, being, of course, well used to such scenes; looking\nupon all kinds of robbery, from petty larceny up to housebreaking or\nventures on the highway, as matters in the regular course of business;\nand regarding the perpetrators in the light of so many customers coming\nto be served at the wholesale and retail shop of criminal law where he\nstood behind the counter; received Mr Brass's statement of facts with\nabout as much interest and surprise, as an undertaker might evince if\nrequired to listen to a circumstantial account of the last illness of a\nperson whom he was called in to wait upon professionally; and took Kit\ninto custody with a decent indifference.\n\n'We had better,' said this subordinate minister of justice, 'get to the\noffice while there's a magistrate sitting.  I shall want you to come\nalong with us, Mr Brass, and the--' he looked at Miss Sally as if in\nsome doubt whether she might not be a griffin or other fabulous monster.\n\n'The lady, eh?' said Sampson.\n\n'Ah!' replied the constable.  'Yes--the lady.  Likewise the young man\nthat found the property.'\n\n'Mr Richard, Sir,' said Brass in a mournful voice.  'A sad necessity.\nBut the altar of our country sir--'\n\n'You'll have a hackney-coach, I suppose?' interrupted the constable,\nholding Kit (whom his other captors had released) carelessly by the\narm, a little above the elbow.  'Be so good as send for one, will you?'\n\n'But, hear me speak a word,' cried Kit, raising his eyes and looking\nimploringly about him.  'Hear me speak a word.  I am no more guilty\nthan any one of you.  Upon my soul I am not.  I a thief!  Oh, Mr Brass,\nyou know me better.  I am sure you know me better.  This is not right\nof you, indeed.'\n\n'I give you my word, constable--' said Brass.  But here the constable\ninterposed with the constitutional principle 'words be blowed;'\nobserving that words were but spoon-meat for babes and sucklings, and\nthat oaths were the food for strong men.\n\n'Quite true, constable,' assented Brass in the same mournful tone.\n'Strictly correct.  I give you my oath, constable, that down to a few\nminutes ago, when this fatal discovery was made, I had such confidence\nin that lad, that I'd have trusted him with--a hackney-coach, Mr\nRichard, sir; you're very slow, Sir.'\n\n'Who is there that knows me,' cried Kit, 'that would not trust me--\nthat does not? ask anybody whether they have ever doubted me; whether I\nhave ever wronged them of a farthing.  Was I ever once dishonest when I\nwas poor and hungry, and is it likely I would begin now!  Oh consider\nwhat you do.  How can I meet the kindest friends that ever human\ncreature had, with this dreadful charge upon me!'\n\nMr Brass rejoined that it would have been well for the prisoner if he\nhad thought of that before and was about to make some other gloomy\nobservations when the voice of the single gentleman was heard,\ndemanding from above-stairs what was the matter, and what was the cause\nof all that noise and hurry.  Kit made an involuntary start towards the\ndoor in his anxiety to answer for himself, but being speedily detained\nby the constable, had the agony of seeing Sampson Brass run out alone\nto tell the story in his own way.\n\n'And he can hardly believe it, either,' said Sampson, when he returned,\n'nor nobody will.  I wish I could doubt the evidence of my senses, but\ntheir depositions are unimpeachable.  It's of no use cross-examining my\neyes,' cried Sampson, winking and rubbing them, 'they stick to their\nfirst account, and will.  Now, Sarah, I hear the coach in the Marks;\nget on your bonnet, and we'll be off.  A sad errand! a moral funeral,\nquite!'\n\n'Mr Brass,' said Kit.  'Do me one favour.  Take me to Mr Witherden's\nfirst.'\n\nSampson shook his head irresolutely.\n\n'Do,' said Kit.  'My master's there.  For Heaven's sake, take me there,\nfirst.'\n\n'Well, I don't know,' stammered Brass, who perhaps had his reasons for\nwishing to show as fair as possible in the eyes of the notary.  'How do\nwe stand in point of time, constable, eh?'\n\nThe constable, who had been chewing a straw all this while with great\nphilosophy, replied that if they went away at once they would have time\nenough, but that if they stood shilly-shallying there, any longer, they\nmust go straight to the Mansion House; and finally expressed his\nopinion that that was where it was, and that was all about it.\n\nMr Richard Swiveller having arrived inside the coach, and still\nremaining immoveable in the most commodious corner with his face to the\nhorses, Mr Brass instructed the officer to remove his prisoner, and\ndeclared himself quite ready.  Therefore, the constable, still holding\nKit in the same manner, and pushing him on a little before him, so as\nto keep him at about three-quarters of an arm's length in advance\n(which is the professional mode), thrust him into the vehicle and\nfollowed himself.  Miss Sally entered next; and there being now four\ninside, Sampson Brass got upon the box, and made the coachman drive on.\n\nStill completely stunned by the sudden and terrible change which had\ntaken place in his affairs, Kit sat gazing out of the coach window,\nalmost hoping to see some monstrous phenomenon in the streets which\nmight give him reason to believe he was in a dream.  Alas!  Everything\nwas too real and familiar: the same succession of turnings, the same\nhouses, the same streams of people running side by side in different\ndirections upon the pavement, the same bustle of carts and carriages in\nthe road, the same well-remembered objects in the shop windows: a\nregularity in the very noise and hurry which no dream ever mirrored.\nDream-like as the story was, it was true.  He stood charged with\nrobbery; the note had been found upon him, though he was innocent in\nthought and deed; and they were carrying him back, a prisoner.\n\nAbsorbed in these painful ruminations, thinking with a drooping heart\nof his mother and little Jacob, feeling as though even the\nconsciousness of innocence would be insufficient to support him in the\npresence of his friends if they believed him guilty, and sinking in\nhope and courage more and more as they drew nearer to the notary's,\npoor Kit was looking earnestly out of the window, observant of\nnothing,--when all at once, as though it had been conjured up by magic,\nhe became aware of the face of Quilp.\n\nAnd what a leer there was upon the face!  It was from the open window\nof a tavern that it looked out; and the dwarf had so spread himself\nover it, with his elbows on the window-sill and his head resting on\nboth his hands, that what between this attitude and his being swoln\nwith suppressed laughter, he looked puffed and bloated into twice his\nusual breadth.  Mr Brass, on recognising him, immediately stopped the\ncoach.  As it came to a halt directly opposite to where he stood, the\ndwarf pulled off his hat, and saluted the party with a hideous and\ngrotesque politeness.\n\n'Aha!' he cried.  'Where now, Brass? where now? Sally with you too?\nSweet Sally!  And Dick?  Pleasant Dick!  And Kit! Honest Kit!'\n\n'He's extremely cheerful!' said Brass to the coachman.  'Very much so!\nAh, sir--a sad business!  Never believe in honesty any more, sir.'\n\n'Why not?' returned the dwarf.  'Why not, you rogue of a lawyer, why\nnot?'\n\n'Bank-note lost in our office sir,' said Brass, shaking his head.\n'Found in his hat sir--he previously left alone there--no mistake at\nall sir--chain of evidence complete--not a link wanting.'\n\n'What!' cried the dwarf, leaning half his body out of window.  'Kit a\nthief!  Kit a thief!  Ha ha ha!  Why, he's an uglier-looking thief than\ncan be seen anywhere for a penny.  Eh, Kit--eh?  Ha ha ha!  Have you\ntaken Kit into custody before he had time and opportunity to beat me!\nEh, Kit, eh?'  And with that, he burst into a yell of laughter,\nmanifestly to the great terror of the coachman, and pointed to a dyer's\npole hard by, where a dangling suit of clothes bore some resemblance to\na man upon a gibbet.\n\n'Is it coming to that, Kit!' cried the dwarf, rubbing his hands\nviolently.  'Ha ha ha ha!  What a disappointment for little Jacob, and\nfor his darling mother!  Let him have the Bethel minister to comfort\nand console him, Brass.  Eh, Kit, eh?  Drive on coachey, drive on.  Bye\nbye, Kit; all good go with you; keep up your spirits; my love to the\nGarlands--the dear old lady and gentleman.  Say I inquired after 'em,\nwill you?  Blessings on 'em, on you, and on everybody, Kit.  Blessings\non all the world!'\n\nWith such good wishes and farewells, poured out in a rapid torrent\nuntil they were out of hearing, Quilp suffered them to depart; and when\nhe could see the coach no longer, drew in his head, and rolled upon the\nground in an ecstacy of enjoyment.\n\nWhen they reached the notary's, which they were not long in doing, for\nthey had encountered the dwarf in a bye street at a very little\ndistance from the house, Mr Brass dismounted; and opening the coach\ndoor with a melancholy visage, requested his sister to accompany him\ninto the office, with the view of preparing the good people within, for\nthe mournful intelligence that awaited them.  Miss Sally complying, he\ndesired Mr Swiveller to accompany them.  So, into the office they went;\nMr Sampson and his sister arm-in-arm; and Mr Swiveller following, alone.\n\nThe notary was standing before the fire in the outer office, talking to\nMr Abel and the elder Mr Garland, while Mr Chuckster sat writing at the\ndesk, picking up such crumbs of their conversation as happened to fall\nin his way.  This posture of affairs Mr Brass observed through the\nglass-door as he was turning the handle, and seeing that the notary\nrecognised him, he began to shake his head and sigh deeply while that\npartition yet divided them.\n\n'Sir,' said Sampson, taking off his hat, and kissing the two\nfore-fingers of his right hand beaver glove, 'my name is Brass--Brass\nof Bevis Marks, Sir.  I have had the honour and pleasure, Sir, of being\nconcerned against you in some little testamentary matters.  How do you\ndo, sir?'\n\n'My clerk will attend to any business you may have come upon, Mr\nBrass,' said the notary, turning away.\n\n'Thank you Sir,' said Brass, 'thank you, I am sure.  Allow me, Sir, to\nintroduce my sister--quite one of us Sir, although of the weaker\nsex--of great use in my business Sir, I assure you.  Mr Richard, sir,\nhave the goodness to come foward if you please--No really,' said Brass,\nstepping between the notary and his private office (towards which he\nhad begun to retreat), and speaking in the tone of an injured man,\n'really Sir, I must, under favour, request a word or two with you,\nindeed.'\n\n'Mr Brass,' said the other, in a decided tone, 'I am engaged.  You see\nthat I am occupied with these gentlemen.  If you will communicate your\nbusiness to Mr Chuckster yonder, you will receive every attention.'\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Brass, laying his right hand on his waistcoat, and\nlooking towards the father and son with a smooth smile--'Gentlemen, I\nappeal to you--really, gentlemen--consider, I beg of you.  I am of the\nlaw.  I am styled \"gentleman\" by Act of Parliament.  I maintain the\ntitle by the annual payment of twelve pound sterling for a certificate.\nI am not one of your players of music, stage actors, writers of books,\nor painters of pictures, who assume a station that the laws of their\ncountry don't recognise.  I am none of your strollers or vagabonds.  If\nany man brings his action against me, he must describe me as a\ngentleman, or his action is null and void.  I appeal to you--is this\nquite respectful?  Really gentlemen--'\n\n'Well, will you have the goodness to state your business then, Mr\nBrass?' said the notary.\n\n'Sir,' rejoined Brass, 'I will.  Ah Mr Witherden! you little know\nthe--but I will not be tempted to travel from the point, sir, I believe\nthe name of one of these gentlemen is Garland.'\n\n'Of both,' said the notary.\n\n'In-deed!' rejoined Brass, cringing excessively.  'But I might have\nknown that, from the uncommon likeness.  Extremely happy, I am sure, to\nhave the honour of an introduction to two such gentlemen, although the\noccasion is a most painful one.  One of you gentlemen has a servant\ncalled Kit?'\n\n'Both,' replied the notary.\n\n'Two Kits?' said Brass smiling.  'Dear me!'\n\n'One Kit, sir,' returned Mr Witherden angrily, 'who is employed by both\ngentlemen.  What of him?'\n\n'This of him, sir,' rejoined Brass, dropping his voice impressively.\n'That young man, sir, that I have felt unbounded and unlimited\nconfidence in, and always behaved to as if he was my equal--that young\nman has this morning committed a robbery in my office, and been taken\nalmost in the fact.'\n\n'This must be some falsehood!' cried the notary.\n\n'It is not possible,' said Mr Abel.\n\n'I'll not believe one word of it,' exclaimed the old gentleman.\n\nMr Brass looked mildly round upon them, and rejoined,\n\n'Mr Witherden, sir, YOUR words are actionable, and if I was a man of\nlow and mean standing, who couldn't afford to be slandered, I should\nproceed for damages.  Hows'ever, sir, being what I am, I merely scorn\nsuch expressions.  The honest warmth of the other gentleman I respect,\nand I'm truly sorry to be the messenger of such unpleasant news.  I\nshouldn't have put myself in this painful position, I assure you, but\nthat the lad himself desired to be brought here in the first instance,\nand I yielded to his prayers.  Mr Chuckster, sir, will you have the\ngoodness to tap at the window for the constable that's waiting in the\ncoach?'\n\nThe three gentlemen looked at each other with blank faces when these\nwords were uttered, and Mr Chuckster, doing as he was desired, and\nleaping off his stool with something of the excitement of an inspired\nprophet whose foretellings had in the fulness of time been realised,\nheld the door open for the entrance of the wretched captive.\n\nSuch a scene as there was, when Kit came in, and bursting into the rude\neloquence with which Truth at length inspired him, called Heaven to\nwitness that he was innocent, and that how the property came to be\nfound upon him he knew not!  Such a confusion of tongues, before the\ncircumstances were related, and the proofs disclosed!  Such a dead\nsilence when all was told, and his three friends exchanged looks of\ndoubt and amazement!\n\n'Is it not possible,' said Mr Witherden, after a long pause, 'that this\nnote may have found its way into the hat by some accident,--such as\nthe removal of papers on the desk, for instance?'\n\nBut this was clearly shown to be quite impossible.  Mr Swiveller,\nthough an unwilling witness, could not help proving to demonstration,\nfrom the position in which it was found, that it must have been\ndesignedly secreted.\n\n'It's very distressing,' said Brass, 'immensely distressing, I am sure.\nWhen he comes to be tried, I shall be very happy to recommend him to\nmercy on account of his previous good character.  I did lose money\nbefore, certainly, but it doesn't quite follow that he took it.  The\npresumption's against him--strongly against him--but we're Christians,\nI hope?'\n\n'I suppose,' said the constable, looking round, 'that no gentleman here\ncan give evidence as to whether he's been flush of money of late, Do\nyou happen to know, Sir?'\n\n'He has had money from time to time, certainly,' returned Mr Garland,\nto whom the man had put the question.  'But that, as he always told me,\nwas given him by Mr Brass himself.'\n\n'Yes to be sure,' said Kit eagerly.  'You can bear me out in that, Sir?'\n\n'Eh?' cried Brass, looking from face to face with an expression of\nstupid amazement.\n\n'The money you know, the half-crowns, that you gave me--from the\nlodger,' said Kit.\n\n'Oh dear me!' cried Brass, shaking his head and frowning heavily.\n'This is a bad case, I find; a very bad case indeed.'\n\n'What!  Did you give him no money on account of anybody, Sir?' asked Mr\nGarland, with great anxiety.\n\n'I give him money, Sir!' returned Sampson.  'Oh, come you know, this is\ntoo barefaced.  Constable, my good fellow, we had better be going.'\n\n'What!' shrieked Kit.  'Does he deny that he did? ask him, somebody,\npray.  Ask him to tell you whether he did or not!'\n\n'Did you, sir?' asked the notary.\n\n'I tell you what, gentlemen,' replied Brass, in a very grave manner,\n'he'll not serve his case this way, and really, if you feel any\ninterest in him, you had better advise him to go upon some other tack.\nDid I, sir?  Of course I never did.'\n\n'Gentlemen,' cried Kit, on whom a light broke suddenly, 'Master, Mr\nAbel, Mr Witherden, every one of you--he did it!  What I have done to\noffend him, I don't know, but this is a plot to ruin me.  Mind,\ngentlemen, it's a plot, and whatever comes of it, I will say with my\ndying breath that he put that note in my hat himself!  Look at him,\ngentlemen! see how he changes colour.  Which of us looks the guilty\nperson--he, or I?'\n\n'You hear him, gentlemen?' said Brass, smiling, 'you hear him.  Now,\ndoes this case strike you as assuming rather a black complexion, or\ndoes it not?  Is it at all a treacherous case, do you think, or is it\none of mere ordinary guilt?  Perhaps, gentlemen, if he had not said\nthis in your presence and I had reported it, you'd have held this to be\nimpossible likewise, eh?'\n\nWith such pacific and bantering remarks did Mr Brass refute the foul\naspersion on his character; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by stronger\nfeelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more jealous regard for the\nhonour of her family, flew from her brother's side, without any\nprevious intimation of her design, and darted at the prisoner with the\nutmost fury.  It would undoubtedly have gone hard with Kit's face, but\nthat the wary constable, foreseeing her design, drew him aside at the\ncritical moment, and thus placed Mr Chuckster in circumstances of some\njeopardy; for that gentleman happening to be next the object of Miss\nBrass's wrath; and rage being, like love and fortune, blind; was\npounced upon by the fair enslaver, and had a false collar plucked up by\nthe roots, and his hair very much dishevelled, before the exertions of\nthe company could make her sensible of her mistake.\n\nThe constable, taking warning by this desperate attack, and thinking\nperhaps that it would be more satisfactory to the ends of justice if\nthe prisoner were taken before a magistrate, whole, rather than in\nsmall pieces, led him back to the hackney-coach without more ado, and\nmoreover insisted on Miss Brass becoming an outside passenger; to which\nproposal the charming creature, after a little angry discussion,\nyielded her consent; and so took her brother Sampson's place upon the\nbox: Mr Brass with some reluctance agreeing to occupy her seat inside.\nThese arrangements perfected, they drove to the justice-room with all\nspeed, followed by the notary and his two friends in another coach.  Mr\nChuckster alone was left behind--greatly to his indignation; for he\nheld the evidence he could have given, relative to Kit's returning to\nwork out the shilling, to be so very material as bearing upon his\nhypocritical and designing character, that he considered its\nsuppression little better than a compromise of felony.\n\nAt the justice-room, they found the single gentleman, who had gone\nstraight there, and was expecting them with desperate impatience.  But\nnot fifty single gentlemen rolled into one could have helped poor Kit,\nwho in half an hour afterwards was committed for trial, and was assured\nby a friendly officer on his way to prison that there was no occasion\nto be cast down, for the sessions would soon be on, and he would, in\nall likelihood, get his little affair disposed of, and be comfortably\ntransported, in less than a fortnight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 61\n\nLet moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is very\nquestionable whether a guilty man would have felt half as much misery\nthat night, as Kit did, being innocent.  The world, being in the\nconstant commission of vast quantities of injustice, is a little too\napt to comfort itself with the idea that if the victim of its falsehood\nand malice have a clear conscience, he cannot fail to be sustained\nunder his trials, and somehow or other to come right at last; 'in which\ncase,' say they who have hunted him down, '--though we certainly don't\nexpect it--nobody will be better pleased than we.'  Whereas, the world\nwould do well to reflect, that injustice is in itself, to every\ngenerous and properly constituted mind, an injury, of all others the\nmost insufferable, the most torturing, and the most hard to bear; and\nthat many clear consciences have gone to their account elsewhere, and\nmany sound hearts have broken, because of this very reason; the\nknowledge of their own deserts only aggravating their sufferings, and\nrendering them the less endurable.\n\nThe world, however, was not in fault in Kit's case.  But Kit was\ninnocent; and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends deemed\nhim guilty--that Mr and Mrs Garland would look upon him as a monster of\ningratitude--that Barbara would associate him with all that was bad and\ncriminal--that the pony would consider himself forsaken--and that even\nhis own mother might perhaps yield to the strong appearances against\nhim, and believe him to be the wretch he seemed--knowing and feeling\nall this, he experienced, at first, an agony of mind which no words can\ndescribe, and walked up and down the little cell in which he was locked\nup for the night, almost beside himself with grief.\n\nEven when the violence of these emotions had in some degree subsided,\nand he was beginning to grow more calm, there came into his mind a new\nthought, the anguish of which was scarcely less.  The child--the bright\nstar of the simple fellow's life--she, who always came back upon him\nlike a beautiful dream--who had made the poorest part of his existence,\nthe happiest and best--who had ever been so gentle, and considerate,\nand good--if she were ever to hear of this, what would she think!  As\nthis idea occurred to him, the walls of the prison seemed to melt away,\nand the old place to reveal itself in their stead, as it was wont to be\non winter nights--the fireside, the little supper table, the old man's\nhat, and coat, and stick--the half-opened door, leading to her little\nroom--they were all there.  And Nell herself was there, and he--both\nlaughing heartily as they had often done--and when he had got as far as\nthis, Kit could go no farther, but flung himself upon his poor bedstead\nand wept.\n\nIt was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no end; but\nhe slept too, and dreamed--always of being at liberty, and roving\nabout, now with one person and now with another, but ever with a vague\ndread of being recalled to prison; not that prison, but one which was\nin itself a dim idea--not of a place, but of a care and sorrow: of\nsomething oppressive and always present, and yet impossible to define.\nAt last, the morning dawned, and there was the jail itself--cold,\nblack, and dreary, and very real indeed.\n\nHe was left to himself,\nhowever, and there was comfort in that.  He had liberty to walk in a\nsmall paved yard at a certain hour, and learnt from the turnkey, who\ncame to unlock his cell and show him where to wash, that there was a\nregular time for visiting, every day, and that if any of his friends\ncame to see him, he would be fetched down to the grate.  When he had\ngiven him this information, and a tin porringer containing his\nbreakfast, the man locked him up again; and went clattering along the\nstone passage, opening and shutting a great many other doors, and\nraising numberless loud echoes which resounded through the building for\na long time, as if they were in prison too, and unable to get out.\n\nThis turnkey had given him to understand that he was lodged, like some\nfew others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners; because he\nwas not supposed to be utterly depraved and irreclaimable, and had\nnever occupied apartments in that mansion before.  Kit was thankful for\nthis indulgence, and sat reading the church catechism very attentively\n(though he had known it by heart from a little child), until he heard\nthe key in the lock, and the man entered again.\n\n'Now then,' he said, 'come on!'\n\n'Where to, Sir?' asked Kit.\n\nThe man contented himself by briefly replying 'Wisitors;' and taking\nhim by the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable had done the\nday before, led him, through several winding ways and strong gates,\ninto a passage, where he placed him at a grating and turned upon his\nheel.  Beyond this grating, at the distance of about four or five feet,\nwas another exactly like it.  In the space between, sat a turnkey\nreading a newspaper, and outside the further railing, Kit saw, with a\npalpitating heart, his mother with the baby in her arms; Barbara's\nmother with her never-failing umbrella; and poor little Jacob, staring\nin with all his might, as though he were looking for the bird, or the\nwild beast, and thought the men were mere accidents with whom the bars\ncould have no possible concern.\n\nBut when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms between\nthe rails to hug him, found that he came no nearer, but still stood\nafar off with his head resting on the arm by which he held to one of\nthe bars, he began to cry most piteously; whereupon, Kit's mother and\nBarbara's mother, who had restrained themselves as much as possible,\nburst out sobbing and weeping afresh.  Poor Kit could not help joining\nthem, and not one of them could speak a word.  During this melancholy\npause, the turnkey read his newspaper with a waggish look (he had\nevidently got among the facetious paragraphs) until, happening to take\nhis eyes off for an instant, as if to get by dint of contemplation at\nthe very marrow of some joke of a deeper sort than the rest, it\nappeared to occur to him, for the first time, that somebody was crying.\n\n'Now, ladies, ladies,' he said, looking round with surprise, 'I'd\nadvise you not to waste time like this.  It's allowanced here, you\nknow.  You mustn't let that child make that noise either.  It's against\nall rules.'\n\n'I'm his poor mother, sir,'--sobbed Mrs Nubbles, curtseying humbly,\n'and this is his brother, sir.  Oh dear me, dear me!'\n\n'Well!' replied the turnkey, folding his paper on his knee, so as to\nget with greater convenience at the top of the next column.  'It can't\nbe helped you know.  He ain't the only one in the same fix.  You\nmustn't make a noise about it!'\n\nWith that he went on reading.  The man was not unnaturally cruel or\nhard-hearted.  He had come to look upon felony as a kind of disorder,\nlike the scarlet fever or erysipelas: some people had it--some\nhadn't--just as it might be.\n\n'Oh! my darling Kit,' said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had\ncharitably relieved of the baby, 'that I should see my poor boy here!'\n\n'You don't believe that I did what they accuse me of, mother dear?'\ncried Kit, in a choking voice.\n\n'I believe it!' exclaimed the poor woman, 'I that never knew you tell a\nlie, or do a bad action from your cradle--that have never had a\nmoment's sorrow on your account, except it was the poor meals that you\nhave taken with such good humour and content, that I forgot how little\nthere was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful you were, though you\nwere but a child!--I believe it of the son that's been a comfort to me\nfrom the hour of his birth until this time, and that I never laid down\none night in anger with!  I believe it of you Kit!--'\n\n'Why then, thank God!' said Kit, clutching the bars with an earnestness\nthat shook them, 'and I can bear it, mother!  Come what may, I shall\nalways have one drop of happiness in my heart when I think that you\nsaid that.'\n\nAt this the poor woman fell a-crying again, and Barbara's mother too.\nAnd little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time resolved\nthemselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit couldn't go out\nfor a walk if he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions, tigers or\nother natural curiosities behind those bars--nothing indeed, but a\ncaged brother--added his tears to theirs with as little noise as\npossible.\n\nKit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more\nthan she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and\nsubmissively addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he please\nto listen to her for a minute?  The turnkey, being in the very crisis\nand passion of a joke, motioned to her with his hand to keep silent one\nminute longer, for her life.  Nor did he remove his hand into its\nformer posture, but kept it in the same warning attitude until he had\nfinished the paragraph, when he paused for a few seconds, with a smile\nupon his face, as who should say 'this editor is a comical blade--a\nfunny dog,' and then asked her what she wanted.\n\n'I have brought him a little something to eat,' said the good woman.\n'If you please, Sir, might he have it?'\n\n'Yes,--he may have it.  There's no rule against that.  Give it to me\nwhen you go, and I'll take care he has it.'\n\n'No, but if you please sir--don't be angry with me sir--I am his\nmother, and you had a mother once--if I might only see him eat a little\nbit, I should go away, so much more satisfied that he was all\ncomfortable.'\n\nAnd again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of Barbara's\nmother, and of little Jacob.  As to the baby, it was crowing and\nlaughing with its might--under the idea, apparently, that the whole\nscene had been invented and got up for its particular satisfaction.\n\nThe turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one and\nrather out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his paper,\nand coming round where Kit's mother stood, took the basket from her,\nand after inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and went back to\nhis place.  It may be easily conceived that the prisoner had no great\nappetite, but he sat down on the ground, and ate as hard as he could,\nwhile, at every morsel he put into his mouth, his mother sobbed and\nwept afresh, though with a softened grief that bespoke the satisfaction\nthe sight afforded her.\n\nWhile he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about his\nemployers, and whether they had expressed any opinion concerning him;\nbut all he could learn was that Mr Abel had himself broken the\nintelligence to his mother, with great kindness and delicacy, late on\nthe previous night, but had himself expressed no opinion of his\ninnocence or guilt.  Kit was on the point of mustering courage to ask\nBarbara's mother about Barbara, when the turnkey who had conducted him,\nreappeared, a second turnkey appeared behind his visitors, and the\nthird turnkey with the newspaper cried 'Time's up!'--adding in the same\nbreath 'Now for the next party!' and then plunging deep into his\nnewspaper again.  Kit was taken off in an instant, with a blessing from\nhis mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing in his ears.  As he\nwas crossing the next yard with the basket in his hand, under the\nguidance of his former conductor, another officer called to them to\nstop, and came up with a pint pot of porter in his hand.\n\n'This is Christopher Nubbles, isn't it, that come in last night for\nfelony?' said the man.\n\nHis comrade replied that this was the chicken in question.\n\n'Then here's your beer,' said the other man to Christopher.  'What are\nyou looking at?  There an't a discharge in it.