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- Herausgeber: Books on Demand
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames, between Southwark bridge which is of iron, and London Bridge which is of stone, as an autumn evening was closing in. The figures in this boat were those of a strong man with ragged grizzled hair and a sun-browned face, and a dark girl of nineteen or twenty, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his daughter. The girl rowed, pulling a pair of sculls very easily; the man, with the rudder-lines slack in his hands, and his hands loose in his waistband, kept an eager look out. He had no net, hook, or line, and he could not be a fisherman; his boat had no cushion for a sitter, no paint, no inscription, no appliance beyond a rusty boathook and a coil of rope, and he could not be a waterman; his boat was too crazy and too small to take in cargo for delivery, and he could not be a lighterman or river-carrier; there was no clue to what he looked for, but he looked for something, with a most intent and searching gaze. The tide, which had turned an hour before, was running down, and his eyes watched every little race and eddy in its broad sweep, as the boat made slight head-way against it, or drove stern foremost before it, according as he directed his daughter by a movement of his head. She watched his face as earnestly as he watched the river. But, in the intensity of her look there was a touch of dread or horror.
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Our Mutual Friend
Our Mutual FriendBOOK THE FIRST — THE CUP AND THE LIPChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17BOOK THE SECOND — BIRDS OF A FEATHERChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16BOOK THE THIRD — A LONG LANEChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17BOOK THE FOURTH — A TURNINGChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17POSTSCRIPTCopyrightOur Mutual Friend
Charles Dickens
BOOK THE FIRST — THE CUP AND THE LIP
Chapter 1
ON THE LOOK OUTIn these times of ours, though concerning the exact year
there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable
appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames, between
Southwark bridge which is of iron, and London Bridge which is of
stone, as an autumn evening was closing in.The figures in this boat were those of a strong man with
ragged grizzled hair and a sun-browned face, and a dark girl of
nineteen or twenty, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his
daughter. The girl rowed, pulling a pair of sculls very easily; the
man, with the rudder-lines slack in his hands, and his hands loose
in his waistband, kept an eager look out. He had no net, hook, or
line, and he could not be a fisherman; his boat had no cushion for
a sitter, no paint, no inscription, no appliance beyond a rusty
boathook and a coil of rope, and he could not be a waterman; his
boat was too crazy and too small to take in cargo for delivery, and
he could not be a lighterman or river-carrier; there was no clue to
what he looked for, but he looked for something, with a most intent
and searching gaze. The tide, which had turned an hour before, was
running down, and his eyes watched every little race and eddy in
its broad sweep, as the boat made slight head-way against it, or
drove stern foremost before it, according as he directed his
daughter by a movement of his head. She watched his face as
earnestly as he watched the river. But, in the intensity of her
look there was a touch of dread or horror.Allied to the bottom of the river rather than the surface, by
reason of the slime and ooze with which it was covered, and its
sodden state, this boat and the two figures in it obviously were
doing something that they often did, and were seeking what they
often sought. Half savage as the man showed, with no covering on
his matted head, with his brown arms bare to between the elbow and
the shoulder, with the loose knot of a looser kerchief lying low on
his bare breast in a wilderness of beard and whisker, with such
dress as he wore seeming to be made out of the mud that begrimed
his boat, still there was a business-like usage in his steady gaze.
So with every lithe action of the girl, with every turn of her
wrist, perhaps most of all with her look of dread or horror; they
were things of usage.'Keep her out, Lizzie. Tide runs strong here. Keep her well
afore the sweep of it.'Trusting to the girl's skill and making no use of the rudder,
he eyed the coming tide with an absorbed attention. So the girl
eyed him. But, it happened now, that a slant of light from the
setting sun glanced into the bottom of the boat, and, touching a
rotten stain there which bore some resemblance to the outline of a
muffled human form, coloured it as though with diluted blood. This
caught the girl's eye, and she shivered.'What ails you?' said the man, immediately aware of it,
though so intent on the advancing waters; 'I see nothing
afloat.'The red light was gone, the shudder was gone, and his gaze,
which had come back to the boat for a moment, travelled away again.
Wheresoever the strong tide met with an impediment, his gaze paused
for an instant. At every mooring-chain and rope, at every
stationery boat or barge that split the current into a
broad-arrowhead, at the offsets from the piers of Southwark Bridge,
at the paddles of the river steamboats as they beat the filthy
water, at the floating logs of timber lashed together lying off
certain wharves, his shining eyes darted a hungry look. After a
darkening hour or so, suddenly the rudder-lines tightened in his
hold, and he steered hard towards the Surrey shore.Always watching his face, the girl instantly answered to the
action in her sculling; presently the boat swung round, quivered as
from a sudden jerk, and the upper half of the man was stretched out
over the stern.The girl pulled the hood of a cloak she wore, over her head
and over her face, and, looking backward so that the front folds of
this hood were turned down the river, kept the boat in that
direction going before the tide. Until now, the boat had barely
held her own, and had hovered about one spot; but now, the banks
changed swiftly, and the deepening shadows and the kindling lights
of London Bridge were passed, and the tiers of shipping lay on
either hand.It was not until now that the upper half of the man came back
into the boat. His arms were wet and dirty, and he washed them over
the side. In his right hand he held something, and he washed that
in the river too. It was money. He chinked it once, and he blew
upon it once, and he spat upon it once,—'for luck,' he hoarsely
said—before he put it in his pocket.'Lizzie!'The girl turned her face towards him with a start, and rowed
in silence. Her face was very pale. He was a hook-nosed man, and
with that and his bright eyes and his ruffled head, bore a certain
likeness to a roused bird of prey.'Take that thing off your face.'She put it back.'Here! and give me hold of the sculls. I'll take the rest of
the spell.''No, no, father! No! I can't indeed. Father!—I cannot sit so
near it!'He was moving towards her to change places, but her terrified
expostulation stopped him and he resumed his seat.'What hurt can it do you?''None, none. But I cannot bear it.''It's my belief you hate the sight of the very
river.''I—I do not like it, father.''As if it wasn't your living! As if it wasn't meat and drink
to you!'At these latter words the girl shivered again, and for a
moment paused in her rowing, seeming to turn deadly faint. It
escaped his attention, for he was glancing over the stern at
something the boat had in tow.'How can you be so thankless to your best friend, Lizzie? The
very fire that warmed you when you were a babby, was picked out of
the river alongside the coal barges. The very basket that you slept
in, the tide washed ashore. The very rockers that I put it upon to
make a cradle of it, I cut out of a piece of wood that drifted from
some ship or another.'Lizzie took her right hand from the scull it held, and
touched her lips with it, and for a moment held it out lovingly
towards him: then, without speaking, she resumed her rowing, as
another boat of similar appearance, though in rather better trim,
came out from a dark place and dropped softly
alongside.'In luck again, Gaffer?' said a man with a squinting leer,
who sculled her and who was alone, 'I know'd you was in luck again,
by your wake as you come down.''Ah!' replied the other, drily. 'So you're out, are
you?''Yes, pardner.'There was now a tender yellow moonlight on the river, and the
new comer, keeping half his boat's length astern of the other boat
looked hard at its track.'I says to myself,' he went on, 'directly you hove in view,
yonder's Gaffer, and in luck again, by George if he ain't! Scull it
is, pardner—don't fret yourself—I didn't touch him.' This was in
answer to a quick impatient movement on the part of Gaffer: the
speaker at the same time unshipping his scull on that side, and
laying his hand on the gunwale of Gaffer's boat and holding to
it.'He's had touches enough not to want no more, as well as I
make him out, Gaffer! Been a knocking about with a pretty many
tides, ain't he pardner? Such is my out-of-luck ways, you see! He
must have passed me when he went up last time, for I was on the
lookout below bridge here. I a'most think you're like the wulturs,
pardner, and scent 'em out.'He spoke in a dropped voice, and with more than one glance at
Lizzie who had pulled on her hood again. Both men then looked with
a weird unholy interest in the wake of Gaffer's boat.'Easy does it, betwixt us. Shall I take him aboard,
pardner?''No,' said the other. In so surly a tone that the man, after
a blank stare, acknowledged it with the retort:'—Arn't been eating nothing as has disagreed with you, have
you, pardner?''Why, yes, I have,' said Gaffer. 'I have been swallowing too
much of that word, Pardner. I am no pardner of yours.''Since when was you no pardner of mine, Gaffer Hexam
Esquire?''Since you was accused of robbing a man. Accused of robbing a
live man!' said Gaffer, with great indignation.'And what if I had been accused of robbing a dead man,
Gaffer?''Youcouldn'tdo
it.''Couldn't you, Gaffer?''No. Has a dead man any use for money? Is it possible for a
dead man to have money? What world does a dead man belong to?
