THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP


By Charles Dickens


Chapter 1

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 narrow 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 being always 
present to his senses, 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 toll at least) 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 heavier loads than they, remembering to have heard or read in 
some 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, overpowering even the unwholesome 
steams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky thrush, whose cage 
has hung outside a garret window all night long, half mad with joy! Poor 
bird! the only neighbouring thing at all akin to the other little captives, 
some of whom, shrinking from the hot hands of drunken purchasers, lie 
drooping on the path already, while others, soddened by close contact, 
await the time when they shall be watered and freshened up to please more 
sober company, and make old clerks who pass them on their road to business 
wonder what has filled their breasts with visions of the country.
But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The story I am 
about to relate, 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 tonight."
"Alone?" said I, in some surprise.
"Oh yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I have 
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 mine, as confidingly as if she had known me from her 
cradle, and we trudged away together: the little creature accommodating her 
pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to be 
protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a curious look 
at my face as if to make quite sure that I was not deceiving her, and that 
these glances (very sharp and keen they were too) seemed to increase her 
confidence at every repetition.
For my part, my curiosity and interest were, at least, equal to the 
child's; for child she certainly was, although I thought it probable 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.
"Somebody who is very kind to me, sir."
"And what have you been doing?"
"That, I must not tell," said the child.
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. 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. 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.
He was a little 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 recognise 
in his spare and slender form something of that delicate mould which I had 
noticed in the child. Their bright blue eyes were certainly alike, but his 
face was so deeply furrowed, and so very full of care, that here all 
resemblance ceased.
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 her 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 turned to me and begged 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; 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. 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 the 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 man 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 come 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, and I could not help 
smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and went to 
open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.
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.
"Did you find the house easily?"
"Why then, not over and above easy, master," said 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 fulness 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 doesn'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 man patting the child's cheek, "but, I say 
again, 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 tonight."
"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'd 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, enough for what you have done tonight, 
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 adviser?"
"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 tonight, 
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 quietly, "they are grandfather's."
"But he is not going out tonight."
"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. 
Regarding me with a troubled countenance, he 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 ensue if I turned my back 
upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street, brought me 
before the curiosity-dealer's once more. I crossed the road, and looked up 
at the house, to assure myself that the noise had not come from there. No, 
it was black, cold, and lifeless as before.
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 on 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 villainy 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, overpowered 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.
I sat down in my easychair, and falling back upon its ample cushions, 
pictured to myself the child in her bed: alone, unwatched, uncared for, 
(save by angels,) yet sleeping peacefully. So very young, so spiritual, so 
slight and fairylike a creature passing the long dull nights in such an 
uncongenial place - I could not dismiss it from my thoughts.
We are so much in the habit of allowing impressions to be made upon us by 
external objects, which should be produced by reflection alone, but which 
without such visible aids, often escape us, that I am not sure I should 
have been so thoroughly possessed by this one subject, but for the heaps of 
fantastic things I had seen huddled together in the curiosity-dealer's 
warehouse. These, crowding on my mind, in connection with the child, and 
gathering round her as it were, brought her condition palpably before me. I 
had her image, without any effort of imagination, surrounded and beset by 
everything that was foreign to its nature, and farthest removed from the 
sympathies of her sex and age. If these helps to my fancy had all been 
wanting, and I had been forced to imagine her in a common chamber, with 
nothing unusual or uncough in its appearance, it is very probable that I 
should have been less impressed with her strange and solitary state. As it 
was, she seemed to exist in a kind of allegory; and, having these shapes 
about her, claimed my interest so strongly, that (as I have already 
remarked) I could not dismiss her from my recollection, do what I would.
"It would be a curious speculation," said I, after some restless turns 
across and across the room, "to imagine her in her future life, holding her 
solitary way among a crowd of wild grotesque companions: the only pure, 
fresh, youthful object in the throng. It would be curious to find - "
I checked myself here, for the theme was carrying me along with it at a 
great pace, and I already saw before me a region on which I was little 
disposed to enter. I agreed with myself that this was idle musing, and 
resolved to go to bed, and court forgetfulness.
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 2

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 afternoon.
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 recognised 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 loud 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," he said, 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, 
nor 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 lounging 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 by."
"Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather," said the young fellow catching 
at the word, "nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do, is to keep an 
eye to their business and leave me to mine. There's a friend of mine 
waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to wait some time, I'll 
call him in, with your leave."
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 pretence of passing by 
accident - a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness, which after a 
great many frowns and jerks of the head, in resistance of the invitation, 
ultimately crossed the road and was brought into the shop.
"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 under tone.
"Sit down," repeated his companion.
Mr Swiveller complied, and looking about him with a propitiatory smile, 
observed that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and this week was a 
fine week for the dust; he also observed that whilst standing by the post 
at the street corner, he had observed a pig with a straw in his mouth 
issuing out of the tobacco-shop, from which appearance he augured that 
another fine week for the ducks was approaching, and that rain would 
certainly ensue. He furthermore took occasion to apologise 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," replied 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 down 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 the persons 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; whence 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 violence 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 the 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 blow 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 old 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 profligate 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 that they implied some mental struggle 
consequent upon the powerful effect of his address, for he poked his friend 
with his cane and whispered his conviction that he had administered "a 
clincher," and that he expected a commission on the profits. Discovering 
his mistake after a while, he appeared to grow rather sleepy and 
discontented, and had more than once suggested the propriety of an 
immediate departure, when the door opened, and the child herself appeared.


Chapter 3

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 
today 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 towards 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 on 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 watchword to the old min is - fork."
"Is what?" demanded Quilp.
"Is fork, Sir, fork," replied Mr Swiveller slapping his pocket. "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 ideas, 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, though 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 though, neighbour, 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 alone, 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 had been excited on the occasion of my first visit, it 
certainly was not diminished now.
Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needlework 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, careworn 
face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As he grew weaker and more feeble, 
what would become of this lonely little creature; poor protector as he was, 
say that he died - what would her fate be, 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 hast lived alone with me; of thy monotonous existence, knowing no 
companions of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the solitude in 
which thou hast 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 beset 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 back 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 to admit of his sitting down in the parlour, in 
the presence of an unknown gentleman - how, when he did sit 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 a 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 4