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Kit.  'Who sent it me?'\n\n'Why, your friend,' replied the man.  'You're to have it every day, he\nsays.  And so you will, if he pays for it.'\n\n'My friend!' repeated Kit.\n\n'You're all abroad, seemingly,' returned the other man.  'There's his\nletter.  Take hold!'\n\nKit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as follows.\n\n'Drink of this cup, you'll find there's a spell in its every drop\n'gainst the ills of mortality.  Talk of the cordial that sparkled for\nHelen!  HER cup was a fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and\nCo.'s).--If they ever send it in a flat state, complain to the\nGovernor.  Yours, R. S.'\n\n'R. S.!' said Kit, after some consideration.  'It must be Mr Richard\nSwiveller.  Well, its very kind of him, and I thank him heartily.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 62\n\nA faint light, twinkling from the window of the counting-house on\nQuilp's wharf, and looking inflamed and red through the night-fog, as\nthough it suffered from it like an eye, forewarned Mr Sampson Brass, as\nhe approached the wooden cabin with a cautious step, that the excellent\nproprietor, his esteemed client, was inside, and probably waiting with\nhis accustomed patience and sweetness of temper the fulfilment of the\nappointment which now brought Mr Brass within his fair domain.\n\n'A treacherous place to pick one's steps in, of a dark night,' muttered\nSampson, as he stumbled for the twentieth time over some stray lumber,\nand limped in pain.  'I believe that boy strews the ground differently\nevery day, on purpose to bruise and maim one; unless his master does it\nwith his own hands, which is more than likely.  I hate to come to this\nplace without Sally.  She's more protection than a dozen men.'\n\nAs he paid this compliment to the merit of the absent charmer, Mr Brass\ncame to a halt; looking doubtfully towards the light, and over his\nshoulder.\n\n'What's he about, I wonder?' murmured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe,\nand endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of what was passing inside, which\nat that distance was impossible--'drinking, I suppose,--making himself\nmore fiery and furious, and heating his malice and mischievousness till\nthey boil.  I'm always afraid to come here by myself, when his\naccount's a pretty large one.  I don't believe he'd mind throttling me,\nand dropping me softly into the river when the tide was at its\nstrongest, any more than he'd mind killing a rat--indeed I don't know\nwhether he wouldn't consider it a pleasant joke.  Hark!  Now he's\nsinging!'\n\nMr Quilp was certainly entertaining himself with vocal exercise, but it\nwas rather a kind of chant than a song; being a monotonous repetition\nof one sentence in a very rapid manner, with a long stress upon the\nlast word, which he swelled into a dismal roar.  Nor did the burden of\nthis performance bear any reference to love, or war, or wine, or\nloyalty, or any other, the standard topics of song, but to a subject\nnot often set to music or generally known in ballads; the words being\nthese:--'The worthy magistrate, after remarking that the prisoner would\nfind some difficulty in persuading a jury to believe his tale,\ncommitted him to take his trial at the approaching sessions; and\ndirected the customary recognisances to be entered into for the\npros-e-cu-tion.'\n\nEvery time he came to this concluding word, and had exhausted all\npossible stress upon it, Quilp burst into a shriek of laughter, and\nbegan again.\n\n'He's dreadfully imprudent,' muttered Brass, after he had listened to\ntwo or three repetitions of the chant.  'Horribly imprudent.  I wish he\nwas dumb.  I wish he was deaf.  I wish he was blind.  Hang him,' cried\nBrass, as the chant began again.  'I wish he was dead!'\n\nGiving utterance to these friendly aspirations in behalf of his client,\nMr Sampson composed his face into its usual state of smoothness, and\nwaiting until the shriek came again and was dying away, went up to the\nwooden house, and knocked at the door.\n\n'Come in!' cried the dwarf.\n\n'How do you do to-night sir?' said Sampson, peeping in.  'Ha ha ha!\nHow do you do sir?  Oh dear me, how very whimsical!  Amazingly\nwhimsical to be sure!'\n\n'Come in, you fool!' returned the dwarf, 'and don't stand there shaking\nyour head and showing your teeth.  Come in, you false witness, you\nperjurer, you suborner of evidence, come in!'\n\n'He has the richest humour!' cried Brass, shutting the door behind him;\n'the most amazing vein of comicality!  But isn't it rather injudicious,\nsir--?'\n\n'What?' demanded Quilp.  'What, Judas?'\n\n'Judas!' cried Brass.  'He has such extraordinary spirits!  His humour\nis so extremely playful!  Judas!  Oh yes--dear me, how very good!  Ha\nha ha!'\n\nAll this time, Sampson was rubbing his hands, and staring, with\nludicrous surprise and dismay, at a great, goggle-eyed, blunt-nosed\nfigure-head of some old ship, which was reared up against the wall in a\ncorner near the stove, looking like a goblin or hideous idol whom the\ndwarf worshipped.  A mass of timber on its head, carved into the dim\nand distant semblance of a cocked hat, together with a representation\nof a star on the left breast and epaulettes on the shoulders, denoted\nthat it was intended for the effigy of some famous admiral; but,\nwithout those helps, any observer might have supposed it the authentic\nportrait of a distinguished merman, or great sea-monster.  Being\noriginally much too large for the apartment which it was now employed\nto decorate, it had been sawn short off at the waist.  Even in this\nstate it reached from floor to ceiling; and thrusting itself forward,\nwith that excessively wide-awake aspect, and air of somewhat obtrusive\npoliteness, by which figure-heads are usually characterised, seemed to\nreduce everything else to mere pigmy proportions.\n\n'Do you know it?' said the dwarf, watching Sampson's eyes.  'Do you see\nthe likeness?'\n\n'Eh?' said Brass, holding his head on one side, and throwing it a\nlittle back, as connoisseurs do.  'Now I look at it again, I fancy I\nsee a--yes, there certainly is something in the smile that reminds me\nof--and yet upon my word I--'\n\nNow, the fact was, that Sampson, having never seen anything in the\nsmallest degree resembling this substantial phantom, was much\nperplexed; being uncertain whether Mr Quilp considered it like himself,\nand had therefore bought it for a family portrait; or whether he was\npleased to consider it as the likeness of some enemy.  He was not very\nlong in doubt; for, while he was surveying it with that knowing look\nwhich people assume when they are contemplating for the first time\nportraits which they ought to recognise but don't, the dwarf threw down\nthe newspaper from which he had been chanting the words already quoted,\nand seizing a rusty iron bar, which he used in lieu of poker, dealt the\nfigure such a stroke on the nose that it rocked again.\n\n'Is it like Kit--is it his picture, his image, his very self?' cried\nthe dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the insensible countenance, and\ncovering it with deep dimples.  'Is it the exact model and counterpart\nof the dog--is it--is it--is it?'  And with every repetition of the\nquestion, he battered the great image, until the perspiration streamed\ndown his face with the violence of the exercise.\n\nAlthough this might have been a very comical thing to look at from a\nsecure gallery, as a bull-fight is found to be a comfortable spectacle\nby those who are not in the arena, and a house on fire is better than a\nplay to people who don't live near it, there was something in the\nearnestness of Mr Quilp's manner which made his legal adviser feel that\nthe counting-house was a little too small, and a deal too lonely, for\nthe complete enjoyment of these humours.  Therefore, he stood as far\noff as he could, while the dwarf was thus engaged; whimpering out but\nfeeble applause; and when Quilp left off and sat down again from pure\nexhaustion, approached with more obsequiousness than ever.\n\n'Excellent indeed!' cried Brass.  'He he!  Oh, very good Sir.  You\nknow,' said Sampson, looking round as if in appeal to the bruised\nanimal, 'he's quite a remarkable man--quite!'\n\n'Sit down,' said the dwarf.  'I bought the dog yesterday.  I've been\nscrewing gimlets into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and cutting\nmy name on him.  I mean to burn him at last.'\n\n'Ha ha!' cried Brass.  'Extremely entertaining, indeed!'\n\n'Come here,' said Quilp, beckoning him to draw near.  'What's\ninjudicious, hey?'\n\n'Nothing Sir--nothing.  Scarcely worth mentioning Sir; but I thought\nthat song--admirably humorous in itself you know--was perhaps rather--'\n\n'Yes,' said Quilp, 'rather what?'\n\n'Just bordering, or as one may say remotely verging, upon the confines\nof injudiciousness perhaps, Sir,' returned Brass, looking timidly at\nthe dwarf's cunning eyes, which were turned towards the fire and\nreflected its red light.\n\n'Why?' inquired Quilp, without looking up.\n\n'Why, you know, sir,' returned Brass, venturing to be more familiar:\n'--the fact is, sir, that any allusion to these little combinings\ntogether, of friends, for objects in themselves extremely laudable, but\nwhich the law terms conspiracies, are--you take me, sir?--best kept\nsnug and among friends, you know.'\n\n'Eh!' said Quilp, looking up with a perfectly vacant countenance.\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Cautious, exceedingly cautious, very right and proper!' cried Brass,\nnodding his head.  'Mum, sir, even here--my meaning, sir, exactly.'\n\n'YOUR meaning exactly, you brazen scarecrow,--what's your meaning?'\nretorted Quilp.  'Why do you talk to me of combining together?  Do I\ncombine?  Do I know anything about your combinings?'\n\n'No no, sir--certainly not; not by any means,' returned Brass.\n\n'If you so wink and nod at me,' said the dwarf, looking about him as if\nfor his poker, 'I'll spoil the expression of your monkey's face, I\nwill.'\n\n'Don't put yourself out of the way I beg, sir,' rejoined Brass,\nchecking himself with great alacrity.  'You're quite right, sir, quite\nright.  I shouldn't have mentioned the subject, sir.  It's much better\nnot to.  You're quite right, sir.  Let us change it, if you please.\nYou were asking, sir, Sally told me, about our lodger.  He has not\nreturned, sir.'\n\n'No?' said Quilp, heating some rum in a little saucepan, and watching\nit to prevent its boiling over.  'Why not?'\n\n'Why, sir,' returned Brass, 'he--dear me, Mr Quilp, sir--'\n\n'What's the matter?' said the dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of\ncarrying the saucepan to his mouth.\n\n'You have forgotten the water, sir,' said Brass.  'And--excuse me,\nsir--but it's burning hot.'\n\nDeigning no other than a practical answer to this remonstrance, Mr\nQuilp raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off\nall the spirit it contained, which might have been in quantity about\nhalf a pint, and had been but a moment before, when he took it off the\nfire, bubbling and hissing fiercely.  Having swallowed this gentle\nstimulant, and shaken his fist at the admiral, he bade Mr Brass proceed.\n\n'But first,' said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, 'have a drop\nyourself--a nice drop--a good, warm, fiery drop.'\n\n'Why, sir,' replied Brass, 'if there was such a thing as a mouthful of\nwater that could be got without trouble--'\n\n'There's no such thing to be had here,' cried the dwarf.  'Water for\nlawyers!  Melted lead and brimstone, you mean, nice hot blistering\npitch and tar--that's the thing for them--eh, Brass, eh?'\n\n'Ha ha ha!' laughed Mr Brass.  'Oh very biting! and yet it's like being\ntickled--there's a pleasure in it too, sir!'\n\n'Drink that,' said the dwarf, who had by this time heated some more.\n'Toss it off, don't leave any heeltap, scorch your throat and be happy!'\n\nThe wretched Sampson took a few short sips of the liquor, which\nimmediately distilled itself into burning tears, and in that form came\nrolling down his cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour of\nhis face and eyelids to a deep red, and giving rise to a violent fit of\ncoughing, in the midst of which he was still heard to declare, with the\nconstancy of a martyr, that it was 'beautiful indeed!'  While he was\nyet in unspeakable agonies, the dwarf renewed their conversation.\n\n'The lodger,' said Quilp, '--what about him?'\n\n'He is still, sir,'\nreturned Brass, with intervals of coughing, 'stopping with the Garland\nfamily.  He has only been home once, Sir, since the day of the\nexamination of that culprit.  He informed Mr Richard, sir, that he\ncouldn't bear the house after what had taken place; that he was\nwretched in it; and that he looked upon himself as being in a certain\nkind of way the cause of the occurrence.--A very excellent lodger Sir.\nI hope we may not lose him.'\n\n'Yah!' cried the dwarf.  'Never thinking of anybody but yourself--why\ndon't you retrench then--scrape up, hoard, economise, eh?'\n\n'Why, sir,' replied Brass, 'upon my word I think Sarah's as good an\neconomiser as any going.  I do indeed, Mr Quilp.'\n\n'Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, drink, man!' cried the dwarf.\n'You took a clerk to oblige me.'\n\n'Delighted, sir, I am sure, at any time,' replied Sampson.  'Yes, Sir,\nI did.'\n\n'Then now you may discharge him,' said Quilp.  'There's a means of\nretrenchment for you at once.'\n\n'Discharge Mr Richard, sir?' cried Brass.\n\n'Have you more than one clerk, you parrot, that you ask the question?\nYes.'\n\n'Upon my word, Sir,' said Brass, 'I wasn't prepared for this--'\n\n'How could you be?' sneered the dwarf, 'when I wasn't?  How often am I\nto tell you that I brought him to you that I might always have my eye\non him and know where he was--and that I had a plot, a scheme, a little\nquiet piece of enjoyment afoot, of which the very cream and essence\nwas, that this old man and grandchild (who have sunk underground I\nthink) should be, while he and his precious friend believed them rich,\nin reality as poor as frozen rats?'\n\n'I quite understood that, sir,' rejoined Brass.  'Thoroughly.'\n\n'Well, Sir,' retorted Quilp, 'and do you understand now, that they're\nnot poor--that they can't be, if they have such men as your lodger\nsearching for them, and scouring the country far and wide?'\n\n'Of course I do, Sir,' said Sampson.\n\n'Of course you do,' retorted the dwarf, viciously snapping at his\nwords.  'Of course do you understand then, that it's no matter what\ncomes of this fellow? of course do you understand that for any other\npurpose he's no man for me, nor for you?'\n\n'I have frequently said to Sarah, sir,' returned Brass, 'that he was of\nno use at all in the business.  You can't put any confidence in him,\nsir.  If you'll believe me I've found that fellow, in the commonest\nlittle matters of the office that have been trusted to him, blurting\nout the truth, though expressly cautioned.  The aggravation of that\nchap sir, has exceeded anything you can imagine, it has indeed.\nNothing but the respect and obligation I owe to you, sir--'\n\nAs it was plain that Sampson was bent on a complimentary harangue,\nunless he received a timely interruption, Mr Quilp politely tapped him\non the crown of his head with the little saucepan, and requested that\nhe would be so obliging as to hold his peace.\n\n'Practical, sir, practical,' said Brass, rubbing the place and smiling;\n'but still extremely pleasant--immensely so!'\n\n'Hearken to me, will you?' returned Quilp, 'or I'll be a little more\npleasant, presently.  There's no chance of his comrade and friend\nreturning.  The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I learn, for some\nknavery, and has found his way abroad.  Let him rot there.'\n\n'Certainly, sir.  Quite proper.--Forcible!' cried Brass, glancing at\nthe admiral again, as if he made a third in company.  'Extremely\nforcible!'\n\n'I hate him,' said Quilp between his teeth, 'and have always hated him,\nfor family reasons.  Besides, he was an intractable ruffian; otherwise\nhe would have been of use.  This fellow is pigeon-hearted and\nlight-headed.  I don't want him any longer.  Let him hang or\ndrown--starve--go to the devil.'\n\n'By all means, sir,' returned Brass.  'When would you wish him, sir,\nto--ha, ha!--to make that little excursion?'\n\n'When this trial's over,' said Quilp.  'As soon as that's ended, send\nhim about his business.'\n\n'It shall be done, sir,' returned Brass; 'by all means.  It will be\nrather a blow to Sarah, sir, but she has all her feelings under\ncontrol.  Ah, Mr Quilp, I often think, sir, if it had only pleased\nProvidence to bring you and Sarah together, in earlier life, what\nblessed results would have flowed from such a union!  You never saw our\ndear father, sir?--A charming gentleman.  Sarah was his pride and joy,\nsir.  He would have closed his eyes in bliss, would Foxey, Mr Quilp, if\nhe could have found her such a partner.  You esteem her, sir?'\n\n'I love her,' croaked the dwarf.\n\n'You're very good, Sir,' returned Brass, 'I am sure.  Is there any\nother order, sir, that I can take a note of, besides this little matter\nof Mr Richard?'\n\n'None,' replied the dwarf, seizing the saucepan.  'Let us drink the\nlovely Sarah.'\n\n'If we could do it in something, sir, that wasn't quite boiling,'\nsuggested Brass humbly, 'perhaps it would be better.  I think it will\nbe more agreeable to Sarah's feelings, when she comes to hear from me\nof the honour you have done her, if she learns it was in liquor rather\ncooler than the last, Sir.'\n\nBut to these remonstrances, Mr Quilp turned a deaf ear.  Sampson Brass,\nwho was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled to take\nfurther draughts of the same strong bowl, found that, instead of at all\ncontributing to his recovery, they had the novel effect of making the\ncounting-house spin round and round with extreme velocity, and causing\nthe floor and ceiling to heave in a very distressing manner.  After a\nbrief stupor, he awoke to a consciousness of being partly under the\ntable and partly under the grate.  This position not being the most\ncomfortable one he could have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger\nto his feet, and, holding on by the admiral, looked round for his host.\n\nMr Brass's first impression was, that his host was gone and had left\nhim there alone--perhaps locked him in for the night.  A strong smell\nof tobacco, however, suggested a new train of ideas, he looked upward,\nand saw that the dwarf was smoking in his hammock.\n\n'Good bye, Sir,' cried Brass faintly.  'Good bye, Sir.'\n\n'Won't you stop all night?' said the dwarf, peeping out.  'Do stop all\nnight!'\n\n'I couldn't indeed, Sir,' replied Brass, who was almost dead from\nnausea and the closeness of the room.  'If you'd have the goodness to\nshow me a light, so that I may see my way across the yard, sir--'\n\nQuilp was out in an instant; not with his legs first, or his head\nfirst, or his arms first, but bodily--altogether.\n\n'To be sure,' he said, taking up a lantern, which was now the only\nlight in the place.  'Be careful how you go, my dear friend.  Be sure\nto pick your way among the timber, for all the rusty nails are upwards.\nThere's a dog in the lane.  He bit a man last night, and a woman the\nnight before, and last Tuesday he killed a child--but that was in play.\nDon't go too near him.'\n\n'Which side of the road is he, sir?' asked Brass, in great dismay.\n\n'He lives on the right hand,' said Quilp, 'but sometimes he hides on\nthe left, ready for a spring.  He's uncertain in that respect.  Mind\nyou take care of yourself.  I'll never forgive you if you don't.\nThere's the light out--never mind--you know the way--straight on!'\nQuilp had slily shaded the light by holding it against his breast, and\nnow stood chuckling and shaking from head to foot in a rapture of\ndelight, as he heard the lawyer stumbling up the yard, and now and then\nfalling heavily down.  At length, however, he got quit of the place,\nand was out of hearing.\n\nThe dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang once more into his hammock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 63\n\nThe professional gentleman who had given Kit the consolatory piece of\ninformation relative to the settlement of his trifle of business at the\nOld Bailey, and the probability of its being very soon disposed of,\nturned out to be quite correct in his prognostications.  In eight days'\ntime, the sessions commenced.  In one day afterwards, the Grand Jury\nfound a True Bill against Christopher Nubbles for felony; and in two\ndays from that finding, the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was called\nupon to plead Guilty or Not Guilty to an Indictment for that he the\nsaid Christopher did feloniously abstract and steal from the\ndwelling-house and office of one Sampson Brass, gentleman, one Bank\nNote for Five Pounds issued by the Governor and Company of the Bank of\nEngland; in contravention of the Statutes in that case made and\nprovided, and against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his\ncrown and dignity.\n\nTo this indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in a low and trembling voice,\npleaded Not Guilty; and here, let those who are in the habit of forming\nhasty judgments from appearances, and who would have had Christopher,\nif innocent, speak out very strong and loud, observe, that confinement\nand anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts; and that to one who has\nbeen close shut up, though it be only for ten or eleven days, seeing\nbut stone walls and a very few stony faces, the sudden entrance into a\ngreat hall filled with life, is a rather disconcerting and startling\ncircumstance.  To this, it must be added, that life in a wig is to a\nlarge class of people much more terrifying and impressive than life\nwith its own head of hair; and if, in addition to these considerations,\nthere be taken into account Kit's natural emotion on seeing the two Mr\nGarlands and the little Notary looking on with pale and anxious faces,\nit will perhaps seem matter of no very great wonder that he should have\nbeen rather out of sorts, and unable to make himself quite at home.\n\nAlthough he had never seen either of the Mr Garlands, or Mr Witherden,\nsince the time of his arrest, he had been given to understand that they\nhad employed counsel for him.  Therefore, when one of the gentlemen in\nwigs got up and said 'I am for the prisoner, my Lord,' Kit made him a\nbow; and when another gentleman in a wig got up and said 'And I'm\nagainst him, my Lord,' Kit trembled very much, and bowed to him too.\nAnd didn't he hope in his own heart that his gentleman was a match for\nthe other gentleman, and would make him ashamed of himself in no time!\n\nThe gentleman who was against him had to speak first, and being in\ndreadfully good spirits (for he had, in the last trial, very nearly\nprocured the acquittal of a young gentleman who had had the misfortune\nto murder his father) he spoke up, you may be sure; telling the jury\nthat if they acquitted this prisoner they must expect to suffer no less\npangs and agonies than he had told the other jury they would certainly\nundergo if they convicted that prisoner.  And when he had told them all\nabout the case, and that he had never known a worse case, he stopped a\nlittle while, like a man who had something terrible to tell them, and\nthen said that he understood an attempt would be made by his learned\nfriend (and here he looked sideways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the\ntestimony of those immaculate witnesses whom he should call before\nthem; but he did hope and trust that his learned friend would have a\ngreater respect and veneration for the character of the prosecutor;\nthan whom, as he well knew, there did not exist, and never had existed,\na more honourable member of that most honourable profession to which he\nwas attached.  And then he said, did the jury know Bevis Marks?  And if\nthey did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted for their own character, they\ndid) did they know the historical and elevating associations connected\nwith that most remarkable spot?  Did they believe that a man like Brass\ncould reside in a place like Bevis Marks, and not be a virtuous and\nmost upright character?  And when he had said a great deal to them on\nthis point, he remembered that it was an insult to their understandings\nto make any remarks on what they must have felt so strongly without\nhim, and therefore called Sampson Brass into the witness-box,\nstraightway.\n\nThen up comes Mr Brass, very brisk and fresh; and, having bowed to the\njudge, like a man who has had the pleasure of seeing him before, and\nwho hopes he has been pretty well since their last meeting, folds his\narms, and looks at his gentleman as much as to say 'Here I am--full of\nevidence--Tap me!'  And the gentleman does tap him presently, and with\ngreat discretion too; drawing off the evidence by little and little,\nand making it run quite clear and bright in the eyes of all present.\nThen, Kit's gentleman takes him in hand, but can make nothing of him;\nand after a great many very long questions and very short answers, Mr\nSampson Brass goes down in glory.\n\nTo him succeeds Sarah, who in like manner is easy to be managed by Mr\nBrass's gentleman, but very obdurate to Kit's.  In short, Kit's\ngentleman can get nothing out of her but a repetition of what she has\nsaid before (only a little stronger this time, as against his client),\nand therefore lets her go, in some confusion.  Then, Mr Brass's\ngentleman calls Richard Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller appears\naccordingly.\n\nNow, Mr Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this witness\nis disposed to be friendly to the prisoner--which, to say the truth, he\nis rather glad to hear, as his strength is considered to lie in what is\nfamiliarly termed badgering.  Wherefore, he begins by requesting the\nofficer to be quite sure that this witness kisses the book, then goes\nto work at him, tooth and nail.\n\n'Mr Swiveller,' says this gentleman to Dick, when he had told his tale\nwith evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it: 'Pray sir,\nwhere did you dine yesterday?'--'Where did I dine yesterday?'--'Aye,\nsir, where did you dine yesterday--was it near here, sir?'--'Oh to be\nsure--yes--just over the way.'--'To be sure.  Yes.  Just over the way,'\nrepeats Mr Brass's gentleman, with a glance at the court.--'Alone,\nsir?'--'I beg your pardon,' says Mr Swiveller, who has not caught the\nquestion--'Alone, sir?' repeats Mr Brass's gentleman in a voice of\nthunder, 'did you dine alone?  Did you treat anybody, sir? Come!'--'Oh\nyes, to be sure--yes, I did,' says Mr Swiveller with a smile.--'Have\nthe goodness to banish a levity, sir, which is very ill-suited to the\nplace in which you stand (though perhaps you have reason to be thankful\nthat it's only that place),' says Mr Brass's gentleman, with a nod of\nthe head, insinuating that the dock is Mr Swiveller's legitimate sphere\nof action; 'and attend to me.  You were waiting about here, yesterday,\nin expectation that this trial was coming on.  You dined over the way.\nYou treated somebody.  Now, was that somebody brother to the prisoner\nat the bar?'--Mr Swiveller is proceeding to explain--'Yes or No, sir,'\ncries Mr Brass's gentleman--'But will you allow me--'--'Yes or No,\nsir'--'Yes it was, but--'--'Yes it was,' cries the gentleman, taking\nhim up short.  'And a very pretty witness YOU are!'\n\nDown sits Mr Brass's gentleman.  Kit's gentleman, not knowing how the\nmatter really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject.  Richard\nSwiveller retires abashed.  Judge, jury and spectators have visions of\nhis lounging about, with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute\nyoung fellow of six feet high.  The reality is, little Jacob, with the\ncalves of his legs exposed to the open air, and himself tied up in a\nshawl.  Nobody knows the truth; everybody believes a falsehood; and all\nbecause of the ingenuity of Mr Brass's gentleman.\n\nThen come the witnesses to character, and here Mr Brass's gentleman\nshines again.  It turns out that Mr Garland has had no character with\nKit, no recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was\nsuddenly dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons.  'Really\nMr Garland,' says Mr Brass's gentleman, 'for a person who has arrived\nat your time of life, you are, to say the least of it, singularly\nindiscreet, I think.'  The jury think so too, and find Kit guilty.  He\nis taken off, humbly protesting his innocence.  The spectators settle\nthemselves in their places with renewed attention, for there are\nseveral female witnesses to be examined in the next case, and it has\nbeen rumoured that Mr Brass's gentleman will make great fun in\ncross-examining them for the prisoner.\n\nKit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs,\naccompanied by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul! never does anything\nbut cry, and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues.  The\nnewspaper-reading turnkey has told them all.  He don't think it will be\ntransportation for life, because there's time to prove the good\ncharacter yet, and that is sure to serve him.  He wonders what he did\nit for.  'He never did it!' cries Kit's mother.  'Well,' says the\nturnkey, 'I won't contradict you.  It's all one, now, whether he did it\nor not.'\n\nKit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it--\nGod, and those to whom he has given such tenderness, only know in how\nmuch agony.  Kit bids her keep a good heart, and, under pretence of\nhaving the children lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara's mother in a\nwhisper to take her home.\n\n'Some friend will rise up for us, mother,' cried Kit, 'I am sure.  If\nnot now, before long.  My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall\nbe brought back again; I feel confidence in that.  You must teach\nlittle Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had\never been dishonest, when they grew old enough to understand, it would\nbreak my heart to know it, if I was thousands of miles away.--Oh! is\nthere no good gentleman here, who will take care of her!'\n\nThe hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the\nearth, insensible.  Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the\nbystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm\nafter the manner of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and\ncommanding Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach waiting,\nbears her swiftly off.\n\nWell; Richard took her home.  And what astonishing absurdities in the\nway of quotation from song and poem he perpetrated on the road, no man\nknows.  He took her home, and stayed till she was recovered; and,\nhaving no money to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks,\nbidding the driver (for it was Saturday night) wait at the door while\nhe went in for 'change.'\n\n'Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass cheerfully, 'Good evening!'\n\nMonstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr Richard did, that\nnight, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villany.  Perhaps\nit was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless\nnature this impulse; but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon\nhim, and he said in as few words as possible, what he wanted.\n\n'Money?' cried Brass, taking out his purse.  