'Tother world. What world does money belong to? This world. How can
money be a corpse's? Can a corpse own it, want it, spend it, claim
it, miss it? Don't try to go confounding the rights and wrongs of
things in that way. But it's worthy of the sneaking spirit that
robs a live man.''I'll tell you what it is—.''No you won't. I'll tell you what it is. You got off with a
short time of it for putting your hand in the pocket of a sailor, a
live sailor. Make the most of it and think yourself lucky, but
don't think after that to come overmewith your pardners. We have worked together in time past, but
we work together no more in time present nor yet future. Let go.
Cast off!''Gaffer! If you think to get rid of me this
way—.''If I don't get rid of you this way, I'll try another, and
chop you over the fingers with the stretcher, or take a pick at
your head with the boat-hook. Cast off! Pull you, Lizzie. Pull
home, since you won't let your father pull.'Lizzie shot ahead, and the other boat fell astern. Lizzie's
father, composing himself into the easy attitude of one who had
asserted the high moralities and taken an unassailable position,
slowly lighted a pipe, and smoked, and took a survey of what he had
in tow. What he had in tow, lunged itself at him sometimes in an
awful manner when the boat was checked, and sometimes seemed to try
to wrench itself away, though for the most part it followed
submissively. A neophyte might have fancied that the ripples
passing over it were dreadfully like faint changes of expression on
a sightless face; but Gaffer was no neophyte and had no
fancies.
Chapter 2
THE MAN FROM SOMEWHEREMr and Mrs Veneering were bran-new people in a bran-new house
in a bran-new quarter of London. Everything about the Veneerings
was spick and span new. All their furniture was new, all their
friends were new, all their servants were new, their plate was new,
their carriage was new, their harness was new, their horses were
new, their pictures were new, they themselves were new, they were
as newly married as was lawfully compatible with their having a
bran-new baby, and if they had set up a great-grandfather, he would
have come home in matting from the Pantechnicon, without a scratch
upon him, French polished to the crown of his head.For, in the Veneering establishment, from the hall-chairs
with the new coat of arms, to the grand pianoforte with the new
action, and upstairs again to the new fire-escape, all things were
in a state of high varnish and polish. And what was observable in
the furniture, was observable in the Veneerings—the surface smelt a
little too much of the workshop and was a trifle
sticky.There was an innocent piece of dinner-furniture that went
upon easy castors and was kept over a livery stable-yard in Duke
Street, Saint James's, when not in use, to whom the Veneerings were
a source of blind confusion. The name of this article was Twemlow.
Being first cousin to Lord Snigsworth, he was in frequent
requisition, and at many houses might be said to represent the
dining-table in its normal state. Mr and Mrs Veneering, for
example, arranging a dinner, habitually started with Twemlow, and
then put leaves in him, or added guests to him. Sometimes, the
table consisted of Twemlow and half a dozen leaves; sometimes, of
Twemlow and a dozen leaves; sometimes, Twemlow was pulled out to
his utmost extent of twenty leaves. Mr and Mrs Veneering on
occasions of ceremony faced each other in the centre of the board,
and thus the parallel still held; for, it always happened that the
more Twemlow was pulled out, the further he found himself from the
center, and nearer to the sideboard at one end of the room, or the
window-curtains at the other.But, it was not this which steeped the feeble soul of Twemlow
in confusion. This he was used to, and could take soundings of. The
abyss to which he could find no bottom, and from which started
forth the engrossing and ever-swelling difficulty of his life, was
the insoluble question whether he was Veneering's oldest friend, or
newest friend. To the excogitation of this problem, the harmless
gentleman had devoted many anxious hours, both in his lodgings over
the livery stable-yard, and in the cold gloom, favourable to
meditation, of Saint James's Square. Thus. Twemlow had first known
Veneering at his club, where Veneering then knew nobody but the man
who made them known to one another, who seemed to be the most
intimate friend he had in the world, and whom he had known two
days—the bond of union between their souls, the nefarious conduct
of the committee respecting the cookery of a fillet of veal, having
been accidentally cemented at that date. Immediately upon this,
Twemlow received an invitation to dine with Veneering, and dined:
the man being of the party. Immediately upon that, Twemlow received
an invitation to dine with the man, and dined: Veneering being of
the party. At the man's were a Member, an Engineer, a Payer-off of
the National Debt, a Poem on Shakespeare, a Grievance, and a Public
Office, who all seem to be utter strangers to Veneering. And yet
immediately after that, Twemlow received an invitation to dine at
Veneerings, expressly to meet the Member, the Engineer, the
Payer-off of the National Debt, the Poem on Shakespeare, the
Grievance, and the Public Office, and, dining, discovered that all
of them were the most intimate friends Veneering had in the world,
and that the wives of all of them (who were all there) were the
objects of Mrs Veneering's most devoted affection and tender
confidence.Thus it had come about, that Mr Twemlow had said to himself
in his lodgings, with his hand to his forehead: 'I must not think
of this. This is enough to soften any man's brain,'—and yet was
always thinking of it, and could never form a
conclusion.This evening the Veneerings give a banquet. Eleven leaves in