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 has been 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 
ascendancy as Mrs Quilp herself - a pretty little, mildspoken, 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 
neighbourhood 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 water-cresses.
Now, the ladies being together under these circumstances, it was extremely 
natural that the discourse should turn upon the propensity of mankind to 
tyrannise over the weaker sex, and the duty that devolved upon the weaker 
sex to resist that tyranny and assert their rights and dignity. It was 
natural for four reasons: firstly, because Mrs Quilp being a young woman 
and notoriously under the dominion of her husband ought to be excited to 
rebel; secondly, because Mrs Quilp's parent was known to be laudably 
shrewish in her disposition and inclined to resist male authority; thirdly, 
because each visitor wished to show for herself how superior she was in 
this respect to the generality of her sex; and fourthly, because the 
company being accustomed to scandalise each other in pairs, were deprived 
of their usual subject of conversation now that they were all assembled in 
close friendship, and had consequently no better employment than to attack 
the common enemy.
Moved by these considerations, a stout lady opened the proceedings by 
inquiring, with an air of great concern and sympathy, how Mr Quilp was; 
whereunto Mr Quilp's wife's mother replied sharply, "Oh! he was well enough 
- nothing much was ever the matter with him - and ill weeds were sure to 
thrive." All the ladies then sighed in concert, shook their heads gravely, 
and looked at Mrs Quilp as at a martyr.
"Ah!" said the spokeswoman, "I wish you'd give her a little of your advice, 
Mrs Jiniwin" - Mrs Quilp had been a Miss Jiniwin it should be observed - 
"nobody knows better than you, ma'am, what us women owe to ourselves."
"Owe indeed, ma'am!" replied Mrs Jiniwin. 'When my poor husband, her dear 
father, was alive, if he had ever ventur'd a cross word to me, I'd have -" 
the good old lady did not finish the sentence, but she twisted off the head 
of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed to imply that the action was 
in some degree a substitute for words. In this light it was clearly 
understood by the other party, who immediately replied with great 
approbation, "You quite enter into my feelings, ma'am, and it's jist what 
I'd do myself."
"But you have no call to do it," said Mrs Jiniwin. "Luckily for you, you 
have no more occasion to do it than I had."
"No woman need have, if she was true to herself," rejoined the stout lady.
"Do you hear that, Betsy?" said Mrs Jiniwin, in a warning voice. "How often 
have I said the very same words to you, and almost gone down on my knees 
when I spoke 'em!"
Poor Mrs Quilp, who had looked in a state of helplessness from one face of 
condolence to another, coloured, smiled, and shook her head doubtfully. 
This was the signal for a general clamour, which beginning in a low murmur 
gradually swelled into a great noise in which everybody spoke at once, and 
all said that she being a young woman had no right to set up her opinions 
against the experiences of those who knew so much better; that it was very 
wrong of her not to take the advice of people who had nothing at heart but 
her good; that it was next door to being downright ungrateful to conduct 
herself in that manner; that if she had no respect for herself she ought to 
have some for other women, all of whom she compromised by her meekness; and 
that if she had no respect for other women, the time would come when other 
women would have no respect for her; and she would be very sorry for that, 
they could tell her. Having dealt out these admonitions, the ladies fell to 
a more powerful assault than they had yet made upon the mixed tea, new 
bread, fresh butter, shrimps, and water-cresses, and said that their 
vexation was so great to see her going on like that, that they could hardly 
bring themselves to eat a single morsel.
"It's all very fine to talk," said Mrs Quilp with much simplicity, "but I 
know that if I was to die tomorrow, Quilp could marry anybody he pleased - 
now that he could, I know!"
There was quite a scream of indignation at this idea. Marry whom he 
pleased! They would like to see him dare to think of marrying any of them; 
they would like to see the faintest approach to such a thing. One lady (a 
widow) was quite certain she should stab him if he hinted at it.
"Very well," said Mrs Quilp, nodding her head, "As I said just now, it's 
very easy to talk, but I say again that I know - that I'm sure - Quilp has 
such a way with him when he likes, that the best-looking woman here 
couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free, and he chose to make 
love to her. Come!"
Everybody bridled up at this remark, as much as to say "I know you mean me. 
Let him try - that's all." And yet for some hidden reason they were all 
angry with the widow, and each lady whispered in her neighbour's ear that 
it was very plain the said widow thought herself the person referred to, 
and what a puss she was!
"Mother knows," said Mrs Quilp, "that what I say is quite correct, for she 
often said so before we were married. Didn't you say so, mother?"
This inquiry involved the respected lady in rather a delicate position, for 
she certainly had been an active party in making her daughter Mrs Quilp, 
and, besides, it was not supporting the family credit to encourage the idea 
that she had married a man whom nobody else would have. On the other hand, 
to exaggerate the captivating qualities of her son-in-law would be to 
weaken the cause of revolt, in which all her energies were deeply engaged. 
Beset by these opposing considerations, Mrs Jiniwin admitted the powers of 
insinuation, but denied the right to govern, and with a timely compliment 
to the stout lady brought back the discussion to the point from which it 
had strayed.
Oh! It's a sensible and proper thing indeed, what Mrs George has said!" 
exclaimed the old lady. "If women are only true to themselves! - But Betsy 
isn't, and more's the shame and pity."
"Before I'd let a man order me about as Quilp orders her," said Mrs George; 
"before I'd consent to stand in awe of a man as she does of him, I'd - I'd 
kill myself, and write a letter first to say he did it!"
This remark being loudly commended and approved of, another lady (from the 
Minories) put in her word:
"Mr Quilp may be a very nice man," said this lady, "and I suppose there's 
no doubt he is, because Mrs Quilp says he is, and Mrs Jiniwin says he is, 
and they ought to know, or nobody does. But still he is not quite a - what 
one calls a handsome man, nor quite a young man neither, which might be a 
little excuse for him if anything could be; whereas his wife is young, and 
is good-looking, and is a woman - which is the great thing after all."
This last clause being delivered with extraordinary pathos, elicited a 
corresponding murmur from the hearers, stimulated by which the lady went on 
to remark that if such a husband was cross and unreasonable with such a 
wife, then -
"If he is!" interposed the mother, putting down her teacup and brushing the 
crumbs out of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn declaration. "If he 
is! He is the greatest tyrant that ever lived, she daren't call her soul 