'Ha ha!  To be sure, Mr\nRichard, to be sure, sir.  All men must live.  You haven't change for a\nfive-pound note, have you sir?'\n\n'No,' returned Dick, shortly.\n\n'Oh!' said Brass, 'here's the very sum.  That saves trouble.  You're\nvery welcome I'm sure.--Mr Richard, sir--'\n\nDick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round.\n\n'You needn't,' said Brass, 'trouble yourself to come back any more,\nSir.'\n\n'Eh?'\n\n'You see, Mr Richard,' said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets,\nand rocking himself to and fro on his stool, 'the fact is, that a man\nof your abilities is lost, Sir, quite lost, in our dry and mouldy line.\nIt's terrible drudgery--shocking.  I should say, now, that the stage,\nor the--or the army, Mr Richard--or something very superior in the\nlicensed victualling way--was the kind of thing that would call out the\ngenius of such a man as you.  I hope you'll look in to see us now and\nthen.  Sally, Sir, will be delighted I'm sure.  She's extremely sorry\nto lose you, Mr Richard, but a sense of her duty to society reconciles\nher.  An amazing creature that, sir!  You'll find the money quite\ncorrect, I think.  There's a cracked window sir, but I've not made any\ndeduction on that account.  Whenever we part with friends, Mr Richard,\nlet us part liberally.  A delightful sentiment, sir!'\n\nTo all these rambling observations, Mr Swiveller answered not one word,\nbut, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round\nball: looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some intention\nof bowling him down with it.  He only took it under his arm, however,\nand marched out of the office in profound silence.  When he had closed\nthe door, he re-opened it, stared in again for a few moments with the\nsame portentous gravity, and nodding his head once, in a slow and\nghost-like manner, vanished.\n\nHe paid the coachman, and turned his back on Bevis Marks, big with\ngreat designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit\nhimself.\n\nBut the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard\nSwiveller, are extremely precarious.  The spiritual excitement of the\nlast fortnight, working upon a system affected in no slight degree by\nthe spirituous excitement of some years, proved a little too much for\nhim.  That very night, Mr Richard was seized with an alarming illness,\nand in twenty-four hours was stricken with a raging fever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 64\n\nTossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce\nthirst which nothing could appease; unable to find, in any change of\nposture, a moment's peace or ease; and rambling, ever, through deserts\nof thought where there was no resting-place, no sight or sound\nsuggestive of refreshment or repose, nothing but a dull eternal\nweariness, with no change but the restless shiftings of his miserable\nbody, and the weary wandering of his mind, constant still to one\never-present anxiety--to a sense of something left undone, of some\nfearful obstacle to be surmounted, of some carking care that would not\nbe driven away, and which haunted the distempered brain, now in this\nform, now in that, always shadowy and dim, but recognisable for the\nsame phantom in every shape it took: darkening every vision like an\nevil conscience, and making slumber horrible--in these slow tortures\nof his dread disease, the unfortunate Richard lay wasting and consuming\ninch by inch, until, at last, when he seemed to fight and struggle to\nrise up, and to be held down by devils, he sank into a deep sleep, and\ndreamed no more.\n\nHe awoke.  With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than sleep\nitself, he began gradually to remember something of these sufferings,\nand to think what a long night it had been, and whether he had not been\ndelirious twice or thrice.  Happening, in the midst of these\ncogitations, to raise his hand, he was astonished to find how heavy it\nseemed, and yet how thin and light it really was.  Still, he felt\nindifferent and happy; and having no curiosity to pursue the subject,\nremained in the same waking slumber until his attention was attracted\nby a cough.  This made him doubt whether he had locked his door last\nnight, and feel a little surprised at having a companion in the room.\nStill, he lacked energy to follow up this train of thought; and\nunconsciously fell, in a luxury of repose, to staring at some green\nstripes on the bed-furniture, and associating them strangely with\npatches of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between made\ngravel-walks, and so helped out a long perspective of trim gardens.\n\nHe was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite lost\nhimself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more.  The\nwalks shrunk into stripes again at the sound, and raising himself a\nlittle in the bed, and holding the curtain open with one hand, he\nlooked out.\n\nThe same room certainly, and still by candlelight; but with what\nunbounded astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins, and\narticles of linen airing by the fire, and such-like furniture of a sick\nchamber--all very clean and neat, but all quite different from anything\nhe had left there, when he went to bed!  The atmosphere, too, filled\nwith a cool smell of herbs and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled;\nthe--the what?  The Marchioness?\n\nYes; playing cribbage with herself at the table.  There she sat, intent\nupon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner as if she\nfeared to disturb him--shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, playing,\ncounting, pegging--going through all the mysteries of cribbage as if\nshe had been in full practice from her cradle!  Mr Swiveller\ncontemplated these things for a short time, and suffering the curtain\nto fall into its former position, laid his head on the pillow again.\n\n'I'm dreaming,' thought Richard, 'that's clear.  When I went to bed, my\nhands were not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost see through\n'em.  If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian\nNight, instead of a London one.  But I have no doubt I'm asleep.  Not\nthe least.'\n\nHere the small servant had another cough.\n\n'Very remarkable!' thought Mr Swiveller.  'I never dreamt such a real\ncough as that before.  I don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either\na cough or a sneeze.  Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams\nthat one never does.  There's another--and another--I say!--I'm\ndreaming rather fast!'\n\nFor the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after some\nreflection, pinched himself in the arm.\n\n'Queerer still!' he thought.  'I came to bed rather plump than\notherwise, and now there's nothing to lay hold of.  I'll take another\nsurvey.'\n\nThe result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr Swiveller\nthat the objects by which he was surrounded were real, and that he saw\nthem, beyond all question, with his waking eyes.\n\n'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard.  'I'm in\nDamascus or Grand Cairo.  The Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a\nwager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive,\nand the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of China, has\nbrought me away, room and all, to compare us together.  Perhaps,' said\nMr Swiveller, turning languidly round on his pillow, and looking on\nthat side of his bed which was next the wall, 'the Princess may be\nstill--No, she's gone.'\n\nNot feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking it\nto be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr\nSwiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take the first\nfavourable opportunity of addressing his companion.  An occasion\npresented itself.  The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and\nomitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr Swiveller called out\nas loud as he could--'Two for his heels!'\n\nThe Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands.  'Arabian\nNight, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their hands\ninstead of ringing the bell.  Now for the two thousand black slaves,\nwith jars of jewels on their heads!'\n\nIt appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy; for\ndirectly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry; declaring, not\nin choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she was 'so glad, she\ndidn't know what to do.'\n\n'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, 'be pleased to draw\nnearer.  First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me where I\nshall find my voice; and secondly, what has become of my flesh?'\n\nThe Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again;\nwhereupon Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected\nlikewise.\n\n'I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appearances,\nMarchioness,' said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a trembling\nlip, 'that I have been ill.'\n\n'You just have!' replied the small servant, wiping her eyes.  'And\nhaven't you been a talking nonsense!'\n\n'Oh!' said Dick.  'Very ill, Marchioness, have I been?'\n\n'Dead, all but,' replied the small servant.  'I never thought you'd get\nbetter.  Thank Heaven you have!'\n\nMr Swiveller was silent for a long while.  By and bye, he began to talk\nagain, inquiring how long he had been there.\n\n'Three weeks to-morrow,' replied the servant.\n\n'Three what?' said Dick.\n\n'Weeks,' returned the Marchioness emphatically; 'three long, slow\nweeks.'\n\nThe bare thought of having been in such extremity, caused Richard to\nfall into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his full\nlength.  The Marchioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more\ncomfortably, and felt that his hands and forehead were quite cool--a\ndiscovery that filled her with delight--cried a little more, and then\napplied herself to getting tea ready, and making some thin dry toast.\n\nWhile she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful\nheart, very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made\nherself, and attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass,\nwhom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough.  When the Marchioness\nhad finished her toasting, she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and\nbrought him some crisp slices and a great basin of weak tea, with which\n(she said) the doctor had left word he might refresh himself when he\nawoke.  She propped him up with pillows, if not as skilfully as if she\nhad been a professional nurse all her life, at least as tenderly; and\nlooked on with unutterable satisfaction while the patient--stopping\nevery now and then to shake her by the hand--took his poor meal with an\nappetite and relish, which the greatest dainties of the earth, under\nany other circumstances, would have failed to provoke.  Having cleared\naway, and disposed everything comfortably about him again, she sat down\nat the table to take her own tea.\n\n'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'how's Sally?'\n\nThe small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very\nuttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook her head.\n\n'What, haven't you seen her lately?' said Dick.\n\n'Seen her!' cried the small servant.  'Bless you, I've run away!'\n\nMr Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so\nremained for about five minutes.  By slow degrees he resumed his\nsitting posture after that lapse of time, and inquired:\n\n'And where do you live, Marchioness?'\n\n'Live!' cried the small servant.  'Here!'\n\n'Oh!' said Mr Swiveller.\n\nAnd with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had been\nshot.  Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech, until she had\nfinished her meal, put everything in its place, and swept the hearth;\nwhen he motioned her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being\npropped up again, opened a farther conversation.\n\n'And so,' said Dick, 'you have run away?'\n\n'Yes,' said the Marchioness, 'and they've been a tizing of me.'\n\n'Been--I beg your pardon,' said Dick--'what have they been doing?'\n\n'Been a tizing of me--tizing you know--in the newspapers,' rejoined the\nMarchioness.\n\n'Aye, aye,' said Dick, 'advertising?'\n\nThe small servant nodded, and winked.  Her eyes were so red with waking\nand crying, that the Tragic Muse might have winked with greater\nconsistency.  And so Dick felt.\n\n'Tell me,' said he, 'how it was that you thought of coming here.'\n\n'Why, you see,' returned the Marchioness, 'when you was gone, I hadn't\nany friend at all, because the lodger he never come back, and I didn't\nknow where either him or you was to be found, you know.  But one\nmorning, when I was--'\n\n'Was near a keyhole?' suggested Mr Swiveller, observing that she\nfaltered.\n\n'Well then,' said the small servant, nodding; 'when I was near the\noffice keyhole--as you see me through, you know--I heard somebody\nsaying that she lived here, and was the lady whose house you lodged at,\nand that you was took very bad, and wouldn't nobody come and take care\nof you.  Mr Brass, he says, \"It's no business of mine,\" he says; and\nMiss Sally, she says, \"He's a funny chap, but it's no business of\nmine;\" and the lady went away, and slammed the door to, when she went\nout, I can tell you.  So I run away that night, and come here, and told\n'em you was my brother, and they believed me, and I've been here ever\nsince.'\n\n'This poor little Marchioness has been wearing herself to death!' cried\nDick.\n\n'No I haven't,' she returned, 'not a bit of it.  Don't you mind about\nme.  I like sitting up, and I've often had a sleep, bless you, in one\nof them chairs.  But if you could have seen how you tried to jump out\no' winder, and if you could have heard how you used to keep on singing\nand making speeches, you wouldn't have believed it--I'm so glad you're\nbetter, Mr Liverer.'\n\n'Liverer indeed!' said Dick thoughtfully.  'It's well I am a liverer.\nI strongly suspect I should have died, Marchioness, but for you.'\n\nAt this point, Mr Swiveller took the small servant's hand in his again,\nand being, as we have seen, but poorly, might in struggling to express\nhis thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that she quickly\nchanged the theme by making him lie down, and urging him to keep very\nquiet.\n\n'The doctor,' she told him, 'said you was to be kept quite still, and\nthere was to be no noise nor nothing.  Now, take a rest, and then we'll\ntalk again.  I'll sit by you, you know.  If you shut your eyes, perhaps\nyou'll go to sleep.  You'll be all the better for it, if you do.'\n\nThe Marchioness, in saying these words, brought a little table to the\nbedside, took her seat at it, and began to work away at the concoction\nof some cooling drink, with the address of a score of chemists.\nRichard Swiveller being indeed fatigued, fell into a slumber, and\nwaking in about half an hour, inquired what time it was.\n\n'Just gone half after six,' replied his small friend, helping him to\nsit up again.\n\n'Marchioness,' said Richard, passing his hand over his forehead and\nturning suddenly round, as though the subject but that moment flashed\nupon him, 'what has become of Kit?'\n\nHe had been sentenced to transportation for a great many years, she\nsaid.\n\n'Has he gone?' asked Dick--'his mother--how is she,--what has become of\nher?'\n\nHis nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothing about\nthem.  'But, if I thought,' said she, very slowly, 'that you'd keep\nquiet, and not put yourself into another fever, I could tell you--but\nI won't now.'\n\n'Yes, do,' said Dick.  'It will amuse me.'\n\n'Oh! would it though!' rejoined the small servant, with a horrified\nlook.  'I know better than that.  Wait till you're better and then I'll\ntell you.'\n\n\nDick looked very earnestly at his little friend: and his eyes, being\nlarge and hollow from illness, assisted the expression so much, that\nshe was quite frightened, and besought him not to think any more about\nit.  What had already fallen from her, however, had not only piqued his\ncuriosity, but seriously alarmed him, wherefore he urged her to tell\nhim the worst at once.\n\n'Oh there's no worst in it,' said the small servant.  'It hasn't\nanything to do with you.'\n\n'Has it anything to do with--is it anything you heard through chinks or\nkeyholes--and that you were not intended to hear?' asked Dick, in a\nbreathless state.\n\n'Yes,' replied the small servant.\n\n'In--in Bevis Marks?' pursued Dick hastily.  'Conversations between\nBrass and Sally?'\n\n'Yes,' cried the small servant again.\n\nRichard Swiveller thrust his lank arm out of bed, and, gripping her by\nthe wrist and drawing her close to him, bade her out with it, and\nfreely too, or he would not answer for the consequences; being wholly\nunable to endure the state of excitement and expectation.  She, seeing\nthat he was greatly agitated, and that the effects of postponing her\nrevelation might be much more injurious than any that were likely to\nensue from its being made at once, promised compliance, on condition\nthat the patient kept himself perfectly quiet, and abstained from\nstarting up or tossing about.\n\n'But if you begin to do that,' said the small servant, 'I'll leave off.\nAnd so I tell you.'\n\n'You can't leave off, till you have gone on,' said Dick.  'And do go\non, there's a darling.  Speak, sister, speak.  Pretty Polly say.  Oh\ntell me when, and tell me where, pray Marchioness, I beseech you!'\n\nUnable to resist these fervent adjurations, which Richard Swiveller\npoured out as passionately as if they had been of the most solemn and\ntremendous nature, his companion spoke thus:\n\n'Well!  Before I run away, I used to sleep in the kitchen--where we\nplayed cards, you know.  Miss Sally used to keep the key of the kitchen\ndoor in her pocket, and she always come down at night to take away the\ncandle and rake out the fire.  When she had done that, she left me to\ngo to bed in the dark, locked the door on the outside, put the key in\nher pocket again, and kept me locked up till she come down in the\nmorning--very early I can tell you--and let me out.  I was terrible\nafraid of being kept like this, because if there was a fire, I thought\nthey might forget me and only take care of themselves you know.  So,\nwhenever I see an old rusty key anywhere, I picked it up and tried if\nit would fit the door, and at last I found in the dust cellar a key\nthat did fit it.'\n\nHere, Mr Swiveller made a violent demonstration with his legs.  But the\nsmall servant immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided again, and\npleading a momentary forgetfulness of their compact, entreated her to\nproceed.\n\n'They kept me very short,' said the small servant.  'Oh! you can't\nthink how short they kept me!  So I used to come out at night after\nthey'd gone to bed, and feel about in the dark for bits of biscuit, or\nsangwitches that you'd left in the office, or even pieces of orange\npeel to put into cold water and make believe it was wine.  Did you ever\ntaste orange peel and water?'\n\nMr Swiveller replied that he had never tasted that ardent liquor; and\nonce more urged his friend to resume the thread of her narrative.\n\n'If you make believe very much, it's quite nice,' said the small\nservant, 'but if you don't, you know, it seems as if it would bear a\nlittle more seasoning, certainly.  Well, sometimes I used to come out\nafter they'd gone to bed, and sometimes before, you know; and one or\ntwo nights before there was all that precious noise in the office--when\nthe young man was took, I mean--I come upstairs while Mr Brass and Miss\nSally was a-sittin' at the office fire; and I tell you the truth, that\nI come to listen again, about the key of the safe.'\n\nMr Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to make a great cone of the\nbedclothes, and conveyed into his countenance an expression of the\nutmost concern.  But the small servant pausing, and holding up her\nfinger, the cone gently disappeared, though the look of concern did not.\n\n'There was him and her,' said the small servant, 'a-sittin' by the\nfire, and talking softly together.  Mr Brass says to Miss Sally, \"Upon\nmy word,\" he says \"it's a dangerous thing, and it might get us into a\nworld of trouble, and I don't half like it.\" She says--you know her\nway--she says, \"You're the chickenest-hearted, feeblest, faintest man I\never see, and I think,\" she says, \"that I ought to have been the\nbrother, and you the sister.  Isn't Quilp,\" she says, \"our principal\nsupport?\" \"He certainly is,\" says Mr Brass, \"And an't we,\" she says,\n\"constantly ruining somebody or other in the way of business?\" \"We\ncertainly are,\" says Mr Brass.  \"Then does it signify,\" she says,\n\"about ruining this Kit when Quilp desires it?\" \"It certainly does not\nsignify,\" says Mr Brass.  Then they whispered and laughed for a long\ntime about there being no danger if it was well done, and then Mr Brass\npulls out his pocket-book, and says, \"Well,\" he says, \"here it\nis--Quilp's own five-pound note.  We'll agree that way, then,\" he says.\n\"Kit's coming to-morrow morning, I know.  While he's up-stairs, you'll\nget out of the way, and I'll clear off Mr Richard.  Having Kit alone,\nI'll hold him in conversation, and put this property in his hat.  I'll\nmanage so, besides,\" he says, \"that Mr Richard shall find it there, and\nbe the evidence.  And if that don't get Christopher out of Mr Quilp's\nway, and satisfy Mr Quilp's grudges,\" he says, \"the Devil's in it.\"\nMiss Sally laughed, and said that was the plan, and as they seemed to\nbe moving away, and I was afraid to stop any longer, I went down-stairs\nagain.--There!'\n\nThe small servant had gradually worked herself into as much agitation\nas Mr Swiveller, and therefore made no effort to restrain him when he\nsat up in bed and hastily demanded whether this story had been told to\nanybody.\n\n'How could it be?' replied his nurse.  'I was almost afraid to think\nabout it, and hoped the young man would be let off.  When I heard 'em\nsay they had found him guilty of what he didn't do, you was gone, and\nso was the lodger--though I think I should have been frightened to tell\nhim, even if he'd been there.  Ever since I come here, you've been out\nof your senses, and what would have been the good of telling you then?'\n\n'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, plucking off his nightcap and\nflinging it to the other end of the room; 'if you'll do me the favour\nto retire for a few minutes and see what sort of a night it is, I'll\nget up.'\n\n'You mustn't think of such a thing,' cried his nurse.\n\n'I must indeed,' said the patient, looking round the room.\n'Whereabouts are my clothes?'\n\n'Oh, I'm so glad--you haven't got any,' replied the Marchioness.\n\n'Ma'am!' said Mr Swiveller, in great astonishment.\n\n'I've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that was\nordered for you.  But don't take on about that,' urged the Marchioness,\nas Dick fell back upon his pillow.  'You're too weak to stand, indeed.'\n\n'I am afraid,' said Richard dolefully, 'that you're right.  What ought\nI to do! what is to be done!'\n\nIt naturally occurred to him on very little reflection, that the first\nstep to take would be to communicate with one of the Mr Garlands\ninstantly.  It was very possible that Mr Abel had not yet left the\noffice.  In as little time as it takes to tell it, the small servant\nhad the address in pencil on a piece of paper; a verbal description of\nfather and son, which would enable her to recognise either, without\ndifficulty; and a special caution to be shy of Mr Chuckster, in\nconsequence of that gentleman's known antipathy to Kit.  Armed with\nthese slender powers, she hurried away, commissioned to bring either\nold Mr Garland or Mr Abel, bodily, to that apartment.\n\n'I suppose,' said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into\nthe room again, to make sure that he was comfortable, 'I suppose\nthere's nothing left--not so much as a waistcoat even?'\n\n'No, nothing.'\n\n'It's embarrassing,' said Mr Swiveller, 'in case of fire--even an\numbrella would be something--but you did quite right, dear Marchioness.\nI should have died without you!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 65\n\nIt was well for the small servant that she was of a sharp, quick\nnature, or the consequence of sending her out alone, from the very\nneighbourhood in which it was most dangerous for her to appear, would\nprobably have been the restoration of Miss Sally Brass to the supreme\nauthority over her person.  Not unmindful of the risk she ran, however,\nthe Marchioness no sooner left the house than she dived into the first\ndark by-way that presented itself, and, without any present reference\nto the point to which her journey tended, made it her first business to\nput two good miles of brick and mortar between herself and Bevis Marks.\n\nWhen she had accomplished this object, she began to shape her course\nfor the notary's office, to which--shrewdly inquiring of apple-women\nand oyster-sellers at street-corners, rather than in lighted shops or\nof well-dressed people, at the hazard of attracting notice--she easily\nprocured a direction.  As carrier-pigeons, on being first let loose in\na strange place, beat the air at random for a short time before darting\noff towards the spot for which they are designed, so did the\nMarchioness flutter round and round until she believed herself in\nsafety, and then bear swiftly down upon the port for which she was\nbound.\n\nShe had no bonnet--nothing on her head but a great cap which, in some\nold time, had been worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in head-dresses\nwas, as we have seen, peculiar--and her speed was rather retarded than\nassisted by her shoes, which, being extremely large and slipshod, flew\noff every now and then, and were difficult to find again, among the\ncrowd of passengers.  Indeed, the poor little creature experienced so\nmuch trouble and delay from having to grope for these articles of dress\nin mud and kennel, and suffered in these researches so much jostling,\npushing, squeezing and bandying from hand to hand, that by the time she\nreached the street in which the notary lived, she was fairly worn out\nand exhausted, and could not refrain from tears.\n\nBut to have got there at last was a great comfort, especially as there\nwere lights still burning in the office window, and therefore some hope\nthat she was not too late.  So the Marchioness dried her eyes with the\nbacks of her hands, and, stealing softly up the steps, peeped in\nthrough the glass door.\n\nMr Chuckster was standing behind the lid of his desk, making such\npreparations towards finishing off for the night, as pulling down his\nwristbands and pulling up his shirt-collar, settling his neck more\ngracefully in his stock, and secretly arranging his whiskers by the aid\nof a little triangular bit of looking glass.  Before the ashes of the\nfire stood two gentlemen, one of whom she rightly judged to be the\nnotary, and the other (who was buttoning his great-coat and was\nevidently about to depart immediately) Mr Abel Garland.\n\nHaving made these observations, the small spy took counsel with\nherself, and resolved to wait in the street until Mr Abel came out, as\nthere would be then no fear of having to speak before Mr Chuckster, and\nless difficulty in delivering her message.  With this purpose she\nslipped out again, and crossing the road, sat down upon a door-step\njust opposite.\n\nShe had hardly taken this position, when there came dancing up the\nstreet, with his legs all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns, a\npony.  This pony had a little phaeton behind him, and a man in it; but\nneither man nor phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the least, as he\nreared up on his hind legs, or stopped, or went on, or stood still\nagain, or backed, or went side-ways, without the smallest reference to\nthem--just as the fancy seized him, and as if he were the freest animal\nin creation.  When they came to the notary's door, the man called out\nin a very respectful manner, 'Woa then'--intimating that if he might\nventure to express a wish, it would be that they stopped there.  The\npony made a moment's pause; but, as if it occurred to him that to stop\nwhen he was required might be to establish an inconvenient and\ndangerous precedent, he immediately started off again, rattled at a\nfast trot to the street corner, wheeled round, came back, and then\nstopped of his own accord.\n\n'Oh! you're a precious creatur!' said the man--who didn't venture by\nthe bye to come out in his true colours until he was safe on the\npavement.  'I wish I had the rewarding of you--I do.'\n\n'What has he been doing?' said Mr Abel, tying a shawl round his neck as\nhe came down the steps.\n\n'He's enough to fret a man's heart out,' replied the hostler.  'He is\nthe most wicious rascal--Woa then, will you?'\n\n'He'll never stand still, if you call him names,' said Mr Abel, getting\nin, and taking the reins.  'He's a very good fellow if you know how to\nmanage him.  This is the first time he has been out, this long while,\nfor he has lost his old driver and wouldn't stir for anybody else, till\nthis morning.  The lamps are right, are they?  That's well.  Be here to\ntake him to-morrow, if you please.  Good night!'\n\nAnd, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention, the\npony yielded to Mr Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off.\n\nAll this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the small\nservant had been afraid to approach.  She had nothing for it now,\ntherefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel to stop.\nBeing out of breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make\nhim hear.  The case was desperate; for the pony was quickening his\npace.  The Marchioness hung on behind for a few moments, and, feeling\nthat she could go no farther, and must soon yield, clambered by a\nvigorous effort into the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of the\nshoes for ever.\n\nMr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to\ndo to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round:\nlittle dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until\nthe Marchioness, having in some degree recovered her breath, and the\nloss of her shoe, and the novelty of her position, uttered close into\nhis ear, the words--'I say, Sir'--\n\nHe turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried,\nwith some trepidation, 'God bless me, what is this!'\n\n'Don't be frightened, Sir,' replied the still panting messenger.  'Oh\nI've run such a way after you!'\n\n'What do you want with me?' said Mr Abel.  'How did you come here?'\n\n'I got in behind,' replied the Marchioness.  'Oh please drive on,\nsir--don't stop--and go towards the City, will you?  And oh do please\nmake haste, because it's of consequence.  There's somebody wants to see\nyou there.  He sent me to say would you come directly, and that he\nknowed all about Kit, and could save him yet, and prove his innocence.'\n\n'What do you tell me, child?'\n\n'The truth, upon my word and honour I do.  But please to drive on--\nquick, please!  I've been such a time gone, he'll think I'm lost.'\n\nMr Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward.  