the Twemlow; fourteen in company all told. Four pigeon-breasted
retainers in plain clothes stand in line in the hall. A fifth
retainer, proceeding up the staircase with a mournful air—as who
should say, 'Here is another wretched creature come to dinner; such
is life!'—announces, 'Mis-ter Twemlow!'Mrs Veneering welcomes her sweet Mr Twemlow. Mr Veneering
welcomes his dear Twemlow. Mrs Veneering does not expect that Mr
Twemlow can in nature care much for such insipid things as babies,
but so old a friend must please to look at baby. 'Ah! You will know
the friend of your family better, Tootleums,' says Mr Veneering,
nodding emotionally at that new article, 'when you begin to take
notice.' He then begs to make his dear Twemlow known to his two
friends, Mr Boots and Mr Brewer—and clearly has no distinct idea
which is which.But now a fearful circumstance occurs.'Mis-ter and Mis-sus Podsnap!''My dear,' says Mr Veneering to Mrs Veneering, with an air of
much friendly interest, while the door stands open, 'the
Podsnaps.'A too, too smiling large man, with a fatal freshness on him,
appearing with his wife, instantly deserts his wife and darts at
Twemlow with:'How do you do? So glad to know you. Charming house you have
here. I hope we are not late. So glad of the opportunity, I am
sure!'When the first shock fell upon him, Twemlow twice skipped
back in his neat little shoes and his neat little silk stockings of
a bygone fashion, as if impelled to leap over a sofa behind him;
but the large man closed with him and proved too
strong.'Let me,' says the large man, trying to attract the attention
of his wife in the distance, 'have the pleasure of presenting Mrs
Podsnap to her host. She will be,' in his fatal freshness he seems
to find perpetual verdure and eternal youth in the phrase, 'she
will be so glad of the opportunity, I am sure!'In the meantime, Mrs Podsnap, unable to originate a mistake
on her own account, because Mrs Veneering is the only other lady
there, does her best in the way of handsomely supporting her
husband's, by looking towards Mr Twemlow with a plaintive
countenance and remarking to Mrs Veneering in a feeling manner,
firstly, that she fears he has been rather bilious of late, and,
secondly, that the baby is already very like him.It is questionable whether any man quite relishes being
mistaken for any other man; but, Mr Veneering having this very
evening set up the shirt-front of the young Antinous in new worked
cambric just come home, is not at all complimented by being
supposed to be Twemlow, who is dry and weazen and some thirty years
older. Mrs Veneering equally resents the imputation of being the
wife of Twemlow. As to Twemlow, he is so sensible of being a much
better bred man than Veneering, that he considers the large man an
offensive ass.In this complicated dilemma, Mr Veneering approaches the
large man with extended hand and, smilingly assures that
incorrigible personage that he is delighted to see him: who in his
fatal freshness instantly replies:'Thank you. I am ashamed to say that I cannot at this moment
recall where we met, but I am so glad of this opportunity, I am
sure!'Then pouncing upon Twemlow, who holds back with all his
feeble might, he is haling him off to present him, as Veneering, to
Mrs Podsnap, when the arrival of more guests unravels the mistake.
Whereupon, having re-shaken hands with Veneering as Veneering, he
re-shakes hands with Twemlow as Twemlow, and winds it all up to his
own perfect satisfaction by saying to the last-named, 'Ridiculous
opportunity—but so glad of it, I am sure!'Now, Twemlow having undergone this terrific experience,
having likewise noted the fusion of Boots in Brewer and Brewer in
Boots, and having further observed that of the remaining seven
guests four discrete characters enter with wandering eyes and
wholly declined to commit themselves as to which is Veneering,
until Veneering has them in his grasp;—Twemlow having profited by
these studies, finds his brain wholesomely hardening as he
approaches the conclusion that he really is Veneering's oldest
friend, when his brain softens again and all is lost, through his
eyes encountering Veneering and the large man linked together as
twin brothers in the back drawing-room near the conservatory door,
and through his ears informing him in the tones of Mrs Veneering
that the same large man is to be baby's godfather.'Dinner is on the table!'Thus the melancholy retainer, as who should say, 'Come down
and be poisoned, ye unhappy children of men!'Twemlow, having no lady assigned him, goes down in the rear,
with his hand to his forehead. Boots and Brewer, thinking him
indisposed, whisper, 'Man faint. Had no lunch.' But he is only
stunned by the unvanquishable difficulty of his
existence.Revived by soup, Twemlow discourses mildly of the Court
Circular with Boots and Brewer. Is appealed to, at the fish stage
of the banquet, by Veneering, on the disputed question whether his
cousin Lord Snigsworth is in or out of town? Gives it that his
cousin is out of town. 'At Snigsworthy Park?' Veneering inquires.
'At Snigsworthy,' Twemlow rejoins. Boots and Brewer regard this as
a man to be cultivated; and Veneering is clear that he is a
remunerative article. Meantime the retainer goes round, like a
gloomy Analytical Chemist: always seeming to say, after 'Chablis,
sir?'—'You wouldn't if you knew what it's made of.'The great looking-glass above the sideboard, reflects the
table and the company. Reflects the new Veneering crest, in gold
and eke in silver, frosted and also thawed, a camel of all work.
The Heralds' College found out a Crusading ancestor for Veneering
who bore a camel on his shield (or might have done it if he had
thought of it), and a caravan of camels take charge of the fruits
and flowers and candles, and kneel down be loaded with the salt.