her own, he makes her tremble with a word and even with a look, he 
frightens her to death, and she hasn't the spirit to give him a word back, 
no, not a single word."
Notwithstanding that the fact had been notorious beforehand to all the tea-
drinkers, and had been discussed and expatiated on at every teadrinking in 
the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, this official communication 
was no sooner made than they all began to talk at once and to vie with each 
other in vehemence and volubility. Mrs George remarked that people would 
talk, that people had often said this to her before, that Mrs Simmons then 
and there present had told her so twenty times, that she had always said, 
"No, Henrietta Simmons, unless I see it with my own eyes and hear it with 
my own ears, I never will believe it." Mrs Simmons corroborated this 
testimony and added strong evidence of her own. The lady from the Minories 
recounted a successful course of treatment under which she had placed her 
own husband, who, from manifesting one month after marriage unequivocal 
symptoms of the tiger, had by this means become subdued into a perfect 
lamb. Another lady recounted her own personal struggle and final triumph, 
in the course whereof she had found it necessary to call in her mother and 
two aunts, and to weep incessantly night and day for six weeks. A third, 
who in the general confusion could secure no other listener, fastened 
herself upon a young woman still unmarried who happened to be amongst them, 
and conjured her as she valued her own peace of mind and happiness to 
profit by this solemn occasion, to take example from the weakness of Mrs 
Quilp, and from that time forth to direct her whole thoughts to taming and 
subduing the rebellious spirit of man. The noise was at its height, and 
half the company had elevated their voices into a perfect shriek in order 
to drown the voices of the other half, when Mrs Jiniwin was seen to change 
colour and shake her forefinger stealthily, as if exhorting them to 
silence. Then, and not until then, Daniel Quilp himself, the cause and 
occasion of all this clamour, was observed to be in the room, looking on 
and listening with profound attention.
"Go on, ladies, go on," said Daniel. "Mrs Quilp, pray ask the ladies to 
stop to supper, and have a couple of lobsters and something light and 
palatable."
"I - I - didn't ask them to tea, Quilp," stammered his wife. "It's quite an 
accident."
"So much the better, Mrs Quilp; these accidental parties are always the 
pleasantest," said the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he seemed to 
be engaged in manufacturing, of the dirt with which they were encrusted, 
little charges for popguns. 'What! Not going, ladies, you are not going, 
surely!"
His fair enemies tossed their heads slightly as they sought their 
respective bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal contention to Mrs 
Jiniwin, who finding herself in the position of champion, made a faint 
struggle to sustain the character.
"And why not stop to supper, Quilp," said the old lady, "if my daughter had 
a mind?"
"To be sure," rejoined Daniel. 'Why not?"
"There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a supper, I hope?" said Mrs Jiniwin.
"Surely not," returned the dwarf. 'Why should there be? Nor anything 
unwholesome either, unless there's lobster-salad or prawns, which I'm told 
are not good for digestion."
"And you wouldn't like your wife to be attacked with that, or anything else 
that would make her uneasy, would you?" said Mrs Jiniwin.
"Not for a score of worlds," replied the dwarf with a grin. "Not even to 
have a score of mothers-in-law at the same time - and what a blessing that 
would be!"
"My daughter's your wife, Mr Quilp, certainly," said the old lady with a 
giggle, meant for satirical and to imply that he needed to be reminded of 
the fact; "your wedded wife." - "So she is, certainly. So she is," observed 
the dwarf.
"And she has a right to do as she likes, I hope, Quilp," said the old lady 
trembling, partly with anger and partly with a secret fear of her impish 
son-in-law.
"Hope she has!" he replied. "Oh! Don't you know she has? Don't you know she 
has, Mrs Jiniwin?"
"I know she ought to have, Quilp, and would have, if she was of my way of 
thinking."
"Why an't you of your mother's way of thinking, my dear?" said the dwarf, 
turning round and addressing his wife, "why don't you always imitate your 
mother, my dear? She's the ornament of her sex - your father said so every 
day of his life. I am sure he did."
"Her father was a blessed creetur, Quilp, and worth twenty thousand of some 
people," said Mrs Jiniwin; "twenty hundred million thousand."
"I should like to have known him," remarked the dwarf. "I dare say he was a 
blessed creature then; but I'm sure he is now. It was a happy release. I 
believe he had suffered a long time?" The old lady gave a gasp, but nothing 
came of it; Quilp resumed, with the same malice in his eye and the same 
sarcastic politeness on his tongue.
"You look ill, Mrs Jiniwin; I know you have been exciting yourself too much 
talking perhaps, for it is your weakness. Go to bed. Do go to bed."
"I shall go when I please, Quilp, and not before."
"But please to go now. Do please to go now," said the dwarf.
The old woman looked angrily at him, but retreated as he advanced, and 
falling back before him, suffered him to shut the door upon her and bolt 
her out among the guests, who were by this time crowding down stairs. Being 
left alone with his wife, who sat trembling in a corner with her eyes fixed 
upon the ground, the little man planted himself before her, and folding his 
arms looked steadily at her for a long time without speaking.
"Mrs Quilp, " he said at last.
"Yes, Quilp," she replied meekly.
Instead of pursuing the theme he had in his mind, Quilp folded his arms 
again, and looked at her more sternly than before, while she averted her 
eyes and kept them on the ground.
"Mrs Quilp."
"Yes, Quilp."
"If ever you listen to these beldames again, I'll bite you."
With this laconic threat, which he accompanied with a snarl that gave him 
the appearance of being particularly in earnest, Mr Quilp bade her clear 
the teaboard away, and bring the rum. The spirit being set before him in a 
huge case-bottle, which had originally come out of some ship's locker, he 
ordered cold water and the box of cigars; and these being supplied, he 
settled himself in an armchair with his large head and face squeezed up 
against the back, and his little legs planted on the table.
"Now, Mrs Quilp," he said; "I feel in a smoking humour, and shall probably 
blaze away all night. But sit where you are, if you please, in case I want 
you."
His wife returned no other reply than the customary "Yes, Quilp," and the 
small lord of the creation took his first cigar and mixed his first glass 
of grog. The sun went down and the stars peeped out, the Tower turned from 
its own proper colours to grey and from grey to black, the room became 
perfectly dark and the end of the cigar a deep fiery red, but still Mr 
Quilp went on smoking and drinking in the same position, and staring 
listlessly out of window with the doglike smile always on his face, save 
when Mrs Quilp made some involuntary movement of restlessness or fatigue; 
and then it expanded into a grin of delight.