The pony, impelled by\nsome secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and\nneither slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until\nthey arrived at the door of Mr Swiveller's lodging, where, marvellous\nto relate, he consented to stop when Mr Abel checked him.\n\n'See!  It's the room up there,' said the Marchioness, pointing to one\nwhere there was a faint light.  'Come!'\n\nMr Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in\nexistence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard of\npeople being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and murdered,\nunder circumstances very like the present, and, for anything he knew to\nthe contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness.  His regard for Kit,\nhowever, overcame every other consideration.  So, entrusting Whisker to\nthe charge of a man who was lingering hard by in expectation of the\njob, he suffered his companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the\ndark and narrow stairs.\n\nHe was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a\ndimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.\n\n'An't it nice to see him lying there so quiet?' said his guide, in an\nearnest whisper.  'Oh! you'd say it was, if you had only seen him two\nor three days ago.'\n\nMr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the\nbed and very near the door.  His guide, who appeared to understand his\nreluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached\nthe bed.  As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in\nthe wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller.\n\n'Why, how is this?' said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him.\n'You have been ill?'\n\n'Very,' replied Dick.  'Nearly dead.  You might have chanced to hear of\nyour Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you.\nAnother shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please.  Sit down, Sir.'\n\nMr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide,\nand took a chair by the bedside.\n\n'I have sent for you, Sir,' said Dick--'but she told you on what\naccount?'\n\n'She did.  I am quite bewildered by all this.  I really don't know what\nto say or think,' replied Mr Abel.\n\n'You'll say that presently,' retorted Dick.  'Marchioness, take a seat\non the bed, will you?  Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me;\nand be particular.  Don't you speak another word, Sir.'\n\nThe story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before,\nwithout any deviation or omission.  Richard Swiveller kept his eyes\nfixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was\nconcluded, took the word again.\n\n'You have heard it all, and you'll not forget it.  I'm too giddy and\ntoo queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what\nto do.  After this long delay, every minute is an age.  If ever you\nwent home fast in your life, go home fast to-night.  Don't stop to say\none word to me, but go.  She will be found here, whenever she's wanted;\nand as to me, you're pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two.\nThere are more reasons than one for that.  Marchioness, a light!  If\nyou lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I'll never forgive you!'\n\nMr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion.  He was gone in an\ninstant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him down-stairs,\nreported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had\ndashed away at full gallop.\n\n'That's right!' said Dick; 'and hearty of him; and I honour him from\nthis time.  But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you\nmust be tired.  Do have a mug of beer.  It will do me as much good to\nsee you take it as if I might drink it myself.'\n\nNothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to\nindulge in such a luxury.  Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller's\nextreme contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat\norder, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug\nbefore the fire.\n\nMr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, 'Strew then, oh\nstrew, a bed of rushes.  Here will we stay, till morning blushes.  Good\nnight, Marchioness!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 66\n\nOn awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow\ndegrees, of whispering voices in his room.  Looking out between the\ncurtains, he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary, and the single\ngentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with\ngreat earnestness but in very subdued tones--fearing, no doubt, to\ndisturb him.  He lost no time in letting them know that this precaution\nwas unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly approached his\nbedside.  Old Mr Garland was the first to stretch out his hand, and\ninquire how he felt.\n\nDick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak\nas need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and\npressing up to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set\nhis breakfast before him, and insisted on his taking it before he\nunderwent the fatigue of speaking or of being spoken to.  Mr Swiveller,\nwho was perfectly ravenous, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct\nand consistent dreams of mutton chops, double stout, and similar\ndelicacies, felt even the weak tea and dry toast such irresistible\ntemptations, that he consented to eat and drink on one condition.\n\n'And that is,' said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland's hand,\n'that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop.\nIs it too late?'\n\n'For completing the work you began so well last night?' returned the\nold gentleman.  'No.  Set your mind at rest on that point.  It is not,\nI assure you.'\n\nComforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food\nwith a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the\neating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing him eat.  The manner\nof this meal was this:--Mr Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup\nof tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or drink, as the case might\nbe, constantly kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight\nlocked; and to shake, or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would\nstop every now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect\nseriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity.  As often as he put\nanything into his mouth, whether for eating or drinking, the face of\nthe Marchioness lighted up beyond all description; but whenever he gave\nher one or other of these tokens of recognition, her countenance became\novershadowed, and she began to sob.  Now, whether she was in her\nlaughing joy, or in her crying one, the Marchioness could not help\nturning to the visitors with an appealing look, which seemed to say,\n'You see this fellow--can I help this?'--and they, being thus made, as\nit were, parties to the scene, as regularly answered by another look,\n'No.  Certainly not.'  This dumb-show, taking place during the whole\ntime of the invalid's breakfast, and the invalid himself, pale and\nemaciated, performing no small part in the same, it may be fairly\nquestioned whether at any meal, where no word, good or bad, was spoken\nfrom beginning to end, so much was expressed by gestures in themselves\nso slight and unimportant.\n\nAt length--and to say the truth before very long--Mr Swiveller had\ndespatched as much toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it\nwas discreet to let him have.  But the cares of the Marchioness did not\nstop here; for, disappearing for an instant and presently returning\nwith a basin of fair water, she laved his face and hands, brushed his\nhair, and in short made him as spruce and smart as anybody under such\ncircumstances could be made; and all this, in as brisk and\nbusiness-like a manner, as if he were a very little boy, and she his\ngrown-up nurse.  To these various attentions, Mr Swiveller submitted in\na kind of grateful astonishment beyond the reach of language.  When\nthey were at last brought to an end, and the Marchioness had withdrawn\ninto a distant corner to take her own poor breakfast (cold enough by\nthat time), he turned his face away for some few moments, and shook\nhands heartily with the air.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Dick, rousing himself from this pause, and turning\nround again, 'you'll excuse me.  Men who have been brought so low as I\nhave been, are easily fatigued.  I am fresh again now, and fit for\ntalking.  We're short of chairs here, among other trifles, but if\nyou'll do me the favour to sit upon the bed--'\n\n'What can we do for you?' said Mr Garland, kindly.\n\n'If you could make the Marchioness yonder, a Marchioness, in real,\nsober earnest,' returned Dick, 'I'd thank you to get it done off-hand.\nBut as you can't, and as the question is not what you will do for me,\nbut what you will do for somebody else who has a better claim upon you,\npray sir let me know what you intend doing.'\n\n'It's chiefly on that account that we have come just now,' said the\nsingle gentleman, 'for you will have another visitor presently.  We\nfeared you would be anxious unless you knew from ourselves what steps\nwe intended to take, and therefore came to you before we stirred in the\nmatter.'\n\n'Gentlemen,' returned Dick, 'I thank you.  Anybody in the helpless\nstate that you see me in, is naturally anxious.  Don't let me interrupt\nyou, sir.'\n\n'Then, you see, my good fellow,' said the single gentleman, 'that while\nwe have no doubt whatever of the truth of this disclosure, which has so\nprovidentially come to light--'\n\n'Meaning hers?' said Dick, pointing towards the Marchioness.\n\n'--Meaning hers, of course.  While we have no doubt of that, or that a\nproper use of it would procure the poor lad's immediate pardon and\nliberation, we have a great doubt whether it would, by itself, enable\nus to reach Quilp, the chief agent in this villany.  I should tell you\nthat this doubt has been confirmed into something very nearly\napproaching certainty by the best opinions we have been enabled, in\nthis short space of time, to take upon the subject.  You'll agree with\nus, that to give him even the most distant chance of escape, if we\ncould help it, would be monstrous.  You say with us, no doubt, if\nsomebody must escape, let it be any one but he.'\n\n'Yes,' returned Dick, 'certainly.  That is if somebody must--but upon\nmy word, I'm unwilling that anybody should.  Since laws were made for\nevery degree, to curb vice in others as well as in me--and so forth\nyou know--doesn't it strike you in that light?'\n\nThe single gentleman smiled as if the light in which Mr Swiveller had\nput the question were not the clearest in the world, and proceeded to\nexplain that they contemplated proceeding by stratagem in the first\ninstance; and that their design was to endeavour to extort a confession\nfrom the gentle Sarah.\n\n'When she finds how much we know, and how we know it,' he said, 'and\nthat she is clearly compromised already, we are not without strong\nhopes that we may be enabled through her means to punish the other two\neffectually.  If we could do that, she might go scot-free for aught I\ncared.'\n\nDick received this project in anything but a gracious manner,\nrepresenting with as much warmth as he was then capable of showing,\nthat they would find the old buck (meaning Sarah) more difficult to\nmanage than Quilp himself--that, for any tampering, terrifying, or\ncajolery, she was a very unpromising and unyielding subject--that she\nwas of a kind of brass not easily melted or moulded into shape--in\nshort, that they were no match for her, and would be signally defeated.\nBut it was in vain to urge them to adopt some other course.  The single\ngentleman has been described as explaining their joint intentions, but\nit should have been written that they all spoke together; that if any\none of them by chance held his peace for a moment, he stood gasping and\npanting for an opportunity to strike in again: in a word, that they had\nreached that pitch of impatience and anxiety where men can neither be\npersuaded nor reasoned with; and that it would have been as easy to\nturn the most impetuous wind that ever blew, as to prevail on them to\nreconsider their determination.  So, after telling Mr Swiveller how\nthey had not lost sight of Kit's mother and the children; how they had\nnever once even lost sight of Kit himself, but had been unremitting in\ntheir endeavours to procure a mitigation of his sentence; how they had\nbeen perfectly distracted between the strong proofs of his guilt, and\ntheir own fading hopes of his innocence; and how he, Richard Swiveller,\nmight keep his mind at rest, for everything should be happily adjusted\nbetween that time and night;--after telling him all this, and adding a\ngreat many kind and cordial expressions, personal to himself, which it\nis unnecessary to recite, Mr Garland, the notary, and the single\ngentleman, took their leaves at a very critical time, or Richard\nSwiveller must assuredly have been driven into another fever, whereof\nthe results might have been fatal.\n\nMr Abel remained behind, very often looking at his watch and at the\nroom door, until Mr Swiveller was roused from a short nap, by the\nsetting-down on the landing-place outside, as from the shoulders of a\nporter, of some giant load, which seemed to shake the house, and made\nthe little physic bottles on the mantel-shelf ring again.  Directly\nthis sound reached his ears, Mr Abel started up, and hobbled to the\ndoor, and opened it; and behold! there stood a strong man, with a\nmighty hamper, which, being hauled into the room and presently\nunpacked, disgorged such treasures as tea, and coffee, and wine, and\nrusks, and oranges, and grapes, and fowls ready trussed for boiling,\nand calves'-foot jelly, and arrow-root, and sago, and other delicate\nrestoratives, that the small servant, who had never thought it possible\nthat such things could be, except in shops, stood rooted to the spot in\nher one shoe, with her mouth and eyes watering in unison, and her power\nof speech quite gone.  But, not so Mr Abel; or the strong man who\nemptied the hamper, big as it was, in a twinkling; and not so the nice\nold lady, who appeared so suddenly that she might have come out of the\nhamper too (it was quite large enough), and who, bustling about on\ntiptoe and without noise--now here, now there, now everywhere at\nonce--began to fill out the jelly in tea-cups, and to make chicken\nbroth in small saucepans, and to peel oranges for the sick man and to\ncut them up in little pieces, and to ply the small servant with glasses\nof wine and choice bits of everything until more substantial meat could\nbe prepared for her refreshment.  The whole of which appearances were\nso unexpected and bewildering, that Mr Swiveller, when he had taken two\noranges and a little jelly, and had seen the strong man walk off with\nthe empty basket, plainly leaving all that abundance for his use and\nbenefit, was fain to lie down and fall asleep again, from sheer\ninability to entertain such wonders in his mind.\n\nMeanwhile, the single gentleman, the Notary, and Mr Garland, repaired\nto a certain coffee-house, and from that place indited and sent a\nletter to Miss Sally Brass, requesting her, in terms mysterious and\nbrief, to favour an unknown friend who wished to consult her, with her\ncompany there, as speedily as possible.  The communication performed\nits errand so well, that within ten minutes of the messenger's return\nand report of its delivery, Miss Brass herself was announced.\n\n'Pray ma'am,' said the single gentleman, whom she found alone in the\nroom, 'take a chair.'\n\nMiss Brass sat herself down, in a very stiff and frigid state, and\nseemed--as indeed she was--not a little astonished to find that the\nlodger and her mysterious correspondent were one and the same person.\n\n'You did not expect to see me?' said the single gentleman.\n\n'I didn't think much about it,' returned the beauty.  'I supposed it\nwas business of some kind or other.  If it's about the apartments, of\ncourse you'll give my brother regular notice, you know--or money.\nThat's very easily settled.  You're a responsible party, and in such a\ncase lawful money and lawful notice are pretty much the same.'\n\n'I am obliged to you for your good opinion,' retorted the single\ngentleman, 'and quite concur in these sentiments.  But that is not the\nsubject on which I wish to speak with you.'\n\n'Oh!' said Sally.  'Then just state the particulars, will you?  I\nsuppose it's professional business?'\n\n'Why, it is connected with the law, certainly.'\n\n'Very well,' returned Miss Brass.  'My brother and I are just the same.\nI can take any instructions, or give you any advice.'\n\n'As there are other parties interested besides myself,' said the single\ngentleman, rising and opening the door of an inner room, 'we had better\nconfer together.  Miss Brass is here, gentlemen.'\n\nMr Garland and the Notary walked in, looking very grave; and, drawing up\ntwo chairs, one on each side of the single gentleman, formed a kind of\nfence round the gentle Sarah, and penned her into a corner.  Her brother\nSampson under such circumstances would certainly have evinced some\nconfusion or anxiety, but she--all composure--pulled out the tin box,\nand calmly took a pinch of snuff.\n\n'Miss Brass,' said the Notary, taking the word at this crisis, 'we\nprofessional people understand each other, and, when we choose, can say\nwhat we have to say, in very few words.  You advertised a runaway\nservant, the other day?'\n\n'Well,' returned Miss Sally, with a sudden flush overspreading her\nfeatures, 'what of that?'\n\n'She is found, ma'am,' said the Notary, pulling out his\npocket-handkerchief with a flourish.  'She is found.'\n\n'Who found her?' demanded Sarah hastily.\n\n'We did, ma'am--we three.  Only last night, or you would have heard\nfrom us before.'\n\n'And now I have heard from you,' said Miss Brass, folding her arms as\nthough she were about to deny something to the death, 'what have you\ngot to say?  Something you have got into your heads about her, of\ncourse.  Prove it, will you--that's all.  Prove it.  You have found\nher, you say.  I can tell you (if you don't know it) that you have\nfound the most artful, lying, pilfering, devilish little minx that was\never born.--Have you got her here?' she added, looking sharply round.\n\n'No, she is not here at present,' returned the Notary.  'But she is\nquite safe.'\n\n'Ha!' cried Sally, twitching a pinch of snuff out of her box, as\nspitefully as if she were in the very act of wrenching off the small\nservant's nose; 'she shall be safe enough from this time, I warrant\nyou.'\n\n'I hope so,' replied the Notary.  'Did it occur to you for the first\ntime, when you found she had run away, that there were two keys to your\nkitchen door?'\n\nMiss Sally took another pinch, and putting her head on one side, looked\nat her questioner, with a curious kind of spasm about her mouth, but\nwith a cunning aspect of immense expression.\n\n'Two keys,' repeated the Notary; 'one of which gave her the\nopportunities of roaming through the house at nights when you supposed\nher fast locked up, and of overhearing confidential\nconsultations--among others, that particular conference, to be\ndescribed to-day before a justice, which you will have an opportunity\nof hearing her relate; that conference which you and Mr Brass held\ntogether, on the night before that most unfortunate and innocent young\nman was accused of robbery, by a horrible device of which I will only\nsay that it may be characterised by the epithets which you have applied\nto this wretched little witness, and by a few stronger ones besides.'\n\nSally took another pinch.  Although her face was wonderfully composed,\nit was apparent that she was wholly taken by surprise, and that what\nshe had expected to be taxed with, in connection with her small\nservant, was something very different from this.\n\n'Come, come, Miss Brass,' said the Notary, 'you have great command of\nfeature, but you feel, I see, that by a chance which never entered your\nimagination, this base design is revealed, and two of its plotters must\nbe brought to justice.  Now, you know the pains and penalties you are\nliable to, and so I need not dilate upon them, but I have a proposal to\nmake to you.  You have the honour of being sister to one of the\ngreatest scoundrels unhung; and, if I may venture to say so to a lady,\nyou are in every respect quite worthy of him.  But connected with you\ntwo is a third party, a villain of the name of Quilp, the prime mover\nof the whole diabolical device, who I believe to be worse than either.\nFor his sake, Miss Brass, do us the favour to reveal the whole history\nof this affair.  Let me remind you that your doing so, at our instance,\nwill place you in a safe and comfortable position--your present one is\nnot desirable--and cannot injure your brother; for against him and you\nwe have quite sufficient evidence (as you hear) already.  I will not\nsay to you that we suggest this course in mercy (for, to tell you the\ntruth, we do not entertain any regard for you), but it is a necessity\nto which we are reduced, and I recommend it to you as a matter of the\nvery best policy.  Time,' said Mr Witherden, pulling out his watch, 'in\na business like this, is exceedingly precious.  Favour us with your\ndecision as speedily as possible, ma'am.'\n\nWith a smile upon her face, and looking at each of the three by turns,\nMiss Brass took two or three more pinches of snuff, and having by this\ntime very little left, travelled round and round the box with her\nforefinger and thumb, scraping up another.  Having disposed of this\nlikewise and put the box carefully in her pocket, she said,--\n\n'I am to accept or reject at once, am I?'\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Witherden.\n\nThe charming creature was opening her lips to speak in reply, when the\ndoor was hastily opened too, and the head of Sampson Brass was thrust\ninto the room.\n\n'Excuse me,' said the gentleman hastily.  'Wait a bit!'\n\nSo saying, and quite indifferent to the astonishment his presence\noccasioned, he crept in, shut the door, kissed his greasy glove as\nservilely as if it were the dust, and made a most abject bow.\n\n'Sarah,' said Brass, 'hold your tongue if you please, and let me speak.\nGentlemen, if I could express the pleasure it gives me to see three\nsuch men in a happy unity of feeling and concord of sentiment, I think\nyou would hardly believe me.  But though I am unfortunate--nay,\ngentlemen, criminal, if we are to use harsh expressions in a company\nlike this--still, I have my feelings like other men.  I have heard of a\npoet, who remarked that feelings were the common lot of all.  If he\ncould have been a pig, gentlemen, and have uttered that sentiment, he\nwould still have been immortal.'\n\n'If you're not an idiot,' said Miss Brass harshly, 'hold your peace.'\n\n'Sarah, my dear,' returned her brother, 'thank you.  But I know what I\nam about, my love, and will take the liberty of expressing myself\naccordingly.  Mr Witherden, Sir, your handkerchief is hanging out of\nyour pocket--would you allow me to--,\n\nAs Mr Brass advanced to remedy this accident, the Notary shrunk from\nhim with an air of disgust.  Brass, who over and above his usual\nprepossessing qualities, had a scratched face, a green shade over one\neye, and a hat grievously crushed, stopped short, and looked round with\na pitiful smile.\n\n'He shuns me,' said Sampson, 'even when I would, as I may say, heap\ncoals of fire upon his head.  Well!  Ah! But I am a falling house, and\nthe rats (if I may be allowed the expression in reference to a\ngentleman I respect and love beyond everything) fly from me!\nGentlemen--regarding your conversation just now, I happened to see my\nsister on her way here, and, wondering where she could be going to, and\nbeing--may I venture to say?--naturally of a suspicious turn, followed\nher.  Since then, I have been listening.'\n\n'If you're not mad,' interposed Miss Sally, 'stop there, and say no\nmore.'\n\n'Sarah, my dear,' rejoined Brass with undiminished politeness, 'I thank\nyou kindly, but will still proceed.  Mr Witherden, sir, as we have the\nhonour to be members of the same profession--to say nothing of that\nother gentleman having been my lodger, and having partaken, as one may\nsay, of the hospitality of my roof--I think you might have given me the\nrefusal of this offer in the first instance.  I do indeed.  Now, my\ndear Sir,' cried Brass, seeing that the Notary was about to interrupt\nhim, 'suffer me to speak, I beg.'\n\nMr Witherden was silent, and Brass went on.\n\n'If you will do me the favour,' he said, holding up the green shade,\nand revealing an eye most horribly discoloured, 'to look at this, you\nwill naturally inquire, in your own minds, how did I get it.  If you\nlook from that, to my face, you will wonder what could have been the\ncause of all these scratches.  And if from them to my hat, how it came\ninto the state in which you see it.  Gentlemen,' said Brass, striking\nthe hat fiercely with his clenched hand, 'to all these questions I\nanswer--Quilp!'\n\nThe three gentlemen looked at each other, but said nothing.\n\n'I say,' pursued Brass, glancing aside at his sister, as though he were\ntalking for her information, and speaking with a snarling malignity, in\nviolent contrast to his usual smoothness, 'that I answer to all these\nquestions,--Quilp--Quilp, who deludes me into his infernal den, and\ntakes a delight in looking on and chuckling while I scorch, and burn,\nand bruise, and maim myself--Quilp, who never once, no never once, in\nall our communications together, has treated me otherwise than as a\ndog--Quilp, whom I have always hated with my whole heart, but never so\nmuch as lately.  He gives me the cold shoulder on this very matter as\nif he had had nothing to do with it, instead of being the first to\npropose it.  I can't trust him.  In one of his howling, raving, blazing\nhumours, I believe he'd let it out, if it was murder, and never think\nof himself so long as he could terrify me.  Now,' said Brass, picking\nup his hat again and replacing the shade over his eye, and actually\ncrouching down, in the excess of his servility, 'what does all this\nlead to?--what should you say it led me to, gentlemen?--could you guess\nat all near the mark?'\n\nNobody spoke.  Brass stood smirking for a little while, as if he had\npropounded some choice conundrum; and then said:\n\n'To be short with you, then, it leads me to this.  If the truth has\ncome out, as it plainly has in a manner that there's no standing up\nagainst--and a very sublime and grand thing is Truth, gentlemen, in its\nway, though like other sublime and grand things, such as thunder-storms\nand that, we're not always over and above glad to see it--I had better\nturn upon this man than let this man turn upon me.  It's clear to me\nthat I am done for.  Therefore, if anybody is to split, I had better be\nthe person and have the advantage of it.  Sarah, my dear, comparatively\nspeaking you're safe.  I relate these circumstances for my own profit.'\n\nWith that, Mr Brass, in a great hurry, revealed the whole story;\nbearing as heavily as possible on his amiable employer, and making\nhimself out to be rather a saint-like and holy character, though\nsubject--he acknowledged--to human weaknesses.  He concluded thus:\n\n'Now, gentlemen, I am not a man who does things by halves.  Being in\nfor a penny, I am ready, as the saying is, to be in for a pound.  You\nmust do with me what you please, and take me where you please.  If you\nwish to have this in writing, we'll reduce it into manuscript\nimmediately.  You will be tender with me, I am sure.  I am quite\nconfident you will be tender with me.  You are men of honour, and have\nfeeling hearts.  I yielded from necessity to Quilp, for though\nnecessity has no law, she has her lawyers.  I yield to you from\nnecessity too; from policy besides; and because of feelings that have\nbeen a pretty long time working within me.  Punish Quilp, gentlemen.\nWeigh heavily upon him.  Grind him down.  Tread him under foot.  He has\ndone as much by me, for many and many a day.'\n\nHaving now arrived at the conclusion of his discourse, Sampson checked\nthe current of his wrath, kissed his glove again, and smiled as only\nparasites and cowards can.\n\n'And this,' said Miss Brass, raising her head, with which she had\nhitherto sat resting on her hands, and surveying him from head to foot\nwith a bitter sneer, 'this is my brother, is it!  This is my brother,\nthat I have worked and toiled for, and believed to have had something\nof the man in him!'\n\n'Sarah, my dear,' returned Sampson, rubbing his hands feebly; 'you\ndisturb our friends.  Besides you--you're disappointed, Sarah, and, not\nknowing what you say, expose yourself.'\n\n'Yes, you pitiful dastard,' retorted the lovely damsel, 'I understand\nyou.  You feared that I should be beforehand with you.  But do you\nthink that I would have been enticed to say a word!  I'd have scorned\nit, if they had tried and tempted me for twenty years.'\n\n'He he!' simpered Brass, who, in his deep debasement, really seemed to\nhave changed sexes with his sister, and to have made over to her any\nspark of manliness he might have possessed.  'You think so, Sarah, you\nthink so perhaps; but you would have acted quite different, my good\nfellow.  You will not have forgotten that it was a maxim with\nFoxey--our revered father, gentlemen--\"Always suspect everybody.\"\nThat's the maxim to go through life with!  If you were not actually\nabout to purchase your own safety when I showed myself, I suspect you'd\nhave done it by this time.  And therefore I've done it myself, and\nspared you the trouble as well as the shame.  The shame, gentlemen,'\nadded Brass, allowing himself to be slightly overcome, 'if there is\nany, is mine.  It's better that a female should be spared it.'\n\nWith deference to the better opinion of Mr Brass, and more particularly\nto the authority of his Great Ancestor, it may be doubted, with\nhumility, whether the elevating principle laid down by the latter\ngentleman, and acted upon by his descendant, is always a prudent one,\nor attended in practice with the desired results.  This is, beyond\nquestion, a bold and presumptuous doubt, inasmuch as many distinguished\ncharacters, called men of the world, long-headed customers, knowing\ndogs, shrewd fellows, capital hands at business, and the like, have\nmade, and do daily make, this axiom their polar star and compass.\nStill, the doubt may be gently insinuated.  And in illustration it may\nbe observed, that if Mr Brass, not being over-suspicious, had, without\nprying and listening, left his sister to manage the conference on their\njoint behalf, or prying and listening, had not been in such a mighty\nhurry to anticipate her (which he would not have been, but for his\ndistrust and jealousy), he would probably have found himself much\nbetter off in the end.  Thus, it will always happen that these men of\nthe world, who go through it in armour, defend themselves from quite as\nmuch good as evil; to say nothing of the inconvenience and absurdity of\nmounting guard with a microscope at all times, and of wearing a coat of\nmail on the most innocent occasions.\n\nThe three gentlemen spoke together apart, for a few moments.  At the\nend of their consultation, which was very brief, the Notary pointed to\nthe writing materials on the table, and informed Mr Brass that if he\nwished to make any statement in writing, he had the opportunity of\ndoing so.  