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