Chapter 5

Whether Mr Quilp took any sleep by snatches of a few winks at a time, or 
whether he sat with his eyes wide open all night long, certain it is that 
he kept his cigar alight, and kindled every fresh one from the ashes of 
that which was nearly consumed, without requiring the assistance of a 
candle. Nor did the striking of the clocks, hour after hour, appear to 
inspire him with any sense of drowsiness or any natural desire to go to 
rest, but rather to increase his wakefulness, which he showed, at every 
such indication of the progress of the night, by a suppressed cackling in 
his throat, and a motion of his shoulders, like one who laughs heartily but 
at the same time slily and by stealth.
At length the day broke, and poor Mrs Quilp, shivering with the cold of 
early morning and harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was discovered 
sitting patiently on her chair, raising her eyes at intervals in mute 
appeal to the compassion and clemency of her lord, and gently reminding him 
by an occasional cough that she was still unpardoned and that her penance 
had been of long duration. But her dwarfish spouse still smoked his cigar 
and drank his rum without heeding her; and it was not until the sun had 
some time risen, and the activity and noise of city day were rife in the 
street, that he deigned to recognise her presence by any word or sign. He 
might not have done so even then, but for certain impatient tappings at the 
door which seemed to denote that some pretty hard knuckles were actively 
engaged upon the other side.
"Why dear me!" he said looking round with a malicious grin, "it's day! Open 
the door, sweet Mrs Quilp!"
His obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her lady mother entered.
Now, Mrs Jiniwin bounced into the room with great impetuosity; for, 
Supposing her son-in-law to be still a-bed, she had come to relieve her 
feelings by pronouncing a strong opinion upon his general conduct and 
character. Seeing that he was up and dressed, and that the room appeared to 
have been occupied ever since she quitted it on the previous evening, she 
stopped short, in some embarrassment. Nothing escaped the hawk's eye of the 
ugly little man, who, perfectly understanding what passed in the old lady's 
mind, turned uglier still in the fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her 
good morning, with a leer of triumph.
"Why, Betsy," said the old woman, "you haven't been a - you don't mean to 
say you've been a -"
"Sitting up all night?" said Quilp, supplying the conclusion of the 
sentence. "Yes she has!"
"All night!" cried Mrs Jiniwin.
"Ay, all night. Is the dear old lady deaf?" said Quilp, with a smile of 
which a frown was part. 'Who says man and wife are bad company? Ha ha! The 
time has flown."
"You're a brute!" exclaimed Mrs Jiniwin.
"Come come," said Quilp, wilfully misunderstanding her, of course, "you 
mustn't call her names. She's married now, you know. And though she did 
beguile the time and keep me from my bed, you must not be so tenderly 
careful of me as to be out of humour with her. Bless you for a dear old 
lady. Here's your health!"
"I am much obliged to you," returned the old woman, testifying by a certain 
restlessness in her hands a vehement desire to shake her matronly fist at 
her son-in-law. "Oh! I'm very much obliged to you!"
"Grateful soul!" cried the dwarf. "Mrs Quilp."
"Yes, Quilp," said the timid sufferer.
"Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs Quilp. I am going to the wharf this 
morning - the earlier, the better, so be quick."
Mrs Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of rebellion by sitting down in a 
chair near the door and folding her arms as if in a resolute determination 
to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her daughter, and a kind 
inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt faint, with a hint that there 
was abundance of cold water in the next apartment, routed these symptoms 
effectually, and she applied herself to the prescribed preparations with 
sullen diligence.
While they were in progress, Mr Quilp withdrew to the adjoining room, and, 
turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his countenance with a 
damp towel of very unwholesome appearance, which made his complexion rather 
more cloudy than it was before. But, while he was thus engaged, his caution 
and inquisitiveness did not forsake him, for with a face as sharp and 
cunning as ever, he often stopped, even in this short process, and stood 
listening for any conversation in the next room, of which he might be the 
theme.
"Ah!" he said after a short effort of attention, "it was not the towel over 
my ears, I thought it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a monster, am 
I, Mrs Jiniwin? Oh!"
The pleasure of this discovery called up the old doglike smile in full 
force. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very doglike 
manner, and rejoined the ladies.
Mr Quilp now walked up to the front of a looking-glass, and was standing 
there putting on his neckerchief, when Mrs Jiniwin, happening to be behind 
him, could not resist the inclination she felt to shake her fist at her 
tyrant son-in-law. It was the gesture of an instant, but as she did so and 
accompanied the action with a menacing look, she met his eye in the glass, 
catching her in the very act. The same glance at the mirror conveyed to her 
the reflection of a horribly grotesque and distorted face with the tongue 
lolling out; and the next instant the dwarf, turning about with a perfectly 
bland and placid look, inquired in a tone of great affection,
"How are you now, my dear old darling?"
Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a little 
fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old woman felt too 
much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered herself to be led 
with extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table. Here he by no means 
diminished the impression he had just produced, for he ate hard eggs, shell 
and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the heads and tails on, chewed 
tobacco and water-cresses at the same time and with extraordinary 
greediness, drank boiling tea without winking, bit his fork and spoon till 
they bent again, and in short performed so many horrifying and uncommon 
acts that the women were nearly frightened out of their wits, and began to 
doubt if he were really a human creature. At last, having gone through 
these proceedings and many others which were equally a part of his system, 
Mr Quilp left them, reduced to a very obedient and humbled state, and 
betook himself to the riverside, where he took boat for the wharf on which 
he had bestowed his name.
It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the wherry to cross 
to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on, some 
sideways, some head first, some stern first; all in a wrong-headed, dogged, 
obstinate way, bumping up against the larger craft, running under the bows 
of steamboats, getting into every kind of nook and corner where they had no 
business, and being crunched on all sides like so many walnut shells; while 
each with its pair of long sweeps struggling and splashing in the water 
looked like some lumbering fish in pain. In some of the vessels at anchor 
all hands were busily engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, 
taking in or discharging their cargoes; in others no life was visible but 
two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running to and fro upon 
the deck or scrambling up to look over the side and bark the louder for the 
view. Coming slowly on through the forests of masts was a great steam ship, 
beating the water in short impatient strokes with her heavy paddles as 
though she wanted room to breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a 
sea monster among the minnows of the Thames. On either hand were long black 
tiers of colliers; between them vessels slowly working out of harbour with 
sails glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on board, re-echoed from a 
hundred quarters. The water and all upon it was in active motion, dancing 
and buoyant and bubbling up; while the old grey Tower and piles of building 
on the shore, with many a church-spire shooting up between, looked coldly 
on, and seemed to disdain their chafing, restless neighbour.
Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright morning save in so far 
as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused himself to be 
put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither through a narrow lane 
which, partaking of the amphibious character of its frequenters, had as 
much water as mud in its composition, and a very liberal supply of both. 
Arrived at his destination, the first object that presented itself to his 
view was a pair of very imperfectly shod feet elevated in the air with the 
soles upwards, which remarkable appearance was referable to the boy, who 
being of an eccentric spirit and having a natural taste for tumbling, was 
now standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the river under 
these uncommon circumstances. He was speedily brought on his heels by the 
sound of his master's voice, and as soon as his head was in its right 
position, Mr Quilp, to speak expressively in the absence of a better verb, 
"punched it" for him.
"Come, you let me alone," said the boy, parrying Quilp's hand with both his 
elbows alternately. "You'll get something you won't like if you don't, and 
so I tell you."
"You dog," snarled Quilp, "I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch you 
with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me - I will."
With these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously diving in 
between the elbows and catching the boy's head as it dodged from side to 
side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having now carried his point 
and insisted on it, he left off.
"You won't do it again," said the boy, nodding his head and drawing back, 
with the elbows ready in case of the worst; "now -"
"Stand still, you dog," said Quilp. "I won't do it again, because I've done 
it as often as I want. Here. Take the key."
"Why don't you hit one of your size?" said the boy approaching very slowly.
"Where is there one of my size, you dog?" returned Quilp. "Take the key, or 
I'll brain you with it!" - indeed he gave him a smart tap with the handle 
as he spoke. "Now, open the counting-house."
The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he looked 
round and saw that Quilp was following him with a steady look. And here it 
may be remarked, that between this boy and the dwarf there existed a 
strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, or how nourished upon 
blows and threats on one side, and retorts and defiances on the other, is 
not to the purpose. Quilp would certainly suffer nobody to contradict him 
but the boy, and the boy would assuredly not have submitted to be so 
knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had the power to run away at 
any time he chose.
"Now," said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting-house, "you mind the 
wharf. Stand upon your head again, and I'll cut one of your feet off."
The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut himself in, stood on 
his head before the door, then walked on his hands to the back and stood on 
his head there, and then to the opposite side and repeated the performance. 
There were indeed four sides to the counting-house, but he avoided that one 
where the window was, deeming it probable that Quilp would be looking out 
of it. This was prudent, for in point of fact the dwarf, knowing his 
disposition, was lying in wait at a little distance from the sash armed 
with a large piece of wood, which, being rough and jagged and studded in 
many parts with broken nails, might possibly have hurt him.
It was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but an 
old rickety desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanack, an 
inkstand with no ink and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock which 
hadn't gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the minute-hand had 
been twisted off for a toothpick. Daniel Quilp pulled his hat over his 
brows, climbed on to the desk (which had a flat top), and stretching his 
short length upon it went to sleep with the ease of an old practitioner; 
intending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the deprivation of last 
night's rest, by a long and sound nap.
Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been asleep a 
quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust in his head, 
which was like a bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a light sleeper 
and started up directly.
"Here's somebody for you," said the boy.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Ask!" said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and throwing 
it at him with such dexterity that it was well the boy disappeared before 
it reached the spot on which he had stood. "Ask, you dog." Not caring to 
venture within range of such missiles again, the boy discreetly sent in his 
stead the first cause of the interruption, who now presented herself at the 
door.
"What, Nelly!" cried Quilp.
"Yes," - said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the 
dwarf just roused, with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him and a 
yellow handkerchief over his head, was something fearful to behold; "it's 
only me, Sir."
"Come in," said Quilp, without getting off the desk. "Come in. Stay. Just 
look out into the yard, and see whether there's a boy standing on his 
head."
"No, Sir," replied Nell. "He's on his feet."
"You're sure he is?" said Quilp. "Well. Now, come in and shut the door. 
What's your message, Nelly? "
The child handed him a letter; Mr Quilp, without changing his position 
further than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his chin on 
his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents.