At the same time he felt bound to tell him that they would\nrequire his attendance, presently, before a justice of the peace, and\nthat in what he did or said, he was guided entirely by his own\ndiscretion.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Brass, drawing off his glove, and crawling in spirit\nupon the ground before them, 'I will justify the tenderness with which\nI know I shall be treated; and as, without tenderness, I should, now\nthat this discovery has been made, stand in the worst position of the\nthree, you may depend upon it I will make a clean breast.  Mr\nWitherden, sir, a kind of faintness is upon my spirits--if you would\ndo me the favour to ring the bell and order up a glass of something\nwarm and spicy, I shall, notwithstanding what has passed, have a\nmelancholy pleasure in drinking your good health.  I had hoped,' said\nBrass, looking round with a mournful smile, 'to have seen you three\ngentlemen, one day or another, with your legs under the mahogany in my\nhumble parlour in the Marks.  But hopes are fleeting.  Dear me!'\n\nMr Brass found himself so exceedingly affected, at this point, that he\ncould say or do nothing more until some refreshment arrived.  Having\npartaken of it, pretty freely for one in his agitated state, he sat\ndown to write.\n\nThe lovely Sarah, now with her arms folded, and now with her hands\nclasped behind her, paced the room with manly strides while her brother\nwas thus employed, and sometimes stopped to pull out her snuff-box and\nbite the lid.  She continued to pace up and down until she was quite\ntired, and then fell asleep on a chair near the door.\n\nIt has been since supposed, with some reason, that this slumber was a\nsham or feint, as she contrived to slip away unobserved in the dusk of\nthe afternoon.  Whether this was an intentional and waking departure,\nor a somnambulistic leave-taking and walking in her sleep, may remain a\nsubject of contention; but, on one point (and indeed the main one) all\nparties are agreed.  In whatever state she walked away, she certainly\ndid not walk back again.\n\nMention having been made of the dusk of the afternoon, it will be\ninferred that Mr Brass's task occupied some time in the completion.  It\nwas not finished until evening; but, being done at last, that worthy\nperson and the three friends adjourned in a hackney-coach to the\nprivate office of a justice, who, giving Mr Brass a warm reception and\ndetaining him in a secure place that he might insure to himself the\npleasure of seeing him on the morrow, dismissed the others with the\ncheering assurance that a warrant could not fail to be granted next day\nfor the apprehension of Mr Quilp, and that a proper application and\nstatement of all the circumstances to the secretary of state (who was\nfortunately in town), would no doubt procure Kit's free pardon and\nliberation without delay.\n\nAnd now, indeed, it seemed that Quilp's malignant career was drawing to\na close, and that retribution, which often travels slowly--especially\nwhen heaviest--had tracked his footsteps with a sure and certain scent\nand was gaining on him fast.  Unmindful of her stealthy tread, her\nvictim holds his course in fancied triumph.  Still at his heels she\ncomes, and once afoot, is never turned aside!\n\nTheir business ended, the three gentlemen hastened back to the lodgings\nof Mr Swiveller, whom they found progressing so favourably in his\nrecovery as to have been able to sit up for half an hour, and to have\nconversed with cheerfulness.  Mrs Garland had gone home some time\nsince, but Mr Abel was still sitting with him.  After telling him all\nthey had done, the two Mr Garlands and the single gentleman, as if by\nsome previous understanding, took their leaves for the night, leaving\nthe invalid alone with the Notary and the small servant.\n\n'As you are so much better,' said Mr Witherden, sitting down at the\nbedside, 'I may venture to communicate to you a piece of news which has\ncome to me professionally.'\n\nThe idea of any professional intelligence from a gentleman connected\nwith legal matters, appeared to afford Richard any-thing but a pleasing\nanticipation.  Perhaps he connected it in his own mind with one or two\noutstanding accounts, in reference to which he had already received\ndivers threatening letters.  His countenance fell as he replied,\n\n'Certainly, sir.  I hope it's not anything of a very disagreeable\nnature, though?'\n\n'If I thought it so, I should choose some better time for communicating\nit,' replied the Notary.  'Let me tell you, first, that my friends who\nhave been here to-day, know nothing of it, and that their kindness to\nyou has been quite spontaneous and with no hope of return.  It may do a\nthoughtless, careless man, good, to know that.'\n\nDick thanked him, and said he hoped it would.\n\n'I have been making some inquiries about you,' said Mr Witherden,\n'little thinking that I should find you under such circumstances as\nthose which have brought us together.  You are the nephew of Rebecca\nSwiveller, spinster, deceased, of Cheselbourne in Dorsetshire.'\n\n'Deceased!' cried Dick.\n\n'Deceased.  If you had been another sort of nephew, you would have come\ninto possession (so says the will, and I see no reason to doubt it) of\nfive-and-twenty thousand pounds.  As it is, you have fallen into an\nannuity of one hundred and fifty pounds a year; but I think I may\ncongratulate you even upon that.'\n\n'Sir,' said Dick, sobbing and laughing together, 'you may.  For, please\nGod, we'll make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet!  And she shall\nwalk in silk attire, and siller have to spare, or may I never rise from\nthis bed again!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 67\n\nUnconscious of the proceedings faithfully narrated in the last chapter,\nand little dreaming of the mine which had been sprung beneath him (for,\nto the end that he should have no warning of the business a-foot, the\nprofoundest secrecy was observed in the whole transaction), Mr Quilp\nremained shut up in his hermitage, undisturbed by any suspicion, and\nextremely well satisfied with the result of his machinations.  Being\nengaged in the adjustment of some accounts--an occupation to which the\nsilence and solitude of his retreat were very favourable--he had not\nstrayed from his den for two whole days.  The third day of his devotion\nto this pursuit found him still hard at work, and little disposed to\nstir abroad.\n\nIt was the day next after Mr Brass's confession, and consequently, that\nwhich threatened the restriction of Mr Quilp's liberty, and the abrupt\ncommunication to him of some very unpleasant and unwelcome facts.\nHaving no intuitive perception of the cloud which lowered upon his\nhouse, the dwarf was in his ordinary state of cheerfulness; and, when\nhe found he was becoming too much engrossed by business with a due\nregard to his health and spirits, he varied its monotonous routine with\na little screeching, or howling, or some other innocent relaxation of\nthat nature.\n\nHe was attended, as usual, by Tom Scott, who sat crouching over the\nfire after the manner of a toad, and, from time to time, when his\nmaster's back was turned, imitating his grimaces with a fearful\nexactness.  The figure-head had not yet disappeared, but remained in\nits old place.  The face, horribly seared by the frequent application\nof the red-hot poker, and further ornamented by the insertion, in the\ntip of the nose, of a tenpenny nail, yet smiled blandly in its less\nlacerated parts, and seemed, like a sturdy martyr, to provoke its\ntormentor to the commission of new outrages and insults.\n\nThe day, in the highest and brightest quarters of the town, was damp,\ndark, cold and gloomy.  In that low and marshy spot, the fog filled\nevery nook and corner with a thick dense cloud.  Every object was\nobscure at one or two yards' distance.  The warning lights and fires\nupon the river were powerless beneath this pall, and, but for a raw and\npiercing chillness in the air, and now and then the cry of some\nbewildered boatman as he rested on his oars and tried to make out where\nhe was, the river itself might have been miles away.\n\nThe mist, though sluggish and slow to move, was of a keenly searching\nkind.  No muffling up in furs and broadcloth kept it out.  It seemed to\npenetrate into the very bones of the shrinking wayfarers, and to rack\nthem with cold and pains.  Everything was wet and clammy to the touch.\nThe warm blaze alone defied it, and leaped and sparkled merrily.  It\nwas a day to be at home, crowding about the fire, telling stories of\ntravellers who had lost their way in such weather on heaths and moors;\nand to love a warm hearth more than ever.\n\nThe dwarf's humour, as we know, was to have a fireside to himself; and\nwhen he was disposed to be convivial, to enjoy himself alone.  By no\nmeans insensible to the comfort of being within doors, he ordered Tom\nScott to pile the little stove with coals, and, dismissing his work for\nthat day, determined to be jovial.\n\nTo this end, he lighted up fresh candles and heaped more fuel on the\nfire; and having dined off a beefsteak, which he cooked himself in\nsomewhat of a savage and cannibal-like manner, brewed a great bowl of\nhot punch, lighted his pipe, and sat down to spend the evening.\n\nAt this moment, a low knocking at the cabin-door arrested his\nattention.  When it had been twice or thrice repeated, he softly opened\nthe little window, and thrusting his head out, demanded who was there.\n\n'Only me, Quilp,' replied a woman's voice.\n\n'Only you!' cried the dwarf, stretching his neck to obtain a better\nview of his visitor.  'And what brings you here, you jade?  How dare\nyou approach the ogre's castle, eh?'\n\n'I have come with some news,' rejoined his spouse.  'Don't be angry\nwith me.'\n\n'Is it good news, pleasant news, news to make a man skip and snap his\nfingers?' said the dwarf.  'Is the dear old lady dead?'\n\n'I don't know what news it is, or whether it's good or bad,' rejoined\nhis wife.\n\n'Then she's alive,' said Quilp, 'and there's nothing the matter with\nher.  Go home again, you bird of evil note, go home!'\n\n'I have brought a letter,' cried the meek little woman.\n\n'Toss it in at the window here, and go your ways,' said Quilp,\ninterrupting her, 'or I'll come out and scratch you.'\n\n'No, but please, Quilp--do hear me speak,' urged his submissive wife,\nin tears.  'Please do!'\n\n'Speak then,' growled the dwarf with a malicious grin.  'Be quick and\nshort about it.  Speak, will you?'\n\n'It was left at our house this afternoon,' said Mrs Quilp, trembling,\n'by a boy who said he didn't know from whom it came, but that it was\ngiven to him to leave, and that he was told to say it must be brought\non to you directly, for it was of the very greatest consequence.--But\nplease,' she added, as her husband stretched out his hand for it,\n'please let me in.  You don't know how wet and cold I am, or how many\ntimes I have lost my way in coming here through this thick fog.  Let me\ndry myself at the fire for five minutes.  I'll go away directly you\ntell me to, Quilp.  Upon my word I will.'\n\nHer amiable husband hesitated for a few moments; but, bethinking\nhimself that the letter might require some answer, of which she could\nbe the bearer, closed the window, opened the door, and bade her enter.\nMrs Quilp obeyed right willingly, and, kneeling down before the fire to\nwarm her hands, delivered into his a little packet.\n\n'I'm glad you're wet,' said Quilp, snatching it, and squinting at her.\n'I'm glad you're cold.  I'm glad you lost your way.  I'm glad your eyes\nare red with crying.  It does my heart good to see your little nose so\npinched and frosty.'\n\n'Oh Quilp!' sobbed his wife.  'How cruel it is of you!'\n\n'Did she think I was dead?' said Quilp, wrinkling his face into a most\nextraordinary series of grimaces.  'Did she think she was going to have\nall the money, and to marry somebody she liked?  Ha ha ha!  Did she?'\n\nThese taunts elicited no reply from the poor little woman, who remained\non her knees, warming her hands, and sobbing, to Mr Quilp's great\ndelight.  But, just as he was contemplating her, and chuckling\nexcessively, he happened to observe that Tom Scott was delighted too;\nwherefore, that he might have no presumptuous partner in his glee, the\ndwarf instantly collared him, dragged him to the door, and after a\nshort scuffle, kicked him into the yard.  In return for this mark of\nattention, Tom immediately walked upon his hands to the window, and--if\nthe expression be allowable--looked in with his shoes: besides\nrattling his feet upon the glass like a Banshee upside down.  As a\nmatter of course, Mr Quilp lost no time in resorting to the infallible\npoker, with which, after some dodging and lying in ambush, he paid his\nyoung friend one or two such unequivocal compliments that he vanished\nprecipitately, and left him in quiet possession of the field.\n\n'So!  That little job being disposed of,' said the dwarf, coolly, 'I'll\nread my letter.  Humph!' he muttered, looking at the direction.  'I\nought to know this writing.  Beautiful Sally!'\n\nOpening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal hand, as follows:\n\n'Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confidence.  It has all\ncome out.  You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to\ncall upon you.  They have been very quiet as yet, because they mean to\nsurprise you.  Don't lose time.  I didn't.  I am not to be found\nanywhere.  If I was you, I wouldn't either.  S. B., late of B. M.'\n\nTo describe the changes that passed over Quilp's face, as he read this\nletter half-a-dozen times, would require some new language: such, for\npower of expression, as was never written, read, or spoken.  For a long\ntime he did not utter one word; but, after a considerable interval,\nduring which Mrs Quilp was almost paralysed with the alarm his looks\nengendered, he contrived to gasp out,\n\n'If I had him here.  If I only had him here--'\n\n'Oh Quilp!' said his wife, 'what's the matter?  Who are you angry with?'\n\n'--I should drown him,' said the dwarf, not heeding her.  'Too easy a\ndeath, too short, too quick--but the river runs close at hand.  Oh! if\nI had him here! just to take him to the brink coaxingly and\npleasantly,--holding him by the button-hole--joking with him,--and,\nwith a sudden push, to send him splashing down!  Drowning men come to\nthe surface three times they say.  Ah!  To see him those three times,\nand mock him as his face came bobbing up,--oh, what a rich treat that\nwould be!'\n\n'Quilp!' stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on\nthe shoulder: 'what has gone wrong?'\n\nShe was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure\nto himself that she could scarcely make herself intelligible.\n\n'Such a bloodless cur!' said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and\npressing them tight together.  'I thought his cowardice and servility\nwere the best guarantee for his keeping silence.  Oh Brass, Brass--my\ndear, good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend--if\nI only had you here!'\n\nHis wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these\nmutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak,\nwhen he hurried to the door, and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his\nlate gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.\n\n'There!' said the dwarf, pulling him in.  'Take her home.  Don't come\nhere to-morrow, for this place will be shut up.  Come back no more till\nyou hear from me or see me.  Do you mind?'\n\nTom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs Quilp to lead the way.\n\n'As for you,' said the dwarf, addressing himself to her, 'ask no\nquestions about me, make no search for me, say nothing concerning me.\nI shall not be dead, mistress, and that'll comfort you.  He'll take\ncare of you.'\n\n'But, Quilp?  What is the matter?  Where are you going?  Do say\nsomething more?'\n\n'I'll say that,' said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, 'and do that\ntoo, which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go\ndirectly.'\n\n'Has anything happened?' cried his wife.  'Oh!  Do tell me that?'\n\n'Yes,' snarled the dwarf.  'No.  What matter which?  I have told you\nwhat to do.  Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a\nhair's breadth.  Will you go!'\n\n'I am going, I'll go directly; but,' faltered his wife, 'answer me one\nquestion first.  Has this letter any connexion with dear little Nell?\nI must ask you that--I must indeed, Quilp.  You cannot think what days\nand nights of sorrow I have had through having once deceived that\nchild.  I don't know what harm I may have brought about, but, great or\nlittle, I did it for you, Quilp.  My conscience misgave me when I did\nit.  Do answer me this question, if you please?'\n\nThe exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and caught\nup his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott dragged his\ncharge away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could.  It was well he\ndid so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the\nneighbouring lane, and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense\nmist which obscured them from his view and appeared to thicken every\nmoment.\n\n'It will be a good night for travelling anonymously,' he said, as he\nreturned slowly, being pretty well breathed with his run.  'Stay.  We\nmay look better here.  This is too hospitable and free.'\n\nBy a great exertion of strength, he closed the two old gates, which\nwere deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam.  That\ndone, he shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried\nthem.--Strong and fast.\n\n'The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed,' said the\ndwarf, when he had taken these precautions.  'There's a back lane, too,\nfrom there.  That shall be my way out.  A man need know his road well,\nto find it in this lovely place to-night.  I need fear no unwelcome\nvisitors while this lasts, I think.'\n\nAlmost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it\nhad grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to\nhis lair; and, after musing for some time over the fire, busied himself\nin preparations for a speedy departure.\n\nWhile he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his\npockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or\nunclenched his teeth, which he had ground together on finishing Miss\nBrass's note.\n\n'Oh Sampson!' he muttered, 'good worthy creature--if I could but hug\nyou!  If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I\nCOULD squeeze them if I once had you tight--what a meeting there would\nbe between us!  If we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we'll\nhave a greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me.  This time,\nSampson, this moment when all had gone on so well, was so nicely\nchosen!  It was so thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good.  Oh, if we\nwere face to face in this room again, my white-livered man of law, how\nwell contented one of us would be!'\n\nThere he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank a\nlong deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched\nmouth.  Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he\nwent on with his soliloquy.\n\n'There's Sally,' he said, with flashing eyes; 'the woman has spirit,\ndetermination, purpose--was she asleep, or petrified?  She could have\nstabbed him--poisoned him safely.  She might have seen this coming on.\nWhy does she give me notice when it's too late?  When he sat\nthere,--yonder there, over there,--with his white face, and red head,\nand sickly smile, why didn't I know what was passing in his heart?  It\nshould have stopped beating, that night, if I had been in his secret,\nor there are no drugs to lull a man to sleep, or no fire to burn him!'\n\nAnother draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a\nferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again.\n\n'And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late\ntimes, springs from that old dotard and his darling child--two wretched\nfeeble wanderers!  I'll be their evil genius yet.  And you, sweet Kit,\nhonest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself.  Where I hate, I\nbite.  I hate you, my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as you\nare to-night, I'll have my turn.----What's that?'\n\nA knocking at the gate he had closed.  A loud and violent knocking.\nThen, a pause; as if those who knocked had stopped to listen.  Then,\nthe noise again, more clamorous and importunate than before.\n\n'So soon!' said the dwarf.  'And so eager!  I am afraid I shall disappoint\nyou.  It's well I'm quite prepared.  Sally, I thank you!'\n\nAs he spoke, he extinguished the candle.  In his impetuous attempts to\nsubdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came\ntumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning embers it had\nshot forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitchy darkness.  The\nnoise at the gate still continuing, he felt his way to the door, and\nstepped into the open air.\n\nAt that moment the knocking ceased.  It was about eight o'clock; but\nthe dead of the darkest night would have been as noon-day in comparison\nwith the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded\neverything from view.  He darted forward for a few paces, as if into\nthe mouth of some dim, yawning cavern; then, thinking he had gone\nwrong, changed the direction of his steps; then stood still, not\nknowing where to turn.\n\n'If they would knock again,' said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom\nby which he was surrounded, 'the sound might guide me!  Come!  Batter\nthe gate once more!'\n\nHe stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed.  Nothing\nwas to be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals, the distant\nbarkings of dogs.  The sound was far away--now in one quarter, now\nanswered in another--nor was it any guide, for it often came from\nshipboard, as he knew.\n\n'If I could find a wall or fence,' said the dwarf, stretching out his\narms, and walking slowly on, 'I should know which way to turn.  A good,\nblack, devil's night this, to have my dear friend here!  If I had but\nthat wish, it might, for anything I cared, never be day again.'\n\nAs the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell--and next moment was\nfighting with the cold dark water!\n\nFor all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the\nknocking at the gate again--could hear a shout that followed it--could\nrecognise the voice.  For all his struggling and plashing, he could\nunderstand that they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the\npoint from which they started; that they were all but looking on, while\nhe was drowned; that they were close at hand, but could not make an\neffort to save him; that he himself had shut and barred them out.  He\nanswered the shout--with a yell, which seemed to make the hundred fires\nthat danced before his eyes tremble and flicker, as if a gust of wind\nhad stirred them.  It was of no avail.  The strong tide filled his\nthroat, and bore him on, upon its rapid current.\n\nAnother mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with\nhis hands, and looking out, with wild and glaring eyes that showed him\nsome black object he was drifting close upon.  The hull of a ship!  He\ncould touch its smooth and slippery surface with his hand.  One loud\ncry, now--but the resistless water bore him down before he could give\nit utterance, and, driving him under it, carried away a corpse.\n\nIt toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against\nthe slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging\nit heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to\nits own element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of\nthe ugly plaything, it flung it on a swamp--a dismal place where\npirates had swung in chains through many a wintry night--and left it\nthere to bleach.\n\nAnd there it lay alone.  The sky was red with flame, and the water that\nbore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along.\nThe place the deserted carcass had left so recently, a living man, was\nnow a blazing ruin.  There was something of the glare upon its face.\nThe hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of\ndeath--such a mockery as the dead man himself would have delighted in\nwhen alive--about its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night\nwind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 68\n\nLighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices,\nwords of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness--what a\nchange is this!  But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening.\nThey are awaiting him, he knows.  He fears he will die of joy, before\nhe gets among them.\n\nThey have prepared him for this, all day.  He is not to be carried off\nto-morrow with the rest, they tell him first.  By degrees they let him\nknow that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and\nperhaps he may be pardoned after all.  At last, the evening being come,\nthey bring him to a room where some gentlemen are assembled.  Foremost\namong them is his good old master, who comes and takes him by the hand.\nHe hears that his innocence is established, and that he is pardoned.\nHe cannot see the speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in\ntrying to answer, falls down insensible.\n\nThey recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear this\nlike a man.  Somebody says he must think of his poor mother.  It is\nbecause he does think of her so much, that the happy news had\noverpowered him.  They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has\ngone abroad, and that all the town and country ring with sympathy for\nhis misfortunes.  He has no ears for this.  His thoughts, as yet, have\nno wider range than home.  Does she know it?  what did she say? who\ntold her?  He can speak of nothing else.\n\nThey make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while,\nuntil he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them.  He is free\nto go.  Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went\naway.  The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him.  He\nfeels very grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for\nthe kind promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and\nhe has much ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's\narm.\n\nAs they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who\nare in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his\nrelease.  The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite\nhearty--there is something of surliness in his compliments.  He looks\nupon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that\nplace on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without being\nduly qualified.  He may be a very good sort of young man, he thinks,\nbut he has no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the better.\n\nThe last door shuts behind them.  They have passed the outer wall, and\nstand in the open air--in the street he has so often pictured to\nhimself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all\nhis dreams.  It seems wider and more busy than it used to be.  The\nnight is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes!  One of the\ngentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some money into his hand.\nHe has not counted it; but when they have gone a few paces beyond the\nbox for poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and drops it in.\n\nMr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and, taking\nKit inside with him, bids the man drive home.  At first, they can only\ntravel at a foot pace, and then with torches going on before, because\nof the heavy fog.  But, as they get farther from the river, and leave\nthe closer portions of the town behind, they are able to dispense with\nthis precaution and to proceed at a brisker rate.  On the road, hard\ngalloping would be too slow for Kit; but, when they are drawing near\ntheir journey's end, he begs they may go more slowly, and, when the\nhouse appears in sight, that they may stop--only for a minute or two,\nto give him time to breathe.\n\nBut there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to\nhim, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the\ngarden-gate.  Next minute, they are at the door.  There is a noise of\ntongues, and tread of feet, inside.  It opens.  Kit rushes in, and\nfinds his mother clinging round his neck.\n\nAnd there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still holding\nthe baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day when they\nlittle hoped to have such joy as this--there she is, Heaven bless her,\ncrying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and\nthere is little Barbara--poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so\nmuch paler, and yet so very pretty--trembling like a leaf and\nsupporting herself against the wall; and there is Mrs Garland, neater\nand nicer than ever, fainting away stone dead with nobody to help her;\nand there is Mr Abel, violently blowing his nose, and wanting to\nembrace everybody; and there is the single gentleman hovering round\nthem all, and constant to nothing for an instant; and there is that\ngood, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on\nthe bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an old man, roaring\nfearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all of\nthem are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and\nseverally commit all manner of follies.\n\nAnd even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again,\nand can find words and smiles, Barbara--that soft-hearted, gentle,\nfoolish little Barbara--is suddenly missed, and found to be in a swoon\nby herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls into\nhysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again, and is, indeed,\nso bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water she is\nhardly a bit better at last than she was at first.  Then, Kit's mother\ncomes in and says, will he come and speak to her; and Kit says 'Yes,'\nand goes; and he says in a kind voice 'Barbara!' and Barbara's mother\ntells her that 'it's only Kit;' and Barbara says (with her eyes closed\nall the time) 'Oh! but is it him indeed?' and Barbara's mother says 'To\nbe sure it is, my dear; there's nothing the matter now.'  And in\nfurther assurance that he's safe and sound, Kit speaks to her again;\nand then Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into\nanother fit of crying; and then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod\nto each other and pretend to scold her--but only to bring her to\nherself the faster, bless you!--and being experienced matrons, and\nacute at perceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery, they\ncomfort Kit with the assurance that 'she'll do now,' and so dismiss him\nto the place from whence he came.\n\nWell!  In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters of\nwine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and his\nfriends were first-rate company; and there is little Jacob, walking, as\nthe popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake, at a most surprising\npace, and keeping his eye on the figs and oranges which are to follow,\nand making the best use of his time, you may believe.  