Reflects Veneering; forty, wavy-haired, dark, tending to
corpulence, sly, mysterious, filmy—a kind of sufficiently
well-looking veiled-prophet, not prophesying. Reflects Mrs
Veneering; fair, aquiline-nosed and fingered, not so much light
hair as she might have, gorgeous in raiment and jewels,
enthusiastic, propitiatory, conscious that a corner of her
husband's veil is over herself. Reflects Podsnap; prosperously
feeding, two little light-coloured wiry wings, one on either side
of his else bald head, looking as like his hairbrushes as his hair,
dissolving view of red beads on his forehead, large allowance of
crumpled shirt-collar up behind. Reflects Mrs Podsnap; fine woman
for Professor Owen, quantity of bone, neck and nostrils like a
rocking-horse, hard features, majestic head-dress in which Podsnap
has hung golden offerings. Reflects Twemlow; grey, dry, polite,
susceptible to east wind, First-Gentleman-in-Europe collar and
cravat, cheeks drawn in as if he had made a great effort to retire
into himself some years ago, and had got so far and had never got
any farther. Reflects mature young lady; raven locks, and
complexion that lights up well when well powdered—as it is—carrying
on considerably in the captivation of mature young gentleman; with
too much nose in his face, too much ginger in his whiskers, too
much torso in his waistcoat, too much sparkle in his studs, his
eyes, his buttons, his talk, and his teeth. Reflects charming old
Lady Tippins on Veneering's right; with an immense obtuse drab
oblong face, like a face in a tablespoon, and a dyed Long Walk up
the top of her head, as a convenient public approach to the bunch
of false hair behind, pleased to patronize Mrs Veneering opposite,
who is pleased to be patronized. Reflects a certain 'Mortimer',
another of Veneering's oldest friends; who never was in the house
before, and appears not to want to come again, who sits
disconsolate on Mrs Veneering's left, and who was inveigled by Lady
Tippins (a friend of his boyhood) to come to these people's and
talk, and who won't talk. Reflects Eugene, friend of Mortimer;
buried alive in the back of his chair, behind a shoulder—with a
powder-epaulette on it—of the mature young lady, and gloomily
resorting to the champagne chalice whenever proffered by the
Analytical Chemist. Lastly, the looking-glass reflects Boots and
Brewer, and two other stuffed Buffers interposed between the rest
of the company and possible accidents.The Veneering dinners are excellent dinners—or new people
wouldn't come—and all goes well. Notably, Lady Tippins has made a
series of experiments on her digestive functions, so extremely
complicated and daring, that if they could be published with their
results it might benefit the human race. Having taken in provisions
from all parts of the world, this hardy old cruiser has last
touched at the North Pole, when, as the ice-plates are being
removed, the following words fall from her:'I assure you, my dear Veneering—'(Poor Twemlow's hand approaches his forehead, for it would
seem now, that Lady Tippins is going to be the oldest
friend.)'I assure you, my dear Veneering, that it is the oddest
affair! Like the advertising people, I don't ask you to trust me,
without offering a respectable reference. Mortimer there, is my
reference, and knows all about it.'Mortimer raises his drooping eyelids, and slightly opens his
mouth. But a faint smile, expressive of 'What's the use!' passes
over his face, and he drops his eyelids and shuts his
mouth.'Now, Mortimer,' says Lady Tippins, rapping the sticks of her
closed green fan upon the knuckles of her left hand—which is
particularly rich in knuckles, 'I insist upon your telling all that
is to be told about the man from Jamaica.''Give you my honour I never heard of any man from Jamaica,
except the man who was a brother,' replies Mortimer.'Tobago, then.''Nor yet from Tobago.''Except,' Eugene strikes in: so unexpectedly that the mature
young lady, who has forgotten all about him, with a start takes the
epaulette out of his way: 'except our friend who long lived on
rice-pudding and isinglass, till at length to his something or
other, his physician said something else, and a leg of mutton
somehow ended in daygo.'A reviving impression goes round the table that Eugene is
coming out. An unfulfilled impression, for he goes in
again.'Now, my dear Mrs Veneering,' quoth Lady Tippins, I appeal to
you whether this is not the basest conduct ever known in this
world? I carry my lovers about, two or three at a time, on
condition that they are very obedient and devoted; and here is my
oldest lover-in-chief, the head of all my slaves, throwing off his
allegiance before company! And here is another of my lovers, a
rough Cymon at present certainly, but of whom I had most hopeful
expectations as to his turning out well in course of time,
pretending that he can't remember his nursery rhymes! On purpose to
annoy me, for he knows how I doat upon them!'A grisly little fiction concerning her lovers is Lady
Tippins's point. She is always attended by a lover or two, and she
keeps a little list of her lovers, and she is always booking a new
lover, or striking out an old lover, or putting a lover in her
black list, or promoting a lover to her blue list, or adding up her
lovers, or otherwise posting her book. Mrs Veneering is charmed by
the humour, and so is Veneering. Perhaps it is enhanced by a
certain yellow play in Lady Tippins's throat, like the legs of
scratching poultry.'I banish the false wretch from this moment, and I strike him
out of my Cupidon (my name for my Ledger, my dear,) this very
night. But I am resolved to have the account of the man from
Somewhere, and I beg you to elicit it for me, my love,' to Mrs
Veneering, 'as I have lost my own influence. Oh, you perjured man!'
This to Mortimer, with a rattle of her fan.'We are all very much interested in the man from Somewhere,'
Veneering observes.Then the four Buffers, taking heart of grace all four at
once, say:'Deeply interested!''Quite excited!''Dramatic!''Man from Nowhere, perhaps!'And then Mrs Veneering—for the Lady Tippins's winning wiles
are contagious—folds her hands in the manner of a supplicating
child, turns to her left neighbour, and says, 'Tease! Pay! Man from
Tumwhere!' At which the four Buffers, again mysteriously moved all
four at once, explain, 'You can't resist!''Upon my life,' says Mortimer languidly, 'I find it immensely
embarrassing to have the eyes of Europe upon me to this extent, and
my only consolation is that you will all of you execrate Lady
Tippins in your secret hearts when you find, as you inevitably
will, the man from Somewhere a bore. Sorry to destroy romance by
fixing him with a local habitation, but he comes from the place,
the name of which escapes me, but will suggest itself to everybody
else here, where they make the wine.'Eugene suggests 'Day and Martin's.''No, not that place,' returns the unmoved Mortimer, 'that's
where they make the Port. My man comes from the country where they
make the Cape Wine. But look here, old fellow; its not at all
statistical and it's rather odd.'It is always noticeable at the table of the Veneerings, that
no man troubles himself much about the Veneerings themselves, and
that any one who has anything to tell, generally tells it to
anybody else in preference.'The man,' Mortimer goes on, addressing Eugene, 'whose name
is Harmon, was only son of a tremendous old rascal who made his
money by Dust.''Red velveteens and a bell?' the gloomy Eugene
inquires.'And a ladder and basket if you like. By which means, or by
others, he grew rich as a Dust Contractor, and lived in a hollow in
a hilly country entirely composed of Dust. On his own small estate
the growling old vagabond threw up his own mountain range, like an
old volcano, and its geological formation was Dust. Coal-dust,
vegetable-dust, bone-dust, crockery dust, rough dust and sifted
dust,—all manner of Dust.'A passing remembrance of Mrs Veneering, here induces Mortimer
to address his next half-dozen words to her; after which he wanders
away again, tries Twemlow and finds he doesn't answer, ultimately
takes up with the Buffers who receive him
enthusiastically.'The moral being—I believe that's the right expression—of
this exemplary person, derived its highest gratification from
anathematizing his nearest relations and turning them out of doors.