Chapter 6

Little Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to the countenance of Mr 
Quilp as he read the letter, plainly showing by her looks that while she 
entertained some fear and distrust of the little man, she was much inclined 
to laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque attitude. And yet there 
was visible on the part of the child a painful anxiety for his reply, and a 
consciousness of his power to render it disagreeable or distressing, which 
was strongly at variance with this impulse and restrained it more 
effectually than she could possibly have done by any efforts of her own.
That Mr Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no small degree, by the 
contents of the letter, was sufficiently obvious. Before he had got through 
the first two or three lines he began to open his eyes very wide and to 
frown most horribly, the next two or three caused him to scratch his head 
in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when he came to the conclusion he gave 
a long dismal whistle indicative of surprise and dismay. After folding and 
laying it down beside him, he bit the nails of all his ten fingers with 
extreme voracity, and taking it up sharply, read it again. The second 
perusal was to all appearance as unsatisfactory as the first, and plunged 
him into a profound reverie from which he awakened to another assault upon 
his nails and a long stare at the child, who with her eyes turned towards 
the ground awaited his further pleasure.
"Halloa here!" he said at length, in a voice, and with a suddenness, which 
made the child start as though a gun had been fired off at her ear. 
"Nelly!"
"Yes, Sir."
"Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell?"
"No, Sir!"
"Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your soul?"
"Quite sure, Sir."
"Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey?" said the dwarf.
"Indeed I don't know," returned the child.
"Well!" muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look. "I believe you. 
Humph! Gone already? Gone in four-and-twenty hours! What the devil has he 
done with it, that's the mystery!"
This reflection set him scratching his head and biting his nails once more. 
While he was thus employed his features gradually relaxed into what was 
with him a cheerful smile, but which in any other man would have been a 
ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked up again she found that he 
was regarding her with extraordinary favour and complacency.
"You look very pretty today, Nelly, charmingly pretty. Are you tired, 
Nelly?"
"No, Sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be anxious while I am 
away."
"There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all," said Quilp. "How should 
you like to be my number two, Nelly?"
"To be what, Sir?"
"My number two, Nelly, my second, my Mrs Quilp," said the dwarf.
The child looked frightened, but seemed not to understand him, which Mr 
Quilp observing, hastened to explain his meaning more distinctly.
"To be Mrs Quilp the second, when Mrs Quilp the first is dead, sweet Nell," 
said Quilp, wrinkling up his eyes and luring her towards him with his bent 
forefinger, "to be my wife, my little cheery-cheeked, red-lipped wife. Say 
that Mrs Quilp lives five years, or only four, you'll be just the proper 
age for me. Ha ha! Be a good girl, Nelly, a very good girl, and see if one 
of these days you don't come to be Mrs Quilp of Tower Hill."
So far from being sustained and stimulated by this delightful prospect, the 
child shrank from him in great agitation, and trembled violently. Mr Quilp, 
either because frightening anybody afforded him a constitutional delight, 
or because it was pleasant to contemplate the death of Mrs Quilp number 
one, and the elevation of Mrs Quilp number two to her post and title, or 
because he was determined for purposes of his own to be agreeable and good-
humoured at that particular time, only laughed and feigned to take no heed 
of her alarm.
"You shall come with me to Tower Hill, and see Mrs Quilp that is, 
directly," said the dwarf. "She's very fond of you, Nell, though not so 
fond as I am. You shall come home with me."
"I must go back indeed," said the child. "He told me to return directly I 
had the answer."
"But you haven't it, Nelly," retorted the dwarf, "and won't have it, and 
can't have it, until I have been home, so you see that to do your errand, 
you must go with me. Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go directly." 
With that, Mr Quilp suffered himself to roll gradually off the desk until 
his short legs touched the ground, when he got upon them and led the way 
from the counting-house to the wharf outside, when the first objects that 
presented themselves were the boy who had stood on his head and another 
young gentleman of about his own stature, rolling in the mud together, 
locked in a tight embrace, and cuffing each other with mutual heartiness.
"It's Kit!" cried Nelly, clasping her hands, "poor Kit who came with me! oh 
pray stop them, Mr Quilp!"
"I'll stop 'em," cried Quilp, diving into the little counting-house and 
returning with a thick stick, "I'll stop 'em. Now, my boys, fight away. 
I'll fight you both. I'll take both of you, both together, both together!"
With which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel, and dancing round the 
combatants and treading upon them and skipping over them, in a kind of 
frenzy, laid about him, now on one and now on the other, in a most 
desperate manner, always aiming at their heads and dealing such blows as 
none but the veriest little savage would have inflicted. This being warmer 
work than they had calculated upon, speedily cooled the courage of the 
belligerents, who scrambled to their feet and called for quarter.
"I'll beat you to a pulp, you dogs," said Quilp, vainly endeavouring to get 
near either of them for a parting blow. "I'll bruise you till you're copper-
coloured, I'll break your faces till you haven't a profile between you, I 
will."
"Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you," said his boy, 
dodging round him and watching an opportunity to rush in; "you drop that 
stick."
"Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull, you dog," said Quilp 
with gleaming eyes; "a little nearer - nearer yet."
But the boy declined the invitation until his master was apparently a 
little off his guard, when he darted in and seizing the weapon tried to 
wrest it from his grasp. Quilp, who was as strong as a lion, easily kept 
his hold until the boy was tugging at it with his utmost power, when he 
suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that he fell 
violently upon his head. The success of this manoeuvre tickled Mr Quilp 
beyond description, and he laughed and stamped upon the ground as at a most 
irresistible jest.
"Never mind," said the boy, nodding his head and rubbing it at the same 
time; "you see if ever I offer to strike anybody again because they say 
you're a uglier dwarf than can be seen anywheres for a penny, that's all."
"Do you mean to say, I'm not, you dog?" returned Quilp.
"No!" retorted the boy.
"Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain?" said Quilp.
"Because he said so," replied the boy, pointing to Kit, "not because you 
an't."
"Then why did he say," bawled Kit, "that Miss Nelly was ugly, and that she 
and my master was obliged to do whatever his master liked? Why did he say 
that?"
"He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said what you did because 
you're very wise and clever - almost too clever to live, unless you're very 
careful of yourself, Kit," said Quilp, with great suavity in his manner, 
but still more of quiet malice about his eyes and mouth. "Here's sixpence 
for you, Kit. Always speak the truth. At all times, Kit, speak the truth. 
Lock the counting-house, you dog, and bring me the key."
The other boy, to whom this order was addressed, did as he was told, and 
was rewarded for his partizanship in behalf of his master, by a dexterous 
rap on the nose with the key, which brought the water into his eyes. Then 
Mr Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat, and the boy revenged 
himself by dancing on his head at intervals on the extreme verge of the 
wharf, during the whole time they crossed the river.
There was only Mrs Quilp at home, and she, little expecting the return of 
her lord, was just composing herself for a refreshing slumber when the 
sound of his footsteps roused her. She had barely time to seem to be 
occupied in some needlework, when he entered, accompanied by the child; 
having left Kit down stairs.
"Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs Quilp," said her husband. "A glass of wine, 
my dear, and a biscuit, for she has had a long walk. She'll sit with you, 
my soul, while I write a letter."
Mrs Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to know what this unusual 
courtesy might portend, and obedient to the summons she saw in his gesture, 
followed him into the next room.
"Mind what I say to you," whispered Quilp. "See if you can get out of her 
anything about her grandfather, or what they do, or how they live, or what 
he tells her. I've my reasons for knowing, if I can. You women talk more 
freely to one another than you do to us, and you have a soft, mild way with 
you that'll win upon her. Do you hear?"
Yes, Quilp.
"Go, then. What's the matter now?"
"Dear Quilp," faltered his wife, "I love the child - if you could do 
without making me deceive her -"
The dwarf muttering a terrible oath looked round as if for some weapon with 