Kit no sooner\ncomes in, than that single gentleman (never was such a busy gentleman)\ncharges all the glasses--bumpers--and drinks his health, and tells him\nhe shall never want a friend while he lives; and so does Mr Garland,\nand so does Mrs Garland, and so does Mr Abel.  But even this honour and\ndistinction is not all, for the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of\nhis pocket a massive silver watch--going hard, and right to half a\nsecond--and upon the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with\nflourishes all over; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly\nfor him, and presented to him on the spot.  You may rest assured that\nMr and Mrs Garland can't help hinting about their present, in store,\nand that Mr Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is the\nhappiest of the happy.\n\nThere is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be\nconveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being\nan iron-shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of slipping\naway and hurrying to the stable.  The moment he lays his hand upon the\nlatch, the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting; before he has\ncrossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his loose box (for he\nbrooks not the indignity of a halter), mad to give him welcome; and\nwhen Kit goes up to caress and pat him, the pony rubs his nose against\nhis coat, and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony fondled man.  It\nis the crowning circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception; and\nKit fairly puts his arm round Whisker's neck and hugs him.\n\nBut how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is again!\nshe has been at her glass since she recovered.  How comes Barbara in\nthe stable, of all places in the world?  Why, since Kit has been away,\nthe pony would take his food from nobody but her, and Barbara, you see,\nnot dreaming that Christopher was there, and just looking in, to see\nthat everything was right, has come upon him unawares.  Blushing little\nBarbara!\n\nIt may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough; it may be that there\nare even better things to caress than ponies.  He leaves him for\nBarbara at any rate, and hopes she is better.  Yes.  Barbara is a great\ndeal better.  She is afraid--and here Barbara looks down and blushes\nmore--that he must have thought her very foolish.  'Not at all,' says\nKit.  Barbara is glad of that, and coughs--Hem!--just the slightest\ncough possible--not more than that.\n\nWhat a discreet pony when he chooses!  He is as quiet now as if he were\nof marble.  He has a very knowing look, but that he always has.  'We\nhave hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara,' says Kit.  Barbara gives\nhim hers.  Why, she is trembling now!  Foolish, fluttering Barbara!\n\nArm's length?  The length of an arm is not much.  Barbara's was not a\nlong arm, by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out straight,\nbut bent a little.  Kit was so near her when they shook hands, that he\ncould see a small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash.  It was\nnatural that he should look at it, unknown to Barbara.  It was natural\nthat Barbara should raise her eyes unconsciously, and find him out.\nWas it natural that at that instant, without any previous impulse or\ndesign, Kit should kiss Barbara?  He did it, whether or no.  Barbara\nsaid 'for shame,' but let him do it too--twice.  He might have done it\nthrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his head, as if he\nwere suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being\nfrightened, ran away--not straight to where her mother and Kit's mother\nwere, though, lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and should\nask her why.  Sly little Barbara!\n\nWhen the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and\nhis mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby\nto boot, had had their suppers together--which there was no hurrying\nover, for they were going to stop there all night--Mr Garland called\nKit to him, and taking him into a room where they could be alone, told\nhim that he had something yet to say, which would surprise him greatly.\nKit looked so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old\ngentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably surprised; and asked\nhim if he would be ready next morning for a journey.\n\n'For a journey, sir!' cried Kit.\n\n'In company with me and my friend in the next room.  Can you guess its\npurpose?'\n\nKit turned paler yet, and shook his head.\n\n'Oh yes.  I think you do already,' said his master.  'Try.'\n\nKit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he\nplainly pronounced the words 'Miss Nell,' three or four times--shaking\nhis head while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of\nthat.\n\nBut Mr Garland, instead of saying 'Try again,' as Kit had made sure he\nwould, told him very seriously, that he had guessed right.\n\n'The place of their retreat is indeed discovered,' he said, 'at last.\nAnd that is our journey's end.'\n\nKit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it been\nfound, and how long since, and was she well and happy?\n\n'Happy she is, beyond all doubt,' said Mr Garland.  'And well, I--I\ntrust she will be soon.  She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but\nshe was better when I heard this morning, and they were full of hope.\nSit you down, and you shall hear the rest.'\n\nScarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told.  Mr\nGarland then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would\nremember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was\na young man, hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a long\nway off, in a country-place, with an old clergyman who had been his\nearly friend.  How, although they loved each other as brothers should,\nthey had not met for many years, but had communicated by letter from\ntime to time, always looking forward to some period when they would\ntake each other by the hand once more, and still letting the Present\ntime steal on, as it was the habit for men to do, and suffering the\nFuture to melt into the Past.  How this brother, whose temper was very\nmild and quiet and retiring--such as Mr Abel's--was greatly beloved by\nthe simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor\n(for so they called him), and had every one experienced his charity and\nbenevolence.  How even those slight circumstances had come to his\nknowledge, very slowly and in course of years, for the Bachelor was one\nof those whose goodness shuns the light, and who have more pleasure in\ndiscovering and extolling the good deeds of others, than in trumpeting\ntheir own, be they never so commendable.  How, for that reason, he\nseldom told them of his village friends; but how, for all that, his\nmind had become so full of two among them--a child and an old man, to\nwhom he had been very kind--that, in a letter received a few days\nbefore, he had dwelt upon them from first to last, and had told such a\ntale of their wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it\nwithout being moved to tears.  How he, the recipient of that letter,\nwas directly led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers\nfor whom so much search had been made, and whom Heaven had directed to\nhis brother's care.  How he had written for such further information as\nwould put the fact beyond all doubt; how it had that morning arrived;\nhad confirmed his first impression into a certainty; and was the\nimmediate cause of that journey being planned, which they were to take\nto-morrow.\n\n'In the meantime,' said the old gentleman rising, and laying his hand\non Kit's shoulder, 'you have a great need of rest; for such a day as\nthis would wear out the strongest man.  Good night, and Heaven send our\njourney may have a prosperous ending!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 69\n\nKit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time\nbefore day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition.  The hurry of\nspirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected\nintelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the\nlong dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that\nit was rest to rise.\n\nBut, had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end\nin view--had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be\nperformed on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued\nunder very privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great\ndistress, fatigue, and suffering--had it been the dawn of some painful\nenterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and\nendurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if\nhappily achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell--Kit's cheerful\nzeal would have been as highly roused: Kit's ardour and impatience\nwould have been, at least, the same.\n\nNor was he alone excited and eager.  Before he had been up a quarter of\nan hour the whole house were astir and busy.  Everybody hurried to do\nsomething towards facilitating the preparations.  The single gentleman,\nit is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else\nand was more locomotive than anybody.  The work of packing and making\nready went briskly on, and by daybreak every preparation for the\njourney was completed.  Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite\nso nimble; for the travelling-carriage which had been hired for the\noccasion was not to arrive until nine o'clock, and there was nothing\nbut breakfast to fill up the intervening blank of one hour and a half.\nYes there was, though.  There was Barbara.  Barbara was busy, to be\nsure, but so much the better--Kit could help her, and that would pass\naway the time better than any means that could be devised.  Barbara had\nno objection to this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which\nhad come upon him so suddenly overnight, began to think that surely\nBarbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara.\n\nNow, Barbara, if the truth must be told--as it must and ought to\nbe--Barbara seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure\nin the bustle of the occasion; and when Kit, in the openness of his\nheart, told her how glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more\ndowncast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before!\n\n'You have not been home so long, Christopher,' said Barbara--and it is\nimpossible to tell how carelessly she said it--'You have not been home\nso long, that you need to be glad to go away again, I should think.'\n\n'But for such a purpose,' returned Kit.  'To bring back Miss Nell!  To\nsee her again!  Only think of that!  I am so pleased too, to think that\nyou will see her, Barbara, at last.'\n\nBarbara did not absolutely say that she felt no gratification on this\npoint, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of\nher head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his\nsimplicity, why she was so cool about it.\n\n'You'll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I\nknow,' said Kit, rubbing his hands.  'I'm sure you'll say that.'\n\nBarbara tossed her head again.\n\n'What's the matter, Barbara?' said Kit.\n\n'Nothing,' cried Barbara.  And Barbara pouted--not sulkily, or in an\nugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than\never.\n\nThere is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which\nKit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss.  He saw what\nBarbara meant now--he had his lesson by heart all at once--she was the\nbook--there it was before him, as plain as print.\n\n'Barbara,' said Kit, 'you're not cross with me?'\n\nOh dear no!  Why should Barbara be cross?  And what right had she to be\ncross?  And what did it matter whether she was cross or not?  Who\nminded her!\n\n'Why, I do,' said Kit.  'Of course I do.'\n\nBarbara didn't see why it was of course, at all.\n\nKit was sure she must.  Would she think again?\n\nCertainly, Barbara would think again.  No, she didn't see why it was of\ncourse.  She didn't understand what Christopher meant.  And besides she\nwas sure they wanted her up stairs by this time, and she must go,\nindeed--\n\n'No, but Barbara,' said Kit, detaining her gently, 'let us part\nfriends.  I was always thinking of you, in my troubles.  I should have\nbeen a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn't been for you.'\n\nGoodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured--and when\nshe trembled, like a little shrinking bird!\n\n'I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so\nstrong as I could wish,' said Kit.  'When I want you to be pleased to\nsee Miss Nell, it's only because I like you to be pleased with what\npleases me--that's all.  As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die\nto do her service, but you would think so too, if you knew her as I do.\nI am sure you would.'\n\nBarbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent.\n\n'I have been used, you see,' said Kit, 'to talk and think of her,\nalmost as if she was an angel.  When I look forward to meeting her\nagain, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see\nme, and putting out her hand and saying, \"It's my own old Kit,\" or some\nsuch words as those--like what she used to say.  I think of seeing her\nhappy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, and\nas she ought to be.  When I think of myself, it's as her old servant,\nand one that loved her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and\nwho would have gone--yes, and still would go--through any harm to serve\nher.  Once, I couldn't help being afraid that if she came back with\nfriends about her she might forget, or be ashamed of having known, a\nhumble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, which would have cut me,\nBarbara, deeper than I can tell.  But when I came to think again, I\nfelt sure that I was doing her wrong in this; and so I went on, as I\ndid at first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used to be.\nHoping this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I\nwould always try to please her, and always be what I should like to\nseem to her if I was still her servant.  If I'm the better for\nthat--and I don't think I'm the worse--I am grateful to her for it, and\nlove and honour her the more.  That's the plain honest truth, dear\nBarbara, upon my word it is!'\n\nLittle Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being\nfull of remorse, melted into tears.  To what more conversation this\nmight have led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the\ncarriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring\nat the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid\ndormant for a short time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigour.\n\nSimultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr Chuckster in a\nhackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single\ngentleman, into whose hands he delivered them.  This duty discharged,\nhe subsided into the bosom of the family; and, entertaining himself\nwith a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched, with genteel\nindifference, the process of loading the carriage.\n\n'Snobby's in this, I see, Sir?' he said to Mr Abel Garland.  'I thought\nhe wasn't in the last trip because it was expected that his presence\nwouldn't be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.'\n\n'To whom, Sir?' demanded Mr Abel.\n\n'To the old gentleman,' returned Mr Chuckster, slightly abashed.\n\n'Our client prefers to take him now,' said Mr Abel, drily.  'There is\nno longer any need for that precaution, as my father's relationship to\na gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence,\nwill be a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.'\n\n'Ah!' thought Mr Chuckster, looking out of window, 'anybody but me!\nSnobby before me, of course.  He didn't happen to take that particular\nfive-pound note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he's always up\nto something of that sort.  I always said it, long before this came\nout.  Devilish pretty girl that!  'Pon my soul, an amazing little\ncreature!'\n\nBarbara was the subject of Mr Chuckster's commendations; and as she was\nlingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure),\nthat gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the\nproceedings, which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take up\nhis position at a convenient ogling distance.  Having had great\nexperience of the sex, and being perfectly acquainted with all those\nlittle artifices which find the readiest road to their hearts, Mr\nChuckster, on taking his ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with\nthe other adjusted his flowing hair.  This is a favourite attitude in\nthe polite circles, and, accompanied with a graceful whistling, has\nbeen known to do immense execution.\n\nSuch, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody\ntook the smallest notice of this insinuating figure; the wretches being\nwholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to\neach other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar\npractices.  For now the single gentleman and Mr Garland were in the\ncarriage, and the post-boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and\nmuffled up, was in the rumble behind; and Mrs Garland was there, and Mr\nAbel was there, and Kit's mother was there, and little Jacob was there,\nand Barbara's mother was visible in remote perspective, nursing the\never-wakeful baby; and all were nodding, beckoning, curtseying, or\ncrying out, 'Good bye!' with all the energy they could express.  In\nanother minute, the carriage was out of sight; and Mr Chuckster\nremained alone on the spot where it had lately been, with a vision of\nKit standing up in the rumble waving his hand to Barbara, and of\nBarbara in the full light and lustre of his eyes--his\neyes--Chuckster's--Chuckster the successful--on whom ladies of quality\nhad looked with favour from phaetons in the parks on Sundays--waving\nhers to Kit!\n\nHow Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some time\nrooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the Prince\nof felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul of Snobs, and\nhow he clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old\nvillany of the shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose; which is\nto track the rolling wheels, and bear the travellers company on their\ncold, bleak journey.\n\nIt was a bitter day.  A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against them\nfiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost from the\ntrees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust.  But little cared Kit\nfor weather.  There was a freedom and freshness in the wind, as it came\nhowling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome.  As it swept\non with its cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and\nwithered leaves, and carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though\nsome general sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in a hurry,\nlike themselves.  The harder the gusts, the better progress they\nappeared to make.  It was a good thing to go struggling and fighting\nforward, vanquishing them one by one; to watch them driving up,\ngathering strength and fury as they came along; to bend for a moment,\nas they whistled past; and then to look back and see them speed away,\ntheir hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the stout trees cowering\ndown before them.\n\nAll day long, it blew without cessation.  The night was clear and\nstarlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing.\nSometimes--towards the end of a long stage--Kit could not help wishing\nit were a little warmer: but when they stopped to change horses, and he\nhad had a good run, and what with that, and the bustle of paying the\nold postilion, and rousing the new one, and running to and fro again\nuntil the horses were put to, he was so warm that the blood tingled and\nsmarted in his fingers' ends--then, he felt as if to have it one\ndegree less cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the\njourney: and up he jumped again, right cheerily, singing to the merry\nmusic of the wheels as they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople\nin their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely road.\n\nMeantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to sleep,\nbeguiled the time with conversation.  As both were anxious and\nexpectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on\nthe manner in which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and\nfears they entertained respecting it.  Of the former they had many, of\nthe latter few--none perhaps beyond that indefinable uneasiness which\nis inseparable from suddenly awakened hope, and protracted expectation.\n\nIn one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night had\nworn away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more and more\nsilent and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said abruptly:\n\n'Are you a good listener?'\n\n'Like most other men, I suppose,' returned Mr Garland, smiling.  'I can\nbe, if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still try to\nappear so.  Why do you ask?'\n\n'I have a short narrative on my lips,' rejoined his friend, 'and will\ntry you with it.  It is very brief.'\n\nPausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's sleeve,\nand proceeded thus:\n\n'There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly.  There was\na disparity in their ages--some twelve years.  I am not sure but they\nmay insensibly have loved each other the better for that reason.  Wide\nas the interval between them was, however, they became rivals too soon.\nThe deepest and strongest affection of both their hearts settled upon\none object.\n\n'The youngest--there were reasons for his being sensitive and\nwatchful--was the first to find this out.  I will not tell you what\nmisery he underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his mental\nstruggle was.  He had been a sickly child.  His brother, patient and\nconsiderate in the midst of his own high health and strength, had many\nand many a day denied himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his\ncouch, telling him old stories till his pale face lighted up with an\nunwonted glow; to carry him in his arms to some green spot, where he\ncould tend the poor pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer\nday, and saw all nature healthy but himself; to be, in any way, his\nfond and faithful nurse.  I may not dwell on all he did, to make the\npoor, weak creature love him, or my tale would have no end.  But when\nthe time of trial came, the younger brother's heart was full of those\nold days.  Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of\ninconsiderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood.  He left his brother\nto be happy.  The truth never passed his lips, and he quitted the\ncountry, hoping to die abroad.\n\n'The elder brother married her.  She was in Heaven before long, and\nleft him with an infant daughter.\n\n'If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you will\nremember how the same face and figure--often the fairest and slightest\nof them all--come upon you in different generations; and how you trace\nthe same sweet girl through a long line of portraits--never growing\nold or changing--the Good Angel of the race--abiding by them in all\nreverses--redeeming all their sins--\n\n'In this daughter the mother lived again.  You may judge with what\ndevotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to this\ngirl, her breathing image.  She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart\nto one who could not know its worth.  Well!  Her fond father could not\nsee her pine and droop.  He might be more deserving than he thought\nhim.  He surely might become so, with a wife like her.  He joined their\nhands, and they were married.\n\n'Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the cold\nneglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he brought\nupon her; through all the struggles of their daily life, too mean and\npitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep\ndevotion of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can.\nHer means and substance wasted; her father nearly beggared by her\nhusband's hand, and the hourly witness (for they lived now under one\nroof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness,--she never, but for him,\nbewailed her fate.  Patient, and upheld by strong affection to the\nlast, she died a widow of some three weeks' date, leaving to her\nfather's care two orphans; one a son of ten or twelve years old; the\nother a girl--such another infant child--the same in helplessness, in\nage, in form, in feature--as she had been herself when her young mother\ndied.\n\n'The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken\nman; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years than by the\nheavy hand of sorrow.  With the wreck of his possessions, he began to\ntrade--in pictures first, and then in curious ancient things.  He had\nentertained a fondness for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he\nhad cultivated were now to yield him an anxious and precarious\nsubsistence.\n\n'The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like her\nmother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her\nmild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his\ndaughter were a little child again.  The wayward boy soon spurned the\nshelter of his roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste.\nThe old man and the child dwelt alone together.\n\n'It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and\ndearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature; when\nher face, constantly before him, reminded him, from hour to hour, of\nthe too early change he had seen in such another--of all the\nsufferings he had watched and known, and all his child had undergone;\nwhen the young man's profligate and hardened course drained him of\nmoney as his father's had, and even sometimes occasioned them temporary\nprivation and distress; it was then that there began to beset him, and\nto be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty and want.  He had no\nthought for himself in this.  His fear was for the child.  It was a\nspectre in his house, and haunted him night and day.\n\n'The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and had\nmade his pilgrimage through life alone.  His voluntary banishment had\nbeen misconstrued, and he had borne (not without pain) reproach and\nslight for doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful\nshadow on his path.  Apart from this, communication between him and the\nelder was difficult, and uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not\nso wholly broken off but that he learnt--with long blanks and gaps\nbetween each interval of information--all that I have told you now.\n\n'Then, dreams of their young, happy life--happy to him though laden\nwith pain and early care--visited his pillow yet oftener than before;\nand every night, a boy again, he was at his brother's side.  With the\nutmost speed he could exert, he settled his affairs; converted into\nmoney all the goods he had; and, with honourable wealth enough for\nboth, with open heart and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore\nhim on, with emotion such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one\nevening at his brother's door!'\n\nThe narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped.\n\n'The rest,' said Mr Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, 'I know.'\n\n'Yes,' rejoined his friend, 'we may spare ourselves the sequel.  You\nknow the poor result of all my search.  Even when by dint of such\ninquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we\nfound they had been seen with two poor travelling showmen--and in time\ndiscovered the men themselves--and in time, the actual place of their\nretreat; even then, we were too late.  Pray God, we are not too late\nagain!'\n\n'We cannot be,' said Mr Garland.  'This time we must succeed.'\n\n'I have believed and hoped so,' returned the other.  'I try to believe\nand hope so still.  But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my\ngood friend, and the sadness that gathers over me, will yield to\nneither hope nor reason.'\n\n'That does not surprise me,' said Mr Garland; 'it is a natural\nconsequence of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time and\nplace; and above all, of this wild and dismal night.  A dismal night,\nindeed!  Hark! how the wind is howling!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 70\n\nDay broke, and found them still upon their way.  Since leaving home,\nthey had halted here and there for necessary refreshment, and had\nfrequently been delayed, especially in the night time, by waiting for\nfresh horses.  They had made no other stoppages, but the weather\ncontinued rough, and the roads were often steep and heavy.  It would be\nnight again before they reached their place of destination.\n\nKit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on manfully; and,\nhaving enough to do to keep his blood circulating, to picture to\nhimself the happy end of this adventurous journey, and to look about\nhim and be amazed at everything, had little spare time for thinking of\ndiscomforts.  Though his impatience, and that of his fellow-travellers,\nrapidly increased as the day waned, the hours did not stand still.  The\nshort daylight of winter soon faded away, and it was dark again when\nthey had yet many miles to travel.\n\nAs it grew dusk, the wind fell; its distant moanings were more low and\nmournful; and, as it came creeping up the road, and rattling covertly\namong the dry brambles on either hand, it seemed like some great\nphantom for whom the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it\nstalked along.  By degrees it lulled and died away, and then it came on\nto snow.\n\nThe flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches\ndeep, and spreading abroad a solemn stillness.  The rolling wheels were\nnoiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs, became\na dull, muffled tramp.  The life of their progress seemed to be slowly\nhushed, and something death-like to usurp its place.\n\nShading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze upon their lashes\nand obscured his sight, Kit often tried to catch the earliest glimpse\nof twinkling lights, denoting their approach to some not distant town.\nHe could descry objects enough at such times, but none correctly.  Now,\na tall church spire appeared in view, which presently became a tree, a\nbarn, a shadow on the ground, thrown on it by their own bright lamps.\nNow, there were horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before,\nor meeting them in narrow ways; which, when they were close upon them,\nturned to shadows too.  A wall, a ruin, a sturdy gable end, would rise\nup in the road; and, when they were plunging headlong at it, would be\nthe road itself.  Strange turnings too, bridges, and sheets of water,\nappeared to start up here and there, making the way doubtful and\nuncertain; and yet they were on the same bare road, and these things,\nlike the others, as they were passed, turned into dim illusions.