Having begun (as was natural) by rendering these attentions to the
wife of his bosom, he next found himself at leisure to bestow a
similar recognition on the claims of his daughter. He chose a
husband for her, entirely to his own satisfaction and not in the
least to hers, and proceeded to settle upon her, as her marriage
portion, I don't know how much Dust, but something immense. At this
stage of the affair the poor girl respectfully intimated that she
was secretly engaged to that popular character whom the novelists
and versifiers call Another, and that such a marriage would make
Dust of her heart and Dust of her life—in short, would set her up,
on a very extensive scale, in her father's business. Immediately,
the venerable parent—on a cold winter's night, it is
said—anathematized and turned her out.'Here, the Analytical Chemist (who has evidently formed a very
low opinion of Mortimer's story) concedes a little claret to the
Buffers; who, again mysteriously moved all four at once, screw it
slowly into themselves with a peculiar twist of enjoyment, as they
cry in chorus, 'Pray go on.''The pecuniary resources of Another were, as they usually
are, of a very limited nature. I believe I am not using too strong
an expression when I say that Another was hard up. However, he
married the young lady, and they lived in a humble dwelling,
probably possessing a porch ornamented with honeysuckle and
woodbine twining, until she died. I must refer you to the Registrar
of the District in which the humble dwelling was situated, for the
certified cause of death; but early sorrow and anxiety may have had
to do with it, though they may not appear in the ruled pages and
printed forms. Indisputably this was the case with Another, for he
was so cut up by the loss of his young wife that if he outlived her
a year it was as much as he did.'There is that in the indolent Mortimer, which seems to hint
that if good society might on any account allow itself to be
impressible, he, one of good society, might have the weakness to be
impressed by what he here relates. It is hidden with great pains,
but it is in him. The gloomy Eugene too, is not without some
kindred touch; for, when that appalling Lady Tippins declares that
if Another had survived, he should have gone down at the head of
her list of lovers—and also when the mature young lady shrugs her
epaulettes, and laughs at some private and confidential comment
from the mature young gentleman—his gloom deepens to that degree
that he trifles quite ferociously with his
dessert-knife.Mortimer proceeds.'We must now return, as novelists say, and as we all wish
they wouldn't, to the man from Somewhere. Being a boy of fourteen,
cheaply educated at Brussels when his sister's expulsion befell, it
was some little time before he heard of it—probably from herself,
for the mother was dead; but that I don't know. Instantly, he
absconded, and came over here. He must have been a boy of spirit
and resource, to get here on a stopped allowance of five sous a
week; but he did it somehow, and he burst in on his father, and
pleaded his sister's cause. Venerable parent promptly resorts to
anathematization, and turns him out. Shocked and terrified boy
takes flight, seeks his fortune, gets aboard ship, ultimately turns
up on dry land among the Cape wine: small proprietor, farmer,
grower—whatever you like to call it.'At this juncture, shuffling is heard in the hall, and tapping
is heard at the dining-room door. Analytical Chemist goes to the
door, confers angrily with unseen tapper, appears to become
mollified by descrying reason in the tapping, and goes
out.'So he was discovered, only the other day, after having been
expatriated about fourteen years.'A Buffer, suddenly astounding the other three, by detaching
himself, and asserting individuality, inquires: 'How discovered,
and why?''Ah! To be sure. Thank you for reminding me. Venerable parent
dies.'Same Buffer, emboldened by success, says:
'When?''The other day. Ten or twelve months ago.'Same Buffer inquires with smartness, 'What of?' But herein
perishes a melancholy example; being regarded by the three other
Buffers with a stony stare, and attracting no further attention
from any mortal.'Venerable parent,' Mortimer repeats with a passing
remembrance that there is a Veneering at table, and for the first
time addressing him—'dies.'The gratified Veneering repeats, gravely, 'dies'; and folds
his arms, and composes his brow to hear it out in a judicial
manner, when he finds himself again deserted in the bleak
world.'His will is found,' said Mortimer, catching Mrs Podsnap's
rocking-horse's eye. 'It is dated very soon after the son's flight.
It leaves the lowest of the range of dust-mountains, with some sort
of a dwelling-house at its foot, to an old servant who is sole
executor, and all the rest of the property—which is very
considerable—to the son. He directs himself to be buried with
certain eccentric ceremonies and precautions against his coming to
life, with which I need not bore you, and that's all—except—' and
this ends the story.The Analytical Chemist returning, everybody looks at him. Not
because anybody wants to see him, but because of that subtle
influence in nature which impels humanity to embrace the slightest
opportunity of looking at anything, rather than the person who
addresses it.'—Except that the son's inheriting is made conditional on his
marrying a girl, who at the date of the will, was a child of four
or five years old, and who is now a marriageable young woman.
Advertisement and inquiry discovered the son in the man from
Somewhere, and at the present moment, he is on his way home from
there—no doubt, in a state of great astonishment—to succeed to a
very large fortune, and to take a wife.'Mrs Podsnap inquires whether the young person is a young
person of personal charms? Mortimer is unable to
report.Mr Podsnap inquires what would become of the very large
fortune, in the event of the marriage condition not being
fulfilled? Mortimer replies, that by special testamentary clause it
would then go to the old servant above mentioned, passing over and
excluding the son; also, that if the son had not been living, the
same old servant would have been sole residuary
legatee.Mrs Veneering has just succeeded in waking Lady Tippins from
a snore, by dexterously shunting a train of plates and dishes at
her knuckles across the table; when everybody but Mortimer himself
becomes aware that the Analytical Chemist is, in a ghostly manner,
offering him a folded paper. Curiosity detains Mrs Veneering a few
moments.Mortimer, in spite of all the arts of the chemist, placidly
refreshes himself with a glass of Madeira, and remains unconscious
of the Document which engrosses the general attention, until Lady
Tippins (who has a habit of waking totally insensible), having
remembered where she is, and recovered a perception of surrounding
objects, says: 'Falser man than Don Juan; why don't you take the
note from the commendatore?' Upon which, the chemist advances it
under the nose of Mortimer, who looks round at him, and
says:'What's this?'Analytical Chemist bends and whispers.'Who?' Says
Mortimer.Analytical Chemist again bends and whispers.Mortimer stares at him, and unfolds the paper. Reads it,
reads it twice, turns it over to look at the blank outside, reads
it a third time.'This arrives in an extraordinarily opportune manner,' says
Mortimer then, looking with an altered face round the table: 'this
is the conclusion of the story of the identical man.''Already married?' one guesses.'Declines to marry?' another guesses.'Codicil among the dust?' another guesses.'Why, no,' says Mortimer; 'remarkable thing, you are all
wrong. The story is completer and rather more exciting than I
supposed. Man's drowned!'