which to inflict condign punishment upon his disobedient wife. The 
submissive little woman hurriedly entreated him not to be angry, and 
promised to do as he bade her.
"Do you hear me," whispered Quilp, nipping and pinching her arm; 'worm 
yourself into her secrets; I know you can. I'm listening, recollect. If 
you're not sharp enough I'll creak the door, and woe betide you if I have 
to creak it much. Go!"
Mrs Quilp departed according to order, and her amiable husband, ensconcing 
himself behind the partly opened door, and applying his ear close to it, 
began to listen with a face of great craftiness and attention.
Poor Mrs Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner to begin or what kind 
of inquiries she could make; and it was not until the door, creaking in a 
very urgent manner, warned her to proceed without further consideration, 
that the sound of her voice was heard.
"How very often you have come backwards and forwards lately to Mr Quilp, my 
dear."
"I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times," returned Nell innocently.
"And what has he said to that?"
"Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so sad and wretched that if 
you could have seen him I am sure you must have cried; you could not have 
helped it more than I, I know. How that door creaks!"
"It often does," returned Mrs Quilp, with an uneasy glance towards it. "But 
your grandfather - he used not to be so wretched?"
"Oh no!" said the child eagerly, "so different! we were once so happy and 
he so cheerful and contented! You cannot think what a sad change has fallen 
on us since."
"I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my dear!" said Mrs 
Quilp. And she spoke the truth.
"Thank you," returned the child, kissing her cheek, "you are always kind to 
me, and it is a pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one else about 
him, but poor Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel happier perhaps 
than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me sometimes to see him 
alter so."
"He'll alter again, Nelly," said Mrs Quilp, "and be what he was before."
"Oh if God would only let that come about!" said the child with streaming 
eyes; "but it is a long time now, since he first began to - I thought I saw 
that door moving!"
"It's the wind," said Mrs Quilp faintly. "Began to -?"
"To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way of spending 
the time in the long evenings," said the child. "I used to read to him by 
the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped and we began to 
talk, he told me about my mother, and how she once looked and spoke just 
like me when she was a little child. Then, he used to take me on his knee, 
and try to make me understand that she was not lying in her grave, but had 
flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky, where nothing died or ever 
grew old - we were very happy once!"
"Nelly, Nelly!" - said the poor woman, "I can't bear to see one as young as 
you, so sorrowful. Pray don't cry."
"I do so very seldom," said Nell, "but I have kept this to myself a long 
time, and I am not quite well, I think, for the tears come into my eyes and 
I cannot keep them back. I don't mind telling you my grief, for I know you 
will not tell it to any one again."
Mrs Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.
"Then," said the child, "we often walked in the fields and among the green 
trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for being tired, 
and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark and rather dull, we 
used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made us remember our 
last walk with greater pleasure, and look forward to our next one. But now 
we never have these walks, and though it is the same house it is darker and 
much more gloomy than it used to be, indeed!"
She paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs Quilp said 
nothing.
"Mind you don't suppose," said the child earnestly, "that grandfather is 
less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day, and is 
kinder and more affectionate than he was the day before. You do not know 
how fond he is of me!"
"I am sure he loves you dearly," said Mrs Quilp. "Indeed, indeed he does!" 
cried Nell, "as dearly as I love him. But I have not told you the greatest 
change of all, and this you must never breathe again to any one. He has no 
sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day in his easy chair; for every 
night and nearly all night long he is away from home."
"Nelly!"
"Hush!" said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking round. 
'When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just before day, I 
let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I saw that 
his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were bloodshot, and that his legs 
trembled as he walked. When I had gone to bed again, I heard him groan. I 
got up and ran back to him, and heard him say, before he knew that I was 
there, that he could not bear his life much longer, and if it was not for 
the child, would wish to die. What shall I do! Oh! what shall I do!"
The fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by the 
weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she had ever 
shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been received, hid 
her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst into a passion of 
tears.
In a few moments Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost surprise to 
find her in this condition, which he did very naturally and with admirable 
effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered familiar to him by long 
practice, and he was quite at home in it.
"She's tired you see, Mrs Quilp," said the dwarf, squinting in a hideous 
manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead. "It's a long way from 
her home to the wharf, and then she was alarmed to see a couple of young 
scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the water besides. All this 
together has been too much for her. Poor Nell!"
Mr Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means he could have devised 
for the recovery of his young visitor, by patting her on the head. Such an 
application from any other hand might not have produced a remarkable 
effect, but the child shrank so quickly from his touch and felt such an 
instinctive desire to get out of his reach, that she rose directly and 
declared herself ready to return.
"But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs Quilp and me," said the dwarf.
"I have been away too long, Sir, already," returned Nell, drying her eyes.
"Well," said Mr Quilp, "if you will B∞, you will, Nelly. Here's the note. 
It's only to say that I shall see him tomorrow or maybe next day, and that 
I couldn't do that little business for him this morning. Good-bye, Nelly. 
Here, you Sir; take care of her, d'ye hear?"
Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make no reply to so needless 
an injunction, and after staring at Quilp in a threatening manner as if he 
doubted whether he might not have been the cause of Nelly shedding tears, 
and felt more than half-disposed to revenge the fact upon him on the mere 
suspicion, turned about and followed his young mistress, who had by this 
time taken her leave of Mrs Quilp and departed.
"You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs Quilp?" said the dwarf, turning 
upon her as soon as they were left alone.
"What more could I do?" returned his wife mildly.
"What more could you do!" sneered Quilp, "couldn't you have done something 
less? couldn't you have done what you had to do, without appearing in your 
favourite part of the crocodile, you minx?"
"I am very sorry for the child, Quilp," said his wife. "Surely I've done 
enough. I've led her on to tell her secret when she supposed we were alone; 
and you were by, God forgive me."
"You led her on! You did a great deal truly!" said Quilp. 'What did I tell 
you about making me creak the door? It's lucky for you that from what she 
let fall, I've got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have visited the 
failure upon you, I can tell you."
Mrs Quilp being fully persuaded of this, made no reply. Her husband added 
with some exultation,
"But you may thank your fortunate stars - the same stars that made you Mrs 
Quilp - you may thank them that I'm upon the old gentleman's track, and 
have got a new light. So let me hear no more about this matter now or at 
any other time, and don't get anything too nice for dinner, for I shan't be 
home to it."
So saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs Quilp, who 
was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the part she had just 
acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and smothering her head in the bed 
clothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many less tender-hearted 
persons would have mourned a much greater offence; for, in the majority of 
cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible article, which will bear 
a deal of stretching and adapt itself to a great variety of circumstances. 
Some people by prudent management and leaving it off piece by piece like a 
flannel waistcoat in warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dispense with 
it altogether; but there be others who can assume the garment and throw it 
off at pleasure; and this, being the greatest and most convenient 
improvement, is the one most in vogue.