\n\nHe descended slowly from his seat--for his limbs were numbed--when\nthey arrived at a lone posting-house, and inquired how far they had to\ngo to reach their journey's end.  It was a late hour in such by-places,\nand the people were abed; but a voice answered from an upper window,\nTen miles.  The ten minutes that ensued appeared an hour; but at the\nend of that time, a shivering figure led out the horses they required,\nand after another brief delay they were again in motion.\n\nIt was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or four miles,\nof holes and cart-ruts, which, being covered by the snow, were so many\npitfalls to the trembling horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace.\nAs it was next to impossible for men so much agitated as they were by\nthis time, to sit still and move so slowly, all three got out and\nplodded on behind the carriage.  The distance seemed interminable, and\nthe walk was most laborious.  As each was thinking within himself that\nthe driver must have lost his way, a church bell, close at hand, struck\nthe hour of midnight, and the carriage stopped.  It had moved softly\nenough, but when it ceased to crunch the snow, the silence was as\nstartling as if some great noise had been replaced by perfect stillness.\n\n'This is the place, gentlemen,' said the driver, dismounting from his\nhorse, and knocking at the door of a little inn.  'Halloa!  Past twelve\no'clock is the dead of night here.'\n\nThe knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse the drowsy\ninmates.  All continued dark and silent as before.  They fell back a\nlittle, and looked up at the windows, which were mere black patches in\nthe whitened house front.  No light appeared.  The house might have\nbeen deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life it had about\nit.\n\nThey spoke together with a strange inconsistency, in whispers;\nunwilling to disturb again the dreary echoes they had just now raised.\n\n'Let us go on,' said the younger brother, 'and leave this good fellow\nto wake them, if he can.  I cannot rest until I know that we are not\ntoo late.  Let us go on, in the name of Heaven!'\n\nThey did so, leaving the postilion to order such accommodation as the\nhouse afforded, and to renew his knocking.  Kit accompanied them with a\nlittle bundle, which he had hung in the carriage when they left home,\nand had not forgotten since--the bird in his old cage--just as she had\nleft him.  She would be glad to see her bird, he knew.\n\nThe road wound gently downward.  As they proceeded, they lost sight of\nthe church whose clock they had heard, and of the small village\nclustering round it.  The knocking, which was now renewed, and which in\nthat stillness they could plainly hear, troubled them.  They wished the\nman would forbear, or that they had told him not to break the silence\nuntil they returned.\n\nThe old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure cold white, again\nrose up before them, and a few moments brought them close beside it.  A\nvenerable building--grey, even in the midst of the hoary landscape.  An\nancient sun-dial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by the\nsnow-drift, and scarcely to be known for what it was.  Time itself\nseemed to have grown dull and old, as if no day were ever to displace\nthe melancholy night.\n\nA wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more than one path\nacross the churchyard to which it led, and, uncertain which to take,\nthey came to a stand again.\n\nThe village street--if street that could be called which was an\nirregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some with\ntheir fronts, some with their backs, and some with gable ends towards\nthe road, with here and there a signpost, or a shed encroaching on the\npath--was close at hand.  There was a faint light in a chamber window\nnot far off, and Kit ran towards that house to ask their way.\n\nHis first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently\nappeared at the casement, wrapping some garment round his throat as a\nprotection from the cold, and demanded who was abroad at that\nunseasonable hour, wanting him.\n\n''Tis hard weather this,' he grumbled, 'and not a night to call me up\nin.  My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from bed.  The\nbusiness on which folks want me, will keep cold, especially at this\nseason.  What do you want?'\n\n'I would not have roused you, if I had known you were old and ill,'\nsaid Kit.\n\n'Old!' repeated the other peevishly.  'How do you know I am old?  Not\nso old as you think, friend, perhaps.  As to being ill, you will find\nmany young people in worse case than I am.  More's the pity that it\nshould be so--not that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I\nmean, but that they should be weak and tender.  I ask your pardon\nthough,' said the old man, 'if I spoke rather rough at first.  My eyes\nare not good at night--that's neither age nor illness; they never\nwere--and I didn't see you were a stranger.'\n\n'I am sorry to call you from your bed,' said Kit, 'but those gentlemen\nyou may see by the churchyard gate, are strangers too, who have just\narrived from a long journey, and seek the parsonage-house.  You can\ndirect us?'\n\n'I should be able to,' answered the old man, in a trembling voice,\n'for, come next summer, I have been sexton here, good fifty years.  The\nright hand path, friend, is the road.--There is no ill news for our\ngood gentleman, I hope?'\n\nKit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the negative; he was\nturning back, when his attention was caught by the voice of a child.\nLooking up, he saw a very little creature at a neighbouring window.\n\n'What is that?' cried the child, earnestly.  'Has my dream come true?\nPray speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up.'\n\n'Poor boy!' said the sexton, before Kit could answer, 'how goes it,\ndarling?'\n\n'Has my dream come true?' exclaimed the child again, in a\nvoice so fervent that it might have thrilled to the heart of any\nlistener.  'But no, that can never be!  How could it be--Oh! how could\nit!'\n\n'I guess his meaning,' said the sexton.  'To bed again, poor boy!'\n\n'Ay!' cried the child, in a burst of despair.  'I knew it could never\nbe, I felt too sure of that, before I asked!  But, all to-night, and\nlast night too, it was the same.  I never fall asleep, but that cruel\ndream comes back.'\n\n'Try to sleep again,' said the old man, soothingly.  'It will go in\ntime.'\n\n'No no, I would rather that it staid--cruel as it is, I would rather\nthat it staid,' rejoined the child.  'I am not afraid to have it in my\nsleep, but I am so sad--so very, very sad.'\n\nThe old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and Kit\nwas again alone.\n\nHe hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the child's\nmanner than by anything he had said, as his meaning was hidden from\nhim.  They took the path indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived\nbefore the parsonage wall.  Turning round to look about them when they\nhad got thus far, they saw, among some ruined buildings at a distance,\none single solitary light.\n\nIt shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being\nsurrounded by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like a\nstar.  Bright and glimmering as the stars above their heads, lonely and\nmotionless as they, it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal\nlamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them.\n\n'What light is that!' said the younger brother.\n\n'It is surely,' said Mr Garland, 'in the ruin where they live.  I see\nno other ruin hereabouts.'\n\n'They cannot,' returned the brother hastily, 'be waking at this late\nhour--'\n\nKit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and waited at\nthe gate, they would let him make his way to where this light was\nshining, and try to ascertain if any people were about.  Obtaining the\npermission he desired, he darted off with breathless eagerness, and,\nstill carrying the birdcage in his hand, made straight towards the spot.\n\nIt was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another time\nhe might have gone more slowly, or round by the path.  Unmindful of all\nobstacles, however, he pressed forward without slackening his speed,\nand soon arrived within a few yards of the window.  He approached as\nsoftly as he could, and advancing so near the wall as to brush the\nwhitened ivy with his dress, listened.  There was no sound inside.  The\nchurch itself was not more quiet.  Touching the glass with his cheek,\nhe listened again.  No.  And yet there was such a silence all around,\nthat he felt sure he could have heard even the breathing of a sleeper,\nif there had been one there.\n\nA strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of night,\nwith no one near it.\n\nA curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he\ncould not see into the room.  But there was no shadow thrown upon it\nfrom within.  To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in\nfrom above, would have been attended with some danger--certainly with\nsome noise, and the chance of terrifying the child, if that really were\nher habitation.  Again and again he listened; again and again the same\nwearisome blank.\n\nLeaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and skirting the ruin\nfor a few paces, he came at length to a door.  He knocked.  No answer.\nBut there was a curious noise inside.  It was difficult to determine\nwhat it was.  It bore a resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain,\nbut it was not that, being far too regular and constant.  Now it seemed\na kind of song, now a wail--seemed, that is, to his changing fancy, for\nthe sound itself was never changed or checked.  It was unlike anything\nhe had ever heard; and in its tone there was something fearful,\nchilling, and unearthly.\n\nThe listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost and\nsnow, but he knocked again.  There was no answer, and the sound went on\nwithout any interruption.  He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and\nput his knee against the door.  It was secured on the inside, but\nyielded to the pressure, and turned upon its hinges.  He saw the\nglimmering of a fire upon the old walls, and entered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 71\n\nThe dull, red glow of a wood fire--for no lamp or candle burnt within\nthe room--showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back\ntowards him, bending over the fitful light.  The attitude was that of\none who sought the heat.  It was, and yet was not.  The stooping\nposture and the cowering form were there, but no hands were stretched\nout to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury\nwith the piercing cold outside.  With limbs huddled together, head\nbowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched,\nit rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause,\naccompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard.\n\nThe heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that\nmade him start.  The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave\nin any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise.  The form\nwas that of an old man, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering\nembers upon which he gazed.  He, and the failing light and dying fire,\nthe time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all\nin fellowship.  Ashes, and dust, and ruin!\n\nKit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were\nhe scarcely knew.  Still the same terrible low cry went on--still the\nsame rocking in the chair--the same stricken figure was there,\nunchanged and heedless of his presence.\n\nHe had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form--distinctly\nseen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up--arrested\nit.  He returned to where he had stood before--advanced a\npace--another--another still.  Another, and he saw the face.  Yes!\nChanged as it was, he knew it well.\n\n'Master!' he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand.\n'Dear master.  Speak to me!'\n\nThe old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered in a hollow voice,\n\n'This is another!--How many of these spirits there have been to-night!'\n\n'No spirit, master.  No one but your old servant.  You know me now, I\nam sure?  Miss Nell--where is she--where is she?'\n\n'They all say that!' cried the old man.  'They all ask the same\nquestion.  A spirit!'\n\n'Where is she?' demanded Kit.  'Oh tell me but that,--but that, dear\nmaster!'\n\n'She is asleep--yonder--in there.'\n\n'Thank God!'\n\n'Aye!  Thank God!' returned the old man.  'I have prayed to Him, many,\nand many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He\nknows.  Hark!  Did she call?'\n\n'I heard no voice.'\n\n'You did.  You hear her now.  Do you tell me that you don't hear THAT?'\n\nHe started up, and listened again.\n\n'Nor that?' he cried, with a triumphant smile, 'Can any body know that\nvoice so well as I?  Hush!  Hush!'\n\nMotioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber.\nAfter a short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in a\nsoftened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.\n\n'She is still asleep,' he whispered.  'You were right.  She did not\ncall--unless she did so in her slumber.  She has called to me in her\nsleep before now, sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have seen her lips\nmove, and have known, though no sound came from them, that she spoke of\nme.  I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so I\nbrought it here.'\n\nHe spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put the\nlamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary\nrecollection or curiosity, and held it near his face.  Then, as if\nforgetting his motive in the very action, he turned away and put it\ndown again.\n\n'She is sleeping soundly,' he said; 'but no wonder.  Angel hands have\nstrewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be\nlighter yet; and the very birds are dead, that they may not wake her.\nShe used to feed them, Sir.  Though never so cold and hungry, the timid\nthings would fly from us.  They never flew from her!'\n\nAgain he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened for a\nlong, long time.  That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out\nsome clothes as fondly as if they had been living things, and began to\nsmooth and brush them with his hand.\n\n'Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,' he murmured, 'when there\nare bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them!\nWhy dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping\nto the door, crying \"where is Nell--sweet Nell?\"--and sob, and weep,\nbecause they do not see thee.  She was always gentle with children.\nThe wildest would do her bidding--she had a tender way with them,\nindeed she had!'\n\nKit had no power to speak.  His eyes were filled with tears.\n\n'Her little homely dress,--her favourite!' cried the old man, pressing\nit to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand.  'She will\nmiss it when she wakes.  They have hid it here in sport, but she shall\nhave it--she shall have it.  I would not vex my darling, for the wide\nworld's riches.  See here--these shoes--how worn they are--she kept\nthem to remind her of our last long journey.  You see where the little\nfeet went bare upon the ground.  They told me, afterwards, that the\nstones had cut and bruised them.  She never told me that.  No, no, God\nbless her! and, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir,\nthat I might not see how lame she was--but yet she had my hand in hers,\nand seemed to lead me still.'\n\nHe pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back again,\nwent on communing with himself--looking wistfully from time to time\ntowards the chamber he had lately visited.\n\n'She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then.  We must\nhave patience.  When she is well again, she will rise early, as she\nused to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time.  I often\ntried to track the way she had gone, but her small footstep left no\nprint upon the dewy ground, to guide me.  Who is that?  Shut the door.\nQuick!--Have we not enough to do to drive away that marble cold, and\nkeep her warm!'\n\nThe door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his\nfriend, accompanied by two other persons.  These were the schoolmaster,\nand the bachelor.  The former held a light in his hand.  He had, it\nseemed, but gone to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, at\nthe moment when Kit came up and found the old man alone.\n\nHe softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside the\nangry manner--if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can be\napplied--in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed his\nformer seat, and subsided, by little and little into the old action,\nand the old, dull, wandering sound.\n\nOf the strangers, he took no heed whatever.  He had seen them, but\nappeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity.  The younger brother\nstood apart.  The bachelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat\ndown close beside him.  After a long silence, he ventured to speak.\n\n'Another night, and not in bed!' he said softly; 'I hoped you would be\nmore mindful of your promise to me.  Why do you not take some rest?'\n\n'Sleep has left me,' returned the old man.  'It is all with her!'\n\n'It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus,' said\nthe bachelor.  'You would not give her pain?'\n\n'I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her.  She has slept\nso very long.  And yet I am rash to say so.  It is a good and happy\nsleep--eh?'\n\n'Indeed it is,' returned the bachelor.  'Indeed, indeed, it is!'\n\n'That's well!--and the waking--' faltered the old man.\n\n'Happy too.  Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive.'\n\nThey watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber\nwhere the lamp had been replaced.  They listened as he spoke again\nwithin its silent walls.  They looked into the faces of each other, and\nno man's cheek was free from tears.  He came back, whispering that she\nwas still asleep, but that he thought she had moved.  It was her hand,\nhe said--a little--a very, very little--but he was pretty sure she had\nmoved it--perhaps in seeking his.  He had known her do that, before\nnow, though in the deepest sleep the while.  And when he had said this,\nhe dropped into his chair again, and clasping his hands above his head,\nuttered a cry never to be forgotten.\n\nThe poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on\nthe other side, and speak to him.  They gently unlocked his fingers,\nwhich he had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in their own.\n\n'He will hear me,' said the schoolmaster, 'I am sure.  He will hear\neither me or you if we beseech him.  She would, at all times.'\n\n'I will hear any voice she liked to hear,' cried the old man.  'I love\nall she loved!'\n\n'I know you do,' returned the schoolmaster.  'I am certain of it.\nThink of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared\ntogether; of all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have\njointly known.'\n\n'I do.  I do.  I think of nothing else.'\n\n'I would have you think of nothing else to-night--of nothing but those\nthings which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old\naffections and old times.  It is so that she would speak to you\nherself, and in her name it is that I speak now.'\n\n'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man.  'We will not wake\nher.  I should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile.\nThere is a smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and\nchangeless.  I would have it come and go.  That shall be in Heaven's\ngood time.  We will not wake her.'\n\n'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you\nwere journeying together, far away--as she was at home, in the old\nhouse from which you fled together--as she was, in the old cheerful\ntime,' said the schoolmaster.\n\n'She was always cheerful--very cheerful,' cried the old man, looking\nsteadfastly at him.  'There was ever something mild and quiet about\nher, I remember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature.'\n\n'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this and in\nall goodness, she was like her mother.  You can think of, and remember\nher?'\n\nHe maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.\n\n'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor.  'It is many years ago,\nand affliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her\nwhose death contributed to make this child so dear to you, even before\nyou knew her worth or could read her heart?  Say, that you could carry\nback your thoughts to very distant days--to the time of your early\nlife--when, unlike this fair flower, you did not pass your youth alone.\nSay, that you could remember, long ago, another child who loved you\ndearly, you being but a child yourself.  Say, that you had a brother,\nlong forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last,\nin your utmost need came back to comfort and console you--'\n\n'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger, falling on\nhis knee before him; 'to repay your old affection, brother dear, by\nconstant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he\nhas never ceased to be when oceans rolled between us; to call to\nwitness his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days, whole\nyears of desolation.  Give me but one word of recognition, brother--and\nnever--no never, in the brightest moment of our youngest days, when,\npoor silly boys, we thought to pass our lives together--have we been\nhalf as dear and precious to each other as we shall be from this time\nhence!'\n\nThe old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound\ncame from them in reply.\n\n'If we were knit together then,' pursued the younger brother, 'what\nwill be the bond between us now!  Our love and fellowship began in\nchildhood, when life was all before us, and will be resumed when we\nhave proved it, and are but children at the last.  As many restless\nspirits, who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the world,\nretire in their decline to where they first drew breath, vainly seeking\nto be children once again before they die, so we, less fortunate than\nthey in early life, but happier in its closing scenes, will set up our\nrest again among our boyish haunts, and going home with no hope\nrealised, that had its growth in manhood--carrying back nothing that\nwe brought away, but our old yearnings to each other--saving no\nfragment from the wreck of life, but that which first endeared it--may\nbe, indeed, but children as at first.  And even,' he added in an\naltered voice, 'even if what I dread to name has come to pass--even if\nthat be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and spare us!)--still,\ndear brother, we are not apart, and have that comfort in our great\naffliction.'\n\nBy little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner\nchamber, while these words were spoken.  He pointed there, as he\nreplied, with trembling lips.\n\n'You plot among you to wean my heart from her.  You never will do\nthat--never while I have life.  I have no relative or friend but her--I\nnever had--I never will have.  She is all in all to me.  It is too late\nto part us now.'\n\nWaving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he\nstole into the room.  They who were left behind, drew close together,\nand after a few whispered words--not unbroken by emotion, or easily\nuttered--followed him.  They moved so gently, that their footsteps made\nno noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief\nand mourning.\n\nFor she was dead.  There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest.  The\nsolemn stillness was no marvel now.\n\nShe was dead.  No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of\npain, so fair to look upon.  She seemed a creature fresh from the hand\nof God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and\nsuffered death.\n\nHer couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green\nleaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour.  'When I die,\nput near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above\nit always.'  Those were her words.\n\nShe was dead.  Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead.  Her little\nbird--a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have\ncrushed--was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its\nchild mistress was mute and motionless for ever.\n\nWhere were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues?\nAll gone.  Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect\nhappiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.\n\nAnd still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change.  Yes.\nThe old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed,\nlike a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the\npoor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon\nthe cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had\nbeen the same mild lovely look.  So shall we know the angels in their\nmajesty, after death.\n\nThe old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight\nfolded to his breast, for warmth.  It was the hand she had stretched\nout to him with her last smile--the hand that had led him on, through\nall their wanderings.  Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then\nhugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and,\nas he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if\nimploring them to help her.\n\nShe was dead, and past all help, or need of it.  The ancient rooms she\nhad seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast--the\ngarden she had tended--the eyes she had gladdened--the noiseless haunts\nof many a thoughtful hour--the paths she had trodden as it were but\nyesterday--could know her never more.\n\n'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the\ncheek, and gave his tears free vent, 'it is not on earth that Heaven's\njustice ends.  Think what earth is, compared with the World to which\nher young spirit has winged its early flight; and say, if one\ndeliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her\nback to life, which of us would utter it!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 72\n\nWhen morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of\ntheir grief, they heard how her life had closed.\n\nShe had been dead two days.  They were all about her at the time,\nknowing that the end was drawing on.  She died soon after daybreak.\nThey had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night,\nbut as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep.  They could tell, by what\nshe faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings\nwith the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had\nhelped and used them kindly, for she often said 'God bless you!' with\ngreat fervour.  Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and\nthat was of beautiful music which she said was in the air.  God knows.\nIt may have been.\n\nOpening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they\nwould kiss her once again.  That done, she turned to the old man with a\nlovely smile upon her face--such, they said, as they had never seen,\nand never could forget--and clung with both her arms about his neck.\nThey did not know that she was dead, at first.\n\nShe had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like\ndear friends to her.  She wished they could be told how much she\nthought about them, and how she had watched them as they walked\ntogether, by the river side at night.  She would like to see poor Kit,\nshe had often said of late.  She wished there was somebody to take her\nlove to Kit.  And, even then, she never thought or spoke about him, but\nwith something of her old, clear, merry laugh.\n\nFor the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet\nmind, and manner quite unaltered--save that she every day became more\nearnest and more grateful to them--faded like the light upon a summer's\nevening.\n\nThe child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon as\nit was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to\nlay upon her breast.  It was he who had come to the window overnight\nand spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small\nfeet, where he had been lingering near the room in which she lay,\nbefore he went to bed.  He had a fancy, it seemed, that they had left\nher there alone; and could not bear the thought.\n\nHe told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored\nto them, just as she used to be.  He begged hard to see her, saying\nthat he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being\nalarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all day long when he\nwas dead, and had felt glad to be so near him.  They let him have his\nwish; and indeed he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a\nlesson to them all.\n\nUp to that time, the old man had not spoken once--except to her--or\nstirred from the bedside.  But, when he saw her little favourite, he\nwas moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would\nhave him come nearer.  Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears\nfor the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of\nthis child had done him good, left them alone together.\n\nSoothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to\ntake some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him.  And\nwhen the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from\nearthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she\nwas taken from him.\n\nThey were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.  It was\nSunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and as they traversed the\nvillage street, those who were walking in their path drew back to make\nway for them, and gave them a softened greeting.  Some shook the old\nman kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and\nmany cried 'God help him!' as he passed along.\n\n'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young\nguide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are nearly all in black\nto-day?  I have seen a mourning ribbon or a piece of crape on almost\nevery one.'\n\nShe could not tell, the woman said.\n\n'Why, you yourself--you wear the colour too?' he said.  'Windows are\nclosed that never used to be by day.  What does this mean?'\n\nAgain the woman said she could not tell.\n\n'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly.  'We must see what this\nis.'\n\n'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him.  'Remember what you promised.\nOur way is to the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and\nwhere you found us, more than once, making those garlands for her\ngarden.  Do not turn back!'\n\n'Where is she now?' said the old man.  'Tell me that.'\n\n'Do you not know?' returned the child.  'Did we not leave her, but just\nnow?'\n\n'True.  True.  It was her we left--was it?'\n\nHe pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if\nimpelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the\nsexton's house.  He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the\nfire.  Both rose up, on seeing who it was.\n\nThe child made a hasty sign to them with his hand.  It was the action\nof an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough.\n\n'Do you--do you bury any one to-day?' he said, eagerly.\n\n'No, no!  Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.\n\n'Aye, who indeed!  I say with you, who indeed!'\n\n'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly.  'We\nhave no work to do to-day.'\n\n'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to the\nchild.  'You're sure of what you tell me?  You would not deceive me?  I\nam changed, even in the little time since you last saw me.'\n\n'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with ye\nboth!'\n\n'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly.  'Come, boy, come--' and\nso submitted to be led away.\n\nAnd now the bell--the bell she had so often heard, by night and day,\nand listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice--rung\nits remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so good.\nDecrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless\ninfancy, poured forth--on crutches, in the pride of strength and\nhealth, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life--to\ngather round her tomb.  Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and\nsenses failing--grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and\nstill been old--the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living\ndead in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.\nWhat was the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl\nand creep above it!\n\nAlong the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen snow\nthat covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting.  Under the\nporch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that\npeaceful spot, she passed again; and the old church received her in its\nquiet shade.\n\nThey carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time\nsat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement.  The light\nstreamed on it through the coloured window--a window, where the boughs\nof trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang\nsweetly all day long.  With every breath of air that stirred among\nthose branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light, would\nfall upon her grave.\n\nEarth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!  Many a young hand\ndropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard.  Some--and\nthey were not a few--knelt down.  All were sincere and truthful in\ntheir sorrow.\n\nThe service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed\nround to look into the grave before the pavement-stone should be\nreplaced.  One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very\nspot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a\npensive face upon the sky.  Another told, how he had wondered much that\none so delicate as she, should be so bold; how she had never feared to\nenter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all\nwas quiet, and even to climb the tower stair, with no more light than\nthat of the moon rays stealing through the loopholes in the thick old\nwall.  A whisper went about among the oldest, that she had seen and\ntalked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked,\nand spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so, indeed.\nThus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and\ngiving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three\nor four, the church was cleared in time, of all but the sexton and the\nmourning friends.\n\nThey saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down.  Then, when the\ndusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred\nstillness of the place--when the bright moon poured in her light on\ntomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it\nseemed to them) upon her quiet grave--in that calm time, when outward\nthings and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and\nworldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them--then, with\ntranquil and submissive hearts they turned away, and left the child\nwith God.\n\nOh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach,\nbut let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a\nmighty, universal Truth.  When Death strikes down the innocent and\nyoung, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit\nfree, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to\nwalk the world, and bless it.  Of every tear that sorrowing mortals\nshed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature\ncomes.  In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that\ndefy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven.\n\nIt was late when the old man came home.  The boy had led him to his own\ndwelling, under some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered drowsy\nby his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep\nby the fireside.  He was perfectly exhausted, and they were careful not\nto rouse him.  The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length\nawoke the moon was shining.\n\nThe younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at\nthe door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his\nlittle guide.  He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old\nman to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps\ntowards the house.\n\nHe repaired to her chamber, straight.  Not finding what he had left\nthere, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were\nassembled.  From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage,\ncalling her name.  They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly\nsearched it, brought him home.\n\nWith such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they\nprevailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should tell\nhim.  Then endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare his mind\nfor what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy\nlot to which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth.\nThe moment it had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a\nmurdered man.\n\nFor many hours, they had little hope of his surviving; but grief is\nstrong, and he recovered.\n\nIf there be any who have never known the blank that follows death--the\nweary void--the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest\nminds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn--the\nconnection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of\nrecollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every\nroom a grave--if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by\ntheir own experience, they can never faintly guess how, for many days,\nthe old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there\nas seeking something, and had no comfort.\n\nWhatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up in\nher.  He never understood, or seemed to care to understand, about his\nbrother.  To every endearment and attention he continued listless.  If\nthey spoke to him on this, or any other theme--save one--he would hear\nthem patiently for awhile, then turn away, and go on seeking as before.\n\nOn that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was\nimpossible to touch.  Dead!  He could not hear or bear the word.  The\nslightest hint of it would throw him into a paroxysm, like that he had\nhad when it was first spoken.  In what hope he lived, no man could\ntell; but that he had some hope of finding her again--some faint and\nshadowy hope, deferred from day to day, and making him from day to day\nmore sick and sore at heart--was plain to all.\n\nThey bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow; of\ntrying whether change of place would rouse or cheer him.  His brother\nsought the advice of those who were accounted skilful in such matters,\nand they came and saw him.  Some of the number staid upon the spot,\nconversed with him when he would converse, and watched him as he\nwandered up and down, alone and silent.  Move him where they might,\nthey said, he would ever seek to get back there.  His mind would run\nupon that spot.  If they confined him closely, and kept a strict guard\nupon him, they might hold him prisoner, but if he could by any means\nescape, he would surely wander back to that place, or die upon the road.\n\nThe boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence\nwith him.  At times he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or\nwould even take such notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or\nwould stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head.  At other times,\nhe would entreat him--not unkindly--to be gone, and would not brook him\nnear.  But, whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with those\nwho would have given him, at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or\nsome peace of mind, if happily the means could have been devised; he\nwas at all times the same--with no love or care for anything in life--a\nbroken-hearted man.\n\nAt length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his\nknapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little\nbasket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone.  As\nthey were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened\nschoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the\nchurch--upon her grave, he said.\n\nThey hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in the\nattitude of one who waited patiently.  They did not disturb him then,\nbut kept a watch upon him all that day.  When it grew quite dark, he\nrose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, 'She\nwill come to-morrow!'\n\nUpon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still\nat night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, 'She will come\nto-morrow!'\n\nAnd thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave,\nfor her.  How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of\nresting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and\nwoods, and paths not often trodden--how many tones of that one\nwell-remembered voice, how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering\ndress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind--how many visions of\nwhat had been, and what he hoped was yet to be--rose up before him, in\nthe old, dull, silent church!  He never told them what he thought, or\nwhere he went.  He would sit with them at night, pondering with a\nsecret satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she\nwould take before night came again; and still they would hear him\nwhisper in his prayers, 'Lord!  Let her come to-morrow!'\n\nThe last time was on a genial day in spring.  He did not return at the\nusual hour, and they went to seek him.  He was lying dead upon the\nstone.\n\nThey laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in the\nchurch where they had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in\nhand, the child and the old man slept together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 73\n\nThe magic reel, which, rolling on before, has led the chronicler thus\nfar, now slackens in its pace, and stops.  It lies before the goal; the\npursuit is at an end.\n\nIt remains but to dismiss the leaders of the little crowd who have\nborne us company upon the road, and so to close the journey.\n\nForemost among them, smooth Sampson Brass and Sally, arm in arm, claim\nour polite attention.\n\nMr Sampson, then, being detained, as already has been shown, by the\njustice upon whom he called, and being so strongly pressed to protract\nhis stay that he could by no means refuse, remained under his\nprotection for a considerable time, during which the great attention of\nhis entertainer kept him so extremely close, that he was quite lost to\nsociety, and never even went abroad for exercise saving into a small\npaved yard.  So well, indeed, was his modest and retiring temper\nunderstood by those with whom he had to deal, and so jealous were they\nof his absence, that they required a kind of friendly bond to be\nentered into by two substantial housekeepers, in the sum of fifteen\nhundred pounds a-piece, before they would suffer him to quit their\nhospitable roof--doubting, it appeared, that he would return, if once\nlet loose, on any other terms.  Mr Brass, struck with the humour of\nthis jest, and carrying out its spirit to the utmost, sought from his\nwide connection a pair of friends whose joint possessions fell some\nhalfpence short of fifteen pence, and proffered them as bail--for that\nwas the merry word agreed upon both sides.  These gentlemen being\nrejected after twenty-four hours' pleasantry, Mr Brass consented to\nremain, and did remain, until a club of choice spirits called a Grand\njury (who were in the joke) summoned him to a trial before twelve other\nwags for perjury and fraud, who in their turn found him guilty with a\nmost facetious joy,--nay, the very populace entered into the whim, and\nwhen Mr Brass was moving in a hackney-coach towards the building where\nthese wags assembled, saluted him with rotten eggs and carcases of\nkittens, and feigned to wish to tear him into shreds, which greatly\nincreased the comicality of the thing, and made him relish it the more,\nno doubt.\n\nTo work this sportive vein still further, Mr Brass, by his counsel,\nmoved in arrest of judgment that he had been led to criminate himself,\nby assurances of safety and promises of pardon, and claimed the\nleniency which the law extends to such confiding natures as are thus\ndeluded.  After solemn argument, this point (with others of a technical\nnature, whose humorous extravagance it would be difficult to\nexaggerate) was referred to the judges for their decision, Sampson\nbeing meantime removed to his former quarters.  Finally, some of the\npoints were given in Sampson's favour, and some against him; and the\nupshot was, that, instead of being desired to travel for a time in\nforeign parts, he was permitted to grace the mother country under\ncertain insignificant restrictions.\n\nThese were, that he should, for a term of years, reside in a spacious\nmansion where several other gentlemen were lodged and boarded at the\npublic charge, who went clad in a sober uniform of grey turned up with\nyellow, had their hair cut extremely short, and chiefly lived on gruel\nand light soup.  It was also required of him that he should partake of\ntheir exercise of constantly ascending an endless flight of stairs;\nand, lest his legs, unused to such exertion, should be weakened by it,\nthat he should wear upon one ankle an amulet or charm of iron.  These\nconditions being arranged, he was removed one evening to his new abode,\nand enjoyed, in common with nine other gentlemen, and two ladies, the\nprivilege of being taken to his place of retirement in one of Royalty's\nown carriages.\n\nOver and above these trifling penalties, his name was erased and\nblotted out from the roll of attorneys; which erasure has been always\nheld in these latter times to be a great degradation and reproach, and\nto imply the commission of some amazing villany--as indeed it would\nseem to be the case, when so many worthless names remain among its\nbetter records, unmolested.\n\nOf Sally Brass, conflicting rumours went abroad.  Some said with\nconfidence that she had gone down to the docks in male attire, and had\nbecome a female sailor; others darkly whispered that she had enlisted\nas a private in the second regiment of Foot Guards, and had been seen\nin uniform, and on duty, to wit, leaning on her musket and looking out\nof a sentry-box in St James's Park, one evening.  There were many such\nwhispers as these in circulation; but the truth appears to be that,\nafter the lapse of some five years (during which there is no direct\nevidence of her having been seen at all), two wretched people were more\nthan once observed to crawl at dusk from the inmost recesses of St\nGiles's, and to take their way along the streets, with shuffling steps\nand cowering shivering forms, looking into the roads and kennels as\nthey went in search of refuse food or disregarded offal.  These forms\nwere never beheld but in those nights of cold and gloom, when the\nterrible spectres, who lie at all other times in the obscene\nhiding-places of London, in archways, dark vaults and cellars, venture\nto creep into the streets; the embodied spirits of Disease, and Vice,\nand Famine.  It was whispered by those who should have known, that\nthese were Sampson and his sister Sally; and to this day, it is said,\nthey sometimes pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome guise, close\nat the elbow of the shrinking passenger.\n\nThe body of Quilp being found--though not until some days had\nelapsed--an inquest was held on it near the spot where it had been\nwashed ashore.  The general supposition was that he had committed\nsuicide, and, this appearing to be favoured by all the circumstances of\nhis death, the verdict was to that effect.  He was left to be buried\nwith a stake through his heart in the centre of four lonely roads.\n\nIt was rumoured afterwards that this horrible and barbarous ceremony\nhad been dispensed with, and that the remains had been secretly given\nup to Tom Scott.  But even here, opinion was divided; for some said Tom\ndug them up at midnight, and carried them to a place indicated to him\nby the widow.  It is probable that both these stories may have had\ntheir origin in the simple fact of Tom's shedding tears upon the\ninquest--which he certainly did, extraordinary as it may appear.  He\nmanifested, besides, a strong desire to assault the jury; and being\nrestrained and conducted out of court, darkened its only window by\nstanding on his head upon the sill, until he was dexterously tilted\nupon his feet again by a cautious beadle.\n\nBeing cast upon the world by his master's death, he determined to go\nthrough it upon his head and hands, and accordingly began to tumble for\nhis bread.  Finding, however, his English birth an insurmountable\nobstacle to his advancement in this pursuit (notwithstanding that his\nart was in high repute and favour), he assumed the name of an Italian\nimage lad, with whom he had become acquainted; and afterwards tumbled\nwith extraordinary success, and to overflowing audiences.\n\nLittle Mrs Quilp never quite forgave herself the one deceit that lay so\nheavy on her conscience, and never spoke or thought of it but with\nbitter tears. Her husband had no relations, and she was rich.  He had\nmade no will, or she would probably have been poor.  Having married the\nfirst time at her mother's instigation, she consulted in her second\nchoice nobody but herself.  It fell upon a smart young fellow enough;\nand as he made it a preliminary condition that Mrs Jiniwin should be\nthenceforth an out-pensioner, they lived together after marriage with no\nmore than the average amount of quarrelling, and led a merry life upon\nthe dead dwarf's money.\n\nMr and Mrs Garland, and Mr Abel, went out as usual (except that there\nwas a change in their household, as will be seen presently), and in due\ntime the latter went into partnership with his friend the notary, on\nwhich occasion there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent of\ndissipation.  Unto this ball there happened to be invited the most\nbashful young lady that was ever seen, with whom Mr Abel happened to\nfall in love.  HOW it happened, or how they found it out, or which of\nthem first communicated the discovery to the other, nobody knows.  But\ncertain it is that in course of time they were married; and equally\ncertain it is that they were the happiest of the happy; and no less\ncertain it is that they deserved to be so.  And it is pleasant to write\ndown that they reared a family; because any propagation of goodness and\nbenevolence is no small addition to the aristocracy of nature, and no\nsmall subject of rejoicing for mankind at large.\n\nThe pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to\nthe last moment of his life; which was an unusually long one, and\ncaused him to be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies.\nHe often went to and fro with the little phaeton between Mr Garland's\nand his son's, and, as the old people and the young were frequently\ntogether, had a stable of his own at the new establishment, into which\nhe would walk of himself with surprising dignity.  He condescended to\nplay with the children, as they grew old enough to cultivate his\nfriendship, and would run up and down the little paddock with them like\na dog; but though he relaxed so far, and allowed them such small\nfreedoms as caresses, or even to look at his shoes or hang on by his\ntail, he never permitted any one among them to mount his back or drive\nhim; thus showing that even their familiarity must have its limits, and\nthat there were points between them far too serious for trifling.\n\nHe was not unsusceptible of warm attachments in his later life, for\nwhen the good bachelor came to live with Mr Garland upon the\nclergyman's decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and\namiably submitted to be driven by his hands without the least\nresistance.  He did no work for two or three years before he died, but\nlived in clover; and his last act (like a choleric old gentleman) was\nto kick his doctor.\n\nMr Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, and entering\ninto the receipt of his annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome\nstock of clothes, and put her to school forthwith, in redemption of the\nvow he had made upon his fevered bed.  After casting about for some\ntime for a name which should be worthy of her, he decided in favour of\nSophronia Sphynx, as being euphonious and genteel, and furthermore\nindicative of mystery.  Under this title the Marchioness repaired, in\ntears, to the school of his selection, from which, as she soon\ndistanced all competitors, she was removed before the lapse of many\nquarters to one of a higher grade.  It is but bare justice to Mr\nSwiveller to say, that, although the expenses of her education kept him\nin straitened circumstances for half a dozen years, he never slackened\nin his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently repaid by the\naccounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement, on his\nmonthly visits to the governess, who looked upon him as a literary\ngentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in\nquotation.\n\nIn a word, Mr Swiveller kept the Marchioness at this establishment\nuntil she was, at a moderate guess, full nineteen years of age--\ngood-looking, clever, and good-humoured; when he began to consider\nseriously what was to be done next.  On one of his periodical visits,\nwhile he was revolving this question in his mind, the Marchioness came\ndown to him, alone, looking more smiling and more fresh than ever.\nThen, it occurred to him, but not for the first time, that if she would\nmarry him, how comfortable they might be!  So Richard asked her;\nwhatever she said, it wasn't No; and they were married in good earnest\nthat day week.  Which gave Mr Swiveller frequent occasion to remark at\ndivers subsequent periods that there had been a young lady saving up\nfor him after all.\n\nA little cottage at Hampstead being to let, which had in its garden a\nsmoking-box, the envy of the civilised world, they agreed to become its\ntenants, and, when the honey-moon was over, entered upon its\noccupation.  To this retreat Mr Chuckster repaired regularly every\nSunday to spend the day--usually beginning with breakfast--and here he\nwas the great purveyor of general news and fashionable intelligence.\nFor some years he continued a deadly foe to Kit, protesting that he had\na better opinion of him when he was supposed to have stolen the\nfive-pound note, than when he was shown to be perfectly free of the\ncrime; inasmuch as his guilt would have had in it something daring and\nbold, whereas his innocence was but another proof of a sneaking and\ncrafty disposition.  By slow degrees, however, he was reconciled to him\nin the end; and even went so far as to honour him with his patronage,\nas one who had in some measure reformed, and was therefore to be\nforgiven.  But he never forgot or pardoned that circumstance of the\nshilling; holding that if he had come back to get another he would have\ndone well enough, but that his returning to work out the former gift\nwas a stain upon his moral character which no penitence or contrition\ncould ever wash away.\n\nMr Swiveller, having always been in some measure of a philosophic and\nreflective turn, grew immensely contemplative, at times, in the\nsmoking-box, and was accustomed at such periods to debate in his own\nmind the mysterious question of Sophronia's parentage.  Sophronia\nherself supposed she was an orphan; but Mr Swiveller, putting various\nslight circumstances together, often thought Miss Brass must know\nbetter than that; and, having heard from his wife of her strange\ninterview with Quilp, entertained sundry misgivings whether that\nperson, in his lifetime, might not also have been able to solve the\nriddle, had he chosen.  These speculations, however, gave him no\nuneasiness; for Sophronia was ever a most cheerful, affectionate, and\nprovident wife to him; and Dick (excepting for an occasional outbreak\nwith Mr Chuckster, which she had the good sense rather to encourage\nthan oppose) was to her an attached and domesticated husband.  And they\nplayed many hundred thousand games of cribbage together.  And let it be\nadded, to Dick's honour, that, though we have called her Sophronia, he\ncalled her the Marchioness from first to last; and that upon every\nanniversary of the day on which he found her in his sick room, Mr\nChuckster came to dinner, and there was great glorification.\n\nThe gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their trusty confederate Mr\nJames Groves of unimpeachable memory, pursued their course with varying\nsuccess, until the failure of a spirited enterprise in the way of their\nprofession, dispersed them in various directions, and caused their\ncareer to receive a sudden check from the long and strong arm of the\nlaw.  This defeat had its origin in the untoward detection of a new\nassociate--young Frederick Trent--who thus became the unconscious\ninstrument of their punishment and his own.\n\nFor the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by\nhis wits--which means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily\nemployed raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far\nbelow them.  It was not long before his body was recognised by a\nstranger, who chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned\nare laid out to be owned; despite the bruises and disfigurements which\nwere said to have been occasioned by some previous scuffle.  But the\nstranger kept his own counsel until he returned home, and it was never\nclaimed or cared for.\n\nThe younger brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is\nmore familiar, would have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone\nretreat, and made him his companion and friend.  But the humble village\nteacher was timid of venturing into the noisy world, and had become\nfond of his dwelling in the old churchyard.  Calmly happy in his\nschool, and in the spot, and in the attachment of Her little mourner,\nhe pursued his quiet course in peace; and was, through the righteous\ngratitude of his friend--let this brief mention suffice for that--a\nPOOR school-master no more.\n\nThat friend--single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will--had\nat his heart a heavy sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or\nmonastic gloom.  He went forth into the world, a lover of his kind.\nFor a long, long time, it was his chief delight to travel in the steps\nof the old man and the child (so far as he could trace them from her\nlast narrative), to halt where they had halted, sympathise where they\nhad suffered, and rejoice where they had been made glad.  Those who had\nbeen kind to them, did not escape his search.  The sisters at the\nschool--they who were her friends, because themselves so\nfriendless--Mrs Jarley of the wax-work, Codlin, Short--he found them\nall; and trust me, the man who fed the furnace fire was not forgotten.\n\nKit's story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and\nmany offers of provision for his future life.  He had no idea at first\nof ever quitting Mr Garland's service; but, after serious remonstrance\nand advice from that gentleman, began to contemplate the possibility of\nsuch a change being brought about in time.  A good post was procured\nfor him, with a rapidity which took away his breath, by some of the\ngentlemen who had believed him guilty of the offence laid to his\ncharge, and who had acted upon that belief.  Through the same kind\nagency, his mother was secured from want, and made quite happy.  Thus,\nas Kit often said, his great misfortune turned out to be the source of\nall his subsequent prosperity.\n\nDid Kit live a single man all his days, or did he marry?  Of course he\nmarried, and who should be his wife but Barbara?  And the best of it\nwas, he married so soon that little Jacob was an uncle, before the\ncalves of his legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been\nencased in broadcloth pantaloons,--though that was not quite the best\neither, for of necessity the baby was an uncle too.  The delight of\nKit's mother and of Barbara's mother upon the great occasion is past\nall telling; finding they agreed so well on that, and on all other\nsubjects, they took up their abode together, and were a most harmonious\npair of friends from that time forth.  And hadn't Astley's cause to\nbless itself for their all going together once a quarter--to the\npit--and didn't Kit's mother always say, when they painted the outside,\nthat Kit's last treat had helped to that, and wonder what the manager\nwould feel if he but knew it as they passed his house!\n\nWhen Kit had children six and seven years old, there was a Barbara\namong them, and a pretty Barbara she was.  Nor was there wanting an\nexact facsimile and copy of little Jacob, as he appeared in those\nremote times when they taught him what oysters meant.  Of course there\nwas an Abel, own godson to the Mr Garland of that name; and there was a\nDick, whom Mr Swiveller did especially favour.  The little group would\noften gather round him of a night and beg him to tell again that story\nof good Miss Nell who died.  This, Kit would do; and when they cried to\nhear it, wishing it longer too, he would teach them how she had gone to\nHeaven, as all good people did; and how, if they were good, like her,\nthey might hope to be there too, one day, and to see and know her as he\nhad done when he was quite a boy.  Then, he would relate to them how\nneedy he used to be, and how she had taught him what he was otherwise\ntoo poor to learn, and how the old man had been used to say 'she always\nlaughs at Kit;' at which they would brush away their tears, and laugh\nthemselves to think that she had done so, and be again quite merry.\n\nHe sometimes took them to the street where she had lived; but new\nimprovements had altered it so much, it was not like the same.  The old\nhouse had been long ago pulled down, and a fine broad road was in its\nplace.  At first he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground\nto show them where it used to stand.  But he soon became uncertain of\nthe spot, and could only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and these\nalterations were confusing.\n\nSuch are the changes which a few years bring about, and so do things\npass away, like a tale that is told!"