Chapter 3
ANOTHER MANAs the disappearing skirts of the ladies ascended the
Veneering staircase, Mortimer, following them forth from the
dining-room, turned into a library of bran-new books, in bran-new
bindings liberally gilded, and requested to see the messenger who
had brought the paper. He was a boy of about fifteen. Mortimer
looked at the boy, and the boy looked at the bran-new pilgrims on
the wall, going to Canterbury in more gold frame than procession,
and more carving than country.'Whose writing is this?''Mine, sir.''Who told you to write it?''My father, Jesse Hexam.''Is it he who found the body?''Yes, sir.''What is your father?'The boy hesitated, looked reproachfully at the pilgrims as if
they had involved him in a little difficulty, then said, folding a
plait in the right leg of his trousers, 'He gets his living
along-shore.''Is it far?''Is which far?' asked the boy, upon his guard, and again upon
the road to Canterbury.'To your father's?''It's a goodish stretch, sir. I come up in a cab, and the
cab's waiting to be paid. We could go back in it before you paid
it, if you liked. I went first to your office, according to the
direction of the papers found in the pockets, and there I see
nobody but a chap of about my age who sent me on
here.'There was a curious mixture in the boy, of uncompleted
savagery, and uncompleted civilization. His voice was hoarse and
coarse, and his face was coarse, and his stunted figure was coarse;
but he was cleaner than other boys of his type; and his writing,
though large and round, was good; and he glanced at the backs of
the books, with an awakened curiosity that went below the binding.
No one who can read, ever looks at a book, even unopened on a
shelf, like one who cannot.'Were any means taken, do you know, boy, to ascertain if it
was possible to restore life?' Mortimer inquired, as he sought for
his hat.'You wouldn't ask, sir, if you knew his state. Pharaoh's
multitude that were drowned in the Red Sea, ain't more beyond
restoring to life. If Lazarus was only half as far gone, that was
the greatest of all the miracles.''Halloa!' cried Mortimer, turning round with his hat upon his
head, 'you seem to be at home in the Red Sea, my young
friend?''Read of it with teacher at the school,' said the
boy.'And Lazarus?''Yes, and him too. But don't you tell my father! We should
have no peace in our place, if that got touched upon. It's my
sister's contriving.''You seem to have a good sister.''She ain't half bad,' said the boy; 'but if she knows her
letters it's the most she does—and them I learned
her.'The gloomy Eugene, with his hands in his pockets, had
strolled in and assisted at the latter part of the dialogue; when
the boy spoke these words slightingly of his sister, he took him
roughly enough by the chin, and turned up his face to look at
it.'Well, I'm sure, sir!' said the boy, resisting; 'I hope
you'll know me again.'Eugene vouchsafed no answer; but made the proposal to
Mortimer, 'I'll go with you, if you like?' So, they all three went
away together in the vehicle that had brought the boy; the two
friends (once boys together at a public school) inside, smoking
cigars; the messenger on the box beside the driver.'Let me see,' said Mortimer, as they went along; 'I have
been, Eugene, upon the honourable roll of solicitors of the High
Court of Chancery, and attorneys at Common Law, five years;
and—except gratuitously taking instructions, on an average once a
fortnight, for the will of Lady Tippins who has nothing to leave—I
have had no scrap of business but this romantic
business.''And I,' said Eugene, 'have been "called" seven years, and
have had no business at all, and never shall have any. And if I
had, I shouldn't know how to do it.''I am far from being clear as to the last particular,'
returned Mortimer, with great composure, 'that I have much
advantage over you.''I hate,' said Eugene, putting his legs up on the opposite
seat, 'I hate my profession.''Shall I incommode you, if I put mine up too?' returned
Mortimer. 'Thank you. I hate mine.''It was forced upon me,' said the gloomy Eugene, 'because it
was understood that we wanted a barrister in the family. We have
got a precious one.''It was forced upon me,' said Mortimer, 'because it was
understood that we wanted a solicitor in the family. And we have
got a precious one.''There are four of us, with our names painted on a door-post
in right of one black hole called a set of chambers,' said Eugene;
'and each of us has the fourth of a clerk—Cassim Baba, in the
robber's cave—and Cassim is the only respectable member of the
party.''I am one by myself, one,' said Mortimer, 'high up an awful
staircase commanding a burial-ground, and I have a whole clerk to
myself, and he has nothing to do but look at the burial-ground, and
what he will turn out when arrived at maturity, I cannot conceive.
Whether, in that shabby rook's nest, he is always plotting wisdom,
or plotting murder; whether he will grow up, after so much solitary
brooding, to enlighten his fellow-creatures, or to poison them; is
the only speck of interest that presents itself to my professional
view. Will you give me a light? Thank you.''Then idiots talk,' said Eugene, leaning back, folding his
arms, smoking with his eyes shut, and speaking slightly through his
nose, 'of Energy. If there is a word in the dictionary under any
letter from A to Z that I abominate, it is energy. It is such a
conventional superstition, such parrot gabble! What the deuce! Am I
to rush out into the street, collar the first man of a wealthy
appearance that I meet, shake him, and say, "Go to law upon the
spot, you dog, and retain me, or I'll be the death of you"? Yet
that would be energy.''Precisely my view of the case, Eugene. But show me a good
opportunity, show me something really worth being energetic about,
and I'll show you energy.''And so will I,' said Eugene.And it is likely enough that ten thousand other young men,
within the limits of the London Post-office town delivery, made the
same hopeful remark in the course of the same evening.The wheels rolled on, and rolled down by the Monument and by
the Tower, and by the Docks; down by Ratcliffe, and by Rotherhithe;
down by where accumulated scum of humanity seemed to be washed from
higher grounds, like so much moral sewage, and to be pausing until
its own weight forced it over the bank and sunk it in the river. In
and out among vessels that seemed to have got ashore, and houses
that seemed to have got afloat—among bow-splits staring into
windows, and windows staring into ships—the wheels rolled on, until
they stopped at a dark corner, river-washed and otherwise not
washed at all, where the boy alighted and opened the
door.'You must walk the rest, sir; it's not many yards.' He spoke
in the singular number, to the express exclusion of
Eugene.'This is a confoundedly out-of-the-way place,' said Mortimer,
slipping over the stones and refuse on the shore, as the boy turned
the corner sharp.'Here's my father's, sir; where the light is.'The low building had the look of having once been a mill.
There was a rotten wart of wood upon its forehead that seemed to
indicate where the sails had been, but the whole was very
indistinctly seen in the obscurity of the night. The boy lifted the
latch of the door, and they passed at once into a low circular
room, where a man stood before a red fire, looking down into it,
and a girl sat engaged in needlework. The fire was in a rusty
brazier, not fitted to the hearth; and a common lamp, shaped like a
hyacinth-root, smoked and flared in the neck of a stone bottle on
the table. There was a wooden bunk or berth in a corner, and in
another corner a wooden stair leading above—so clumsy and steep
that it was little better than a ladder. Two or three old sculls
and oars stood against the wall, and against another part of the
wall was a small dresser, making a spare show of the commonest
articles of crockery and cooking-vessels. The roof of the room was
not plastered, but was formed of the flooring of the room above.