Chapter 7

"Fred," said Mr Swiveller, "remember the once popular melody of 'Begone 
dull care;' fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship; 
and pass the rosy wine!"
Mr Richard Swiveller's apartments were in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, 
and in addition to this conveniency of situation had the advantage of being 
over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled to procure a refreshing 
sneeze at any time by merely stepping out on the staircase, and was saved 
the trouble and expense of maintaining a snuff-box. It was in these 
apartments that Mr Swiveller made use of the expressions above recorded, 
for the consolation and encouragement of his desponding friend; and it may 
not be uninteresting or improper to remark, that even these brief 
observations partook in a double sense of the figurative and poetical 
character of Mr Swiveller's mind, as the rosy wine was in fact represented 
by one glass of cold gin-and-water which was replenished, as occasion 
required, from a bottle and jug upon the table, and was passed from one to 
another, in a scarcity of tumblers which, as Mr Swiveller's was a 
bachelor's establishment, may be acknowledged without a blush. By a light 
pleasant fiction his single chamber was always mentioned in the plural 
number. In its disengaged times, the tobacconist had announced it in his 
window as "apartments" for a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following 
up the hint, never failed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his 
chambers: conveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and 
leaving their imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty halls, at 
pleasure.
In this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive piece of 
furniture, in reality a bedstead, but, in semblance a bookcase, which 
occupied a prominent situation in his chamber, and seemed to defy suspicion 
and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that, by day Mr Swiveller firmly 
believed this secret convenience to be a bookcase and nothing more; that he 
closed his eyes to the bed, resolutely denied the existence of the 
blankets, and spurned the bolster from his thoughts. No word of its real 
use, no hint of its nightly service, no allusion to its peculiar 
properties, had ever passed between him and his most intimate friends. 
Implicit faith in the deception was the first article of his creed. To be 
the friend of Swiveller you must reject all circumstantial evidence, all 
reason, observation, and experience, and repose a blind belief in the 
bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he cherished it.
"Fred!" said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had been 
productive of no effect. "Pass the rosy!"
Young Trent, with an impatient gesture, pushed the glass towards him, and 
fell again into a moody attitude from which he had been unwillingly roused.
"I'll give you, Fred," said his friend, stirring the mixture, "a little 
sentiment appropriate to the occasion. Here's May the - "
"Pshaw!" interposed the other. "You worry me to death with your chattering. 
You can be merry under any circumstances."
"Why, Mr Trent," returned Dick, "there is a proverb which talks about being 
merry and wise. There are some people who can be merry and can't be wise, 
and some who can be wise (or think they can) and can't be merry. I'm one of 
the first sort. If the proverb's a good 'un, I suppose it's better to keep 
to half of it than none; at all events I'd rather be merry and not wise, 
than like you - neither one nor t'other."
"Bah!" muttered his friend, peevishly.
"With all my heart," said Mr Swiveller. "In the polite circles I believe 
this sort of thing isn't usually said to a gentleman in his own apartments, 
but never mind that. Make yourself at home." Adding to this retort an 
observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be rather "cranky" in 
point of temper, Richard Swiveller finished the rosy and applied himself to 
the composition of another glassfull, in which after tasting it with great 
relish, he proposed a toast to an imaginary company.
"Gentlemen, I'll give you if you please Success to the ancient family of 
the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr Richard in particular - Mr Richard, 
gentlemen," said Dick with great emphasis, "who spends all his money on his 
friends, and is Bah!'d for his pains. Hear, hear!"
"Dick!" said the other, returning to his seat after having paced the room 
twice or thrice, "will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I show you a 
way to make your fortune with very little trouble?"
"You've shown me so many," returned Dick; "and nothing has come of any of 
'em but empty pockets - "
"You'll tell a different story of this one, before a very long time is 
over," said his companion drawing his chair to the table. "You saw my 
sister Nell?"
"What about her?" returned Dick.
"She has a pretty face, has she not?"
"Why, certainly," replied Dick, "I must say for her, that there's not any 
very strong family likeness between her and you."
"Has she a pretty face?" repeated his friend impatiently.
"Yes," said Dick, "she has a pretty face, a very pretty face. What of 
that?"
"I'll tell you," returned his friend. "It's very plain that the old man and 
I, will remain at daggers drawn to the end of our lives, and that I have 
nothing to expect from him. You see that, I suppose?"
"A bat might see that, with the sun shining," said Dick.
"It's equally plain that the money which the old flint - rot him - first 
taught me to expect that I should share with her at his death, will all be 
her's, is it not?"
"I should say it was," replied Dick; "unless the way in which I put the 
case to him, made an impression. It may have done so. It was powerful, 
Fred. 'Here is a jolly old grandfather' - that was strong I thought - very 
friendly and natural. Did it strike you in that way?"
"It didn't strike him," returned the other, "so we needn't discuss it. Now 
look here. Nell is nearly fourteen."
"Fine girl of her age, but small," observed Richard Swiveller 
parenthetically.
"If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute," returned Trent fretting at the 
very slight interest the other appeared to take in the conversation. "Now 
I'm coming to the point."
"That's right," said Dick.
"The girl has strong affections, and brought up as she has been, may, at 
her age, be easily influenced and persuaded. If I take her in hand, I will 
be bound by a very little coaxing and threatening to bend her to my will. 
Not to beat about the bush (for the advantages of the scheme would take a 
week to tell) what's to prevent your marrying her?"
Richard Swiveller, who had been looking over the rim of the tumbler while 
his companion addressed the foregoing remarks to him with great energy and 
earnestness of manner, no sooner heard these words than he evinced the 
utmost consternation, and with difficulty ejaculated the monosyllable,
"What!"
"I say, what's to prevent," repeated the other, with a steadiness of 
manner, of the effect of which upon his companion he was well assured by 
long experience, "what's to prevent your marrying her?"
"And she 'nearly fourteen'!" cried Dick.
"I don't mean marrying her now" - returned the brother, angrily; "say in 
two years' time, in three, in four. Does the old man look like a long-
liver?"
"He don't look like it," said Dick, shaking his head, "but these old people 
- there's no trusting 'em, Fred. There's an aunt of mine down in 
Dorsetshire that was going to die when I was eight years old, and hasn't 
kept her word yet. They're so aggravating, so unprincipled, so spiteful - 
unless there's apoplexy in the family, Fred, you can't calculate upon 'em, 
and even then they deceive you just as often as not."
"Look at the worst side of the question, then," said Trent, as steadily as 
before, and keeping his eyes upon his friend. "Suppose he lives."
"To be sure," said Dick. "There's the rub."
"I say," resumed his friend, "suppose he lives, and I persuaded, or, if the 
word sounds more feasible, forced, Nell to a secret marriage with you. What 
do you think would come of that?"
"A family and an annual income of nothing, to keep 'em on," said Richard 
Swiveller after some reflection.
"I tell you," returned the other with an increased earnestness, which, 
whether it were real or assumed, had the same effect on his companion, 
"that he lives for her, that his whole energies and thoughts are bound up 
in her, that he would no more disinherit her for an act of disobedience 
than he would take me into his favour again for any act of obedience or 
virtue that I could possibly be guilty of. He could not do it. You or any 
other man with eyes in his head, may see that, if he chooses."
"It seems improbable certainly," said Dick, musing.
"It seems improbable because it is improbable," his friend returned. "If 
you would furnish him with an additional inducement to forgive you, let 
there be an irreconcilable breach, a most deadly quarrel, between you and 
me - let there be a pretence of such a thing, I mean, of course - and he'll 
do so fast enough. As to Nell, constant dropping will wear away a stone; 
you know you may trust to me as far as she is concerned. So, whether he 
lives or dies, what does it come to? That you become the sole inheritor of 
the wealth of this rich old hunks; that you and I spend it together; and 
that you get, into the bargain, a beautiful young wife."
"I suppose there's no doubt about his being rich" - said Dick.
"Doubt! Did you hear what he let fall the other day when we were there? 
Doubt! What will you doubt next, Dick?"
It would be tedious to pursue the conversation through all its artful 
windings, or to develop the gradual approaches by which the heart of 
Richard Swiveller was gained. It is sufficient to know that vanity, 
interest, poverty, and every spendthrift consideration urged him to look 
upon the proposal with favour, and that where all other inducements were 
wanting, the habitual carelessness of his disposition stepped in and still 
weighed down the scale on the same side. To these impulses must be added 
the complete ascendancy which his friend had long been accustomed to 
exercise over him - an ascendancy exerted in the beginning sorely at the 
expense of Dick's purse and prospects, but still maintained without the 
slightest relaxation, notwithstanding that Dick suffered for all his 
friend's vices, and was, in nine cases out of ten, looked upon as his 
designing tempter when he was indeed nothing but his thoughtless, light-
headed tool.
The motives on the other side were something deeper than any which Richard 
Swiveller entertained or understood, but these being left to their own 
development, require no present elucidation. The negotiation was concluded 
very pleasantly, and Mr Swiveller was in the act of stating in flowery 
terms that he had no insurmountable objection to marrying anybody 
plentifully endowed with money or moveables, who could be induced to take 
him, when he was interrupted in his observations by a knock at the door, 
and the consequent necessity of crying "Come in."
The door was opened, but nothing came in except a soapy arm and a strong 
gush of tobacco. The gush of tobacco came from the shop downstairs, and the 
soapy arm proceeded from the body of a servant girl, who being then and 
there engaged in cleaning the stairs had just drawn it out of a warm pail 
to take in a letter, which letter she now held in her hand; proclaiming 
aloud, with that quick perception of surnames peculiar to her class, that 
it was for Mister Snivelling.
Dick looked rather pale and foolish when he glanced at the direction, and 
still more so when he came to look at the inside; observing that this was 
one of the inconveniences of being a lady's man, and that it was very easy 
to talk as they had been talking, but he had quite forgotten her.
"Her. Who?" demanded Trent.
"Sophy Wackles," said Dick.
"Who's she?"
"She's all my fancy painted her, sir, that's what she is," said Mr 
Swiveller, taking a long pull at "the rosy" and looking gravely at his 
friend. "She is lovely, she's divine. You know her."
"I remember," said his companion carelessly. "What of her?"
"Why, sir," returned Dick, "between Miss Sophia Wackles and the humble 
individual who has now the honour to address you, warm and tender 
sentiments have been engendered - sentiments of the most honourable and 
inspiring kind. The Goddess Diana, sir, that calls aloud for the chace, is 
not more particular in her behaviour than Sophia Wackles; I can tell you 
that."
"Am I to believe there's anything real in what you say?" demanded his 
friend; "you don't mean to say that any love-making has been going on?"
"Love-making, yes. Promising, no," said Dick. "There can be no action for 
breach, that's one comfort. I've never committed myself in writing, Fred."
"And what's in the letter pray?"
"A reminder, Fred, for tonight - a small party of twenty - making two 
hundred light fantastic toes in all, supposing every lady and gentleman to 
have the proper complement. I must go, if it's only to begin breaking off 
the affair - I'll do it, don't you be afraid. I should like to know whether 
she left this, herself. If she did, unconscious of any bar to her 
happiness, it's affecting, Fred."
To solve this question, Mr Swiveller summoned the hand-maid and ascertained 
that Miss Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with her own hands; that 
she had come accompanied, for decorum's sake no doubt, by a younger Miss 
Wackles; and that on learning that Mr Swiveller was at home and being 
requested to walk upstairs, she was extremely shocked and professed that 
she would rather die. Mr Swiveller heard this account with a degree of 
admiration not altogether consistent with the project in which he had just 
concurred, but his friend attached very little importance to his behaviour 
in this respect, probably because he knew that he had influence sufficient 
to control Richard Swiveller's proceedings in this or any other matter, 
whenever he deemed it necessary, for the advancement of his own purposes, 
to exert it.