This, being very old, knotted, seamed, and beamed, gave a lowering
aspect to the chamber; and roof, and walls, and floor, alike
abounding in old smears of flour, red-lead (or some such stain
which it had probably acquired in warehousing), and damp, alike had
a look of decomposition.'The gentleman, father.'The figure at the red fire turned, raised its ruffled head,
and looked like a bird of prey.'You're Mortimer Lightwood Esquire; are you,
sir?''Mortimer Lightwood is my name. What you found,' said
Mortimer, glancing rather shrinkingly towards the bunk; 'is it
here?'''Tain't not to say here, but it's close by. I do everything
reg'lar. I've giv' notice of the circumstarnce to the police, and
the police have took possession of it. No time ain't been lost, on
any hand. The police have put into print already, and here's what
the print says of it.'Taking up the bottle with the lamp in it, he held it near a
paper on the wall, with the police heading, BODY FOUND. The two
friends read the handbill as it stuck against the wall, and Gaffer
read them as he held the light.'Only papers on the unfortunate man, I see,' said Lightwood,
glancing from the description of what was found, to the
finder.'Only papers.'Here the girl arose with her work in her hand, and went out
at the door.'No money,' pursued Mortimer; 'but threepence in one of the
skirt-pockets.''Three. Penny. Pieces,' said Gaffer Hexam, in as many
sentences.'The trousers pockets empty, and turned inside
out.'Gaffer Hexam nodded. 'But that's common. Whether it's the
wash of the tide or no, I can't say. Now, here,' moving the light
to another similar placard, 'hispockets was found empty, and turned inside out. And here,'
moving the light to another, 'herpocket was found empty, and turned inside out. And so was
this one's. And so was that one's. I can't read, nor I don't want
to it, for I know 'em by their places on the wall. This one was a
sailor, with two anchors and a flag and G. F. T. on his arm. Look
and see if he warn't.''Quite right.''This one was the young woman in grey boots, and her linen
marked with a cross. Look and see if she warn't.''Quite right.''This is him as had a nasty cut over the eye. This is them
two young sisters what tied themselves together with a handkecher.
This the drunken old chap, in a pair of list slippers and a
nightcap, wot had offered—it afterwards come out—to make a hole in
the water for a quartern of rum stood aforehand, and kept to his
word for the first and last time in his life. They pretty well
papers the room, you see; but I know 'em all. I'm scholar
enough!'He waved the light over the whole, as if to typify the light
of his scholarly intelligence, and then put it down on the table
and stood behind it looking intently at his visitors. He had the
special peculiarity of some birds of prey, that when he knitted his
brow, his ruffled crest stood highest.'You did not find all these yourself; did you?' asked
Eugene.To which the bird of prey slowly rejoined, 'And what
mightyourname be,
now?''This is my friend,' Mortimer Lightwood interposed; 'Mr
Eugene Wrayburn.''Mr Eugene Wrayburn, is it? And what might Mr Eugene Wrayburn
have asked of me?''I asked you, simply, if you found all these
yourself?''I answer you, simply, most on 'em.''Do you suppose there has been much violence and robbery,
beforehand, among these cases?''I don't suppose at all about it,' returned Gaffer. 'I ain't
one of the supposing sort. If you'd got your living to haul out of
the river every day of your life, you mightn't be much given to
supposing. Am I to show the way?'As he opened the door, in pursuance of a nod from Lightwood,
an extremely pale and disturbed face appeared in the doorway—the
face of a man much agitated.'A body missing?' asked Gaffer Hexam, stopping short; 'or a
body found? Which?''I am lost!' replied the man, in a hurried and an eager
manner.'Lost?''I—I—am a stranger, and don't know the way. I—I—want to find
the place where I can see what is described here. It is possible I
may know it.' He was panting, and could hardly speak; but, he
showed a copy of the newly-printed bill that was still wet upon the
wall. Perhaps its newness, or perhaps the accuracy of his
observation of its general look, guided Gaffer to a ready
conclusion.'This gentleman, Mr Lightwood, is on that
business.''Mr Lightwood?'During a pause, Mortimer and the stranger confronted each
other. Neither knew the other.'I think, sir,' said Mortimer, breaking the awkward silence
with his airy self-possession, 'that you did me the honour to
mention my name?''I repeated it, after this man.''You said you were a stranger in London?''An utter stranger.''Are you seeking a Mr Harmon?''No.''Then I believe I can assure you that you are on a fruitless
errand, and will not find what you fear to find. Will you come with
us?'A little winding through some muddy alleys that might have
been deposited by the last ill-savoured tide, brought them to the
wicket-gate and bright lamp of a Police Station; where they found
the Night-Inspector, with a pen and ink, and ruler, posting up his
books in a whitewashed office, as studiously as if he were in a
monastery on top of a mountain, and no howling fury of a drunken
woman were banging herself against a cell-door in the back-yard at
his elbow. With the same air of a recluse much given to study, he
desisted from his books to bestow a distrustful nod of recognition
upon Gaffer, plainly importing, 'Ah! we know all aboutyou, and you'll overdo it some day;'
and to inform Mr Mortimer Lightwood and friends, that he would
attend them immediately. Then, he finished ruling the work he had
in hand (it might have been illuminating a missal, he was so calm),
in a very neat and methodical manner, showing not the slightest
consciousness of the woman who was banging herself with increased
violence, and shrieking most terrifically for some other woman's
liver.'A bull's-eye,' said the Night-Inspector, taking up his keys.
Which a deferential satellite produced. 'Now,
gentlemen.'With one of his keys, he opened a cool grot at the end of the
yard, and they all went in. They quickly came out again, no one
speaking but Eugene: who remarked to Mortimer, in a whisper,
'Notmuchworse than Lady
Tippins.'So, back to the whitewashed library of the monastery—with
that liver still in shrieking requisition, as it had been loudly,
while they looked at the silent sight they came to see—and there
through the merits of the case as summed up by the Abbot. No clue
to how body came into river. Very often was no clue. Too late to
know for certain, whether injuries received before or after death;
one excellent surgical opinion said, before; other excellent
surgical opinion said, after. Steward of ship in which gentleman
came home passenger, had been round to view, and could swear to
identity. Likewise could swear to clothes. And then, you see, you
had the papers, too. How was it he had totally disappeared on
leaving ship, 'till found in river? Well! Probably had been upon
some little game. Probably thought it a harmless game, wasn't up to
things, and it turned out a fatal game. Inquest to-morrow, and no
doubt open verdict.'It appears to have knocked your friend over—knocked him
completely off his legs,' Mr Inspector remarked, when he had
finished his summing up. 'It has given him a bad turn to be sure!'
This was said in a very low voice, and with a searching look (not
the first he had cast) at the stranger.Mr Lightwood explained that it was no friend of
his.'Indeed?' said Mr Inspector, with an attentive ear; 'where
did you pick him up?'Mr Lightwood explained further.Mr Inspector had delivered his summing up, and had added
these words, with his elbows leaning on his desk, and the fingers
and thumb of his right hand, fitting themselves to the fingers and
thumb of his left. Mr Inspector moved nothing but his eyes, as he
now added, raising his voice:'Turned you faint, sir! Seems you're not accustomed to this
kind of work?'The stranger, who was leaning against the chimneypiece with
drooping head, looked round and answered, 'No. It's a horrible
sight!''You expected to identify, I am told, sir?''Yes.''Haveyou
identified?''No. It's a horrible sight. O! a horrible, horrible
sight!''Who did you think it might have been?' asked Mr Inspector.
'Give us a description, sir. Perhaps we can help you.''No, no,' said the stranger; 'it would be quite useless.
Good-night.'Mr Inspector had not moved, and had given no order; but, the
satellite slipped his back against the wicket, and laid his left
arm along the top of it, and with his right hand turned the
bull's-eye he had taken from his chief—in quite a casual
manner—towards the stranger.'You missed a friend, you know; or you missed a foe, you
know; or you wouldn't have come here, you know. Well, then; ain't
it reasonable to ask, who was it?' Thus, Mr Inspector.'You must excuse my telling you. No class of man can
understand better than you, that families may not choose to publish
their disagreements and misfortunes, except on the last necessity.
I do not dispute that you discharge your duty in asking me the
question; you will not dispute my right to withhold the answer.
Good-night.'Again he turned towards the wicket, where the satellite, with
his eye upon his chief, remained a dumb statue.'At least,' said Mr Inspector, 'you will not object to leave
me your card, sir?''I should not object, if I had one; but I have not.' He
reddened and was much confused as he gave the answer.'At least,' said Mr Inspector, with no change of voice or
manner, 'you will not object to write down your name and
address?''Not at all.'Mr Inspector dipped a pen in his inkstand, and deftly laid it
on a piece of paper close beside him; then resumed his former
attitude. The stranger stepped up to the desk, and wrote in a
rather tremulous hand—Mr Inspector taking sidelong note of every
hair of his head when it was bent down for the purpose—'Mr Julius
Handford, Exchequer Coffee House, Palace Yard,
Westminster.''Staying there, I presume, sir?''Staying there.''Consequently, from the country?''Eh? Yes—from the country.''Good-night, sir.'The satellite removed his arm and opened the wicket, and Mr
Julius Handford went out.'Reserve!' said Mr Inspector. 'Take care of this piece of
paper, keep him in view without giving offence, ascertain that
heisstaying there, and find
out anything you can about him.'The satellite was gone; and Mr Inspector, becoming once again
the quiet Abbot of that Monastery, dipped his pen in his ink and
resumed his books. The two friends who had watched him, more amused
by the professional manner than suspicious of Mr Julius Handford,
inquired before taking their departure too whether he believed
there was anything that really looked bad here?The Abbot replied with reticence, couldn't say. If a murder,
anybody might have done it. Burglary or pocket-picking wanted
'prenticeship. Not so, murder. We were all of us up to that. Had
seen scores of people come to identify, and never saw one person
struck in that particular way. Might, however, have been Stomach
and not Mind. If so, rum stomach. But to be sure there were rum
everythings. Pity there was not a word of truth in that
superstition about bodies bleeding when touched by the hand of the
right person; you never got a sign out of bodies. You got row
enough out of such as her—she was good for all night now (referring
here to the banging demands for the liver), 'but you got nothing
out of bodies if it was ever so.'There being nothing more to be done until the Inquest was
held next day, the friends went away together, and Gaffer Hexam and
his son went their separate way. But, arriving at the last corner,
Gaffer bade his boy go home while he turned into a red-curtained
tavern, that stood dropsically bulging over the causeway, 'for a
half-a-pint.'The boy lifted the latch he had lifted before, and found his
sister again seated before the fire at her work. Who raised her
head upon his coming in and asking:'Where did you go, Liz?''I went out in the dark.''There was no necessity for that. It was all right
enough.''One of the gentlemen, the one who didn't speak while I was
there, looked hard at me. And I was afraid he might know what my
face meant. But there! Don't mind me, Charley! I was all in a
tremble of another sort when you owned to father you could write a
little.''Ah! But I made believe I wrote so badly, as that it was odds
if any one could read it. And when I wrote slowest and smeared but
with my finger most, father was best pleased, as he stood looking
over me.'The girl put aside her work, and drawing her seat close to
his seat by the fire, laid her arm gently on his
shoulder.'You'll make the most of your time, Charley; won't
you?''Won't I? Come! I like that. Don't I?''Yes, Charley, yes. You work hard at your learning, I know.
And I work a little, Charley, and plan and contrive a little (wake
out of my sleep contriving sometimes), how to get together a
shilling now, and a shilling then, that shall make father believe
you are beginning to earn a stray living along shore.''You are father's favourite, and can make him believe
anything.''I wish I could, Charley! For if I could make him believe
that learning was a good thing, and that we might lead better
lives, I should be a'most content to die.''Don't talk stuff about dying, Liz.'She placed her hands in one another on his shoulder, and
laying her rich brown cheek against them as she looked down at the
fire, went on thoughtfully:'Of an evening, Charley, when you are at the school, and
father's—''At the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters,' the boy struck in,
with a backward nod of his head towards the
public-house.'Yes. Then as I sit a-looking at the fire, I seem to see in
the burning coal—like where that glow is now—''That's gas, that is,' said the boy, 'coming out of a bit of
a forest that's been under the mud that was under the water in the
days of Noah's Ark. Look here! When I take the poker—so—and give it
a dig—''Don't disturb it, Charley, or it'll be all in a blaze. It's
that dull glow near it, coming and going, that I mean. When I look
at it of an evening, it comes like pictures to me,
Charley.''Show us a picture,' said the boy. 'Tell us where to
look.''Ah! It wants my eyes, Charley.''Cut away then, and tell us what your eyes make of
it.''Why, there are you and me, Charley, when you were quite a
baby that never knew a mother—''Don't go saying I never knew a mother,' interposed the boy,
'for I knew a little sister that was sister and mother
both.'The girl laughed delightedly, and her eyes filled with
pleasant tears, as he put both his arms round her waist and so held
her.'There are you and me, Charley, when father was away at work
and locked us out, for fear we should set ourselves afire or fall
out of window, sitting on the door-sill, sitting on other
door-steps, sitting on the bank of the river, wandering about to
get through the time. You are rather heavy to carry, Charley, and I
am often obliged to rest. Sometimes we are sleepy and fall asleep
together in a corner, sometimes we are very hungry, sometimes we
are a little frightened, but what is oftenest hard upon us is the
cold. You remember, Charley?''I remember,' said the boy, pressing her to him twice or
thrice, 'that I snuggled under a little shawl, and it was warm
there.'