Chapter 8

Business disposed of, Mr Swiveller was inwardly reminded of its being nigh 
dinner-time, and to the intent that his health might not be endangered by 
longer abstinence, despatched a message to the nearest eating-house 
requiring an immediate supply of boiled beef and greens for two. With this 
demand, however, the eating-house (having experience of its customer) 
declined to comply, churlishly sending back for answer that if Mr Swiveller 
stood in need of beef perhaps he would be so obliging as to come there and 
eat it, bringing with him as grace before meat, the amount of a certain 
small account which had been long outstanding. Not at all intimidated by 
this rebuff, but rather sharpened in wits and appetite, Mr Swiveller 
forwarded the same message to another and more distant eating-house, adding 
to it by way or rider that the gentleman was induced to send so far, not 
only by the great fame and popularity its beef had acquired, but in 
consequence of the extreme toughness of the beef retailed at the obdurate 
cook's shop, which rendered it quite unfit not merely for gentlemanly food 
but for any human consumption. The good effect of this politic course was 
demonstrated by the speedy arrival of a small pewter pyramid, curiously 
constructed of platters and covers, whereof the boiled-beef-plates formed 
the base, and a foaming quart-pot the apex; the structure being resolved 
into its component parts afforded all things requisite and necessary for a 
hearty meal, to which Mr Swiveller and his friend applied themselves with 
great keenness and enjoyment.
"May the present moment," said Dick, sticking his fork into a large 
carbuncular potato, "be the worst of our lives! I like this plan of sending 
'em with the peel on; there's a charm in drawing a potato from its native 
element (if I may so express it) to which the rich and powerful are 
strangers. Ah! 'Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little 
long!' How true that is! - after dinner."
"I hope the eating-house keeper will want but little and that he may not 
want that little long," returned his companion; "but I suspect you've no 
means of paying for this!"
"I shall be passing presently, and I'll call," said Dick, winking his eye 
significantly. "The waiter's quite helpless. The goods are gone, Fred, and 
there's an end of it."
In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome truth, 
for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was informed by Mr 
Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would call and settle when he 
should be passing presently, he displayed some perturbation of spirit, and 
muttered a few remarks about "payment on delivery," and "no trust," and 
other unpleasant subjects, but was fain to content himself with inquiring 
at what hour it was likely the gentleman would call, in order that being 
personally responsible for the beef, greens, and sundries, he might take 
care to be in the way at the time. Mr Swiveller, after mentally calculating 
his engagements to a nicety, replied that he should look in at from two 
minutes before six to seven minutes past; and the man disappearing with 
this feeble consolation, Richard Swiveller took a greasy memorandum book 
from his pocket and made an entry therein.
"Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call?" said Trent with a 
sneer.
"Not exactly, Fred," replied the imperturbable Richard, continuing to write 
with a business-like air, "I enter in this little book the names of the 
streets that I can't go down while the shops are open. This dinner today 
closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen Street last week, 
and made that no thoroughfare too. There's only one avenue to the Strand 
left open now, and I shall have to stop up that tonight with a pair of 
gloves. The roads are closing so fast in every direction, that in about a 
month's time, unless my aunt sends me a remittance, I shall have to go 
three or four miles out of town to get over the way."
"There's no fear of her failing, in the end?" said Trent.
"Why, I hope not," returned Mr Swiveller, "but the average number of 
letters it takes to soften her is six, and this time we have got as far as 
eight without any effect at all. I'll write another tomorrow morning. I 
mean to blot it a good deal and shake some water over it out of the pepper-
castor, to make it look penitent. 'I'm in such a state of mind that I 
hardly know what I write' - blot - 'if you could see me at this minute 
shedding tears for my past misconduct' - pepper-castor - 'my hand trembles 
when I think' - blot again - if that don't produce the effect, it's all 
over."
By this time Mr Swiveller had finished his entry, and he now replaced his 
pencil in its little sheath and closed the book, in a perfectly grave and 
serious frame of mind. His friend discovered that it was time for him to 
fulfil some other engagement, and Richard Swiveller was accordingly left 
alone, in company with the rosy wine and his own meditations touching Miss 
Sophy Wackles.
"It's rather sudden," said Dick, shaking his head with a look of infinite 
wisdom, and running on (as he was accustomed to do) with scraps of verse as 
if they were only prose in a hurry; "when the heart of a man is depressed 
with fears, the mist is dispelled when Miss Wackles appears: she's a very 
nice girl. She's like the red rose that's newly sprung in June - there's no 
denying that - she's also like a melody that's sweetly played in tune. It's 
really very sudden. Not that there's any need, on account of Fred's little 
sister, to turn cool directly, but it's better not to go too far. If I 
begin to cool at all I must begin at once, I see that. There's the chance 
of an action for breach, that's one reason. There's the chance of Sophy's 
getting another husband, that's another. There's the chance of - no, 
there's no chance of that, but it's as well to be on the safe side."
This undeveloped consideration was the possibility, which Richard Swiveller 
sought to conceal even from himself, of his not being proof against the 
charms of Miss Wackles, and in some unguarded moment, by linking his 
fortunes to hers for ever, of putting it out of his own power to further 
the notable scheme to which he had so readily become a party. For all these 
reasons, he decided to pick a quarrel with Miss Wackles without delay, and 
casting about for a pretext determined in favour of groundless jealousy. 
Having made up his mind on this important point, he circulated the glass 
(from his right hand to his left, and back again) pretty freely, to enable 
him to act his part with the greater discretion, and then, after making 
some slight improvements in his toilet, bent his steps towards the spot 
hallowed by the fair object of his meditations.
This spot was at Chelsea, for there Miss Sophia Wackles resided with her 
widowed mother and two sisters, in conjunction with whom she maintained a 
very small day-school for young ladies of proportionate dimensions; a 
circumstance which was made known to the neighbourhood by an oval board 
over the front first-floor window, whereon appeared, in circumambient 
flourishes, the words "Ladies' Seminary;" and which was further published 
and proclaimed at intervals between the hours of half-past nine and ten in 
the morning, by a straggling and solitary young lady of tender years 
standing on the scraper on the tips of her toes and making futile attempts 
to reach the knocker with a spelling-book. The several duties of 
instruction in this establishment were thus discharged. English grammer, 
composition, geography, and the use of the dumbbells, by Miss Melissa 
Wackles; writing, arithmetic, dancing, music, and general fascination, by 
Sophy Wackles; the art of needlework, marking, and samplery, by Miss Jane 
Wackles; corporal punishment, fasting, and other tortures and terrors, by 
Mrs Wackles. Miss Melissa Wackles was the eldest daughter, Miss Sophy the 
next, and Miss Jane the youngest. Miss Melissa might have seen five-and-
thirty summers or thereabouts, and verged on the autumnal; Miss Sophy was a 
fresh, good-humoured, buxom girl of twenty; and Miss Jane numbered scarcely 
sixteen years. Mrs Wackles was an excellent, but rather venomous old lady 
of threescore.
To this Ladies' Seminary then, Richard Swiveller hied, with designs 
obnoxious to the peace of the fair Sophia, who, arrayed in virgin white, 
embellished by no ornament but one blushing rose, received him on his 
arrival, in the midst of very elegant not to say brilliant preparations; 
such as the embellishment of the room with the little flowerpots which 
always stood on the window-sill outside, save in windy weather when they 
blew into the area; the choice attire of the day-scholars who were allowed 
to grace the festival; the unwonted curls of Miss Jane Wackles who had kept 
her head during the whole of the preceding day screwed up tight in a yellow 
playbill; and the solemn gentility and stately bearing of the old lady and 
her eldest daughter, which struck Mr Swiveller as being uncommon, but made 
no further impression upon him.
The truth is - and, as there is no accounting for tastes, even a taste so 
strange as this may be recorded without being looked upon as a wilful and 
malicious invention - the truth is, that neither Mrs Wackles nor her eldest 
daughter had at any time greatly favoured the pretensions of Mr Swiveller: 
they being accustomed to make slight mention of him as "a gay young man," 
and to sigh and shake their heads ominously whenever his name was 
mentioned. Mr Swiveller's conduct in respect to Miss Sophy having been of 
that vague and dilatory kind which is usually looked upon as betokening no 
fixed matrimonial intentions, the young lady herself began in course of 
time to deem it highly desirable, that it should be brought to an issue one 
way or other. Hence, she had at last consented to play off, against Richard 
Swiveller, a stricken market-gardener known to be ready with his offer on 
the smallest encouragement, and hence - as this occasion had been specially 
assigned for the purpose - that great anxiety on her part for Richard 
Swiveller's presence which had occasioned her to leave the note he has been 
seen to receive. "If he has any expectations at all or any means of keeping 
a wife well," said Mrs Wackles to her eldest daughter, "he'll state 'em to 
us now or never." - "If he really cares about me," thought Miss Sophy, "he 
must tell me so, tonight."
But all these sayings and doings and thinkings being unknown to Mr 
Swiveller, affected him not in the least; he was debating in his mind how 
he could best turn jealous, and wishing that Sophy were, for that occasion 
only, far less pretty than she was, or that she were her own sister, which 
would have served his turn as well, when the company came, and among them 
the market-gardener, whose name was Cheggs. But Mr Cheggs came not alone or 
unsupported, for he prudently brought along with him his sister, Miss 
Cheggs, who making straight to Miss Sophy and taking her by both hands, and 
kissing her on both cheeks, hoped in an audible whisper that they had not 
come too early.
"Too early, no!" replied Miss Sophy.
"Oh my dear," rejoined Miss Cheggs in the same whisper as before, "I've 
been so tormented, so worried, that it's a mercy we were not here at four 
o'clock in the afternoon. Alick has been in such a state of impatience to 
come! You'd hardly believe that he was dressed before dinner-time and has 
been looking at the clock and teasing me ever since. It's all your fault, 
you naughty thing."
Hereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and Mr Cheggs (who was bashful before ladies) 
blushed too, and Miss Sophy's mother and sisters, to prevent Mr Cheggs from 
blushing more, lavished civilities and attentions upon him, and left 
Richard Swiveller to take care of himself. Here was the very thing he 
wanted; here was good cause, reason, and foundation, for pretending to be 
angry; but having this cause, reason, and foundation, which he had come 
expressly to seek, not expecting to find, Richard Swiveller was angry in 
sound earnest, and wondered what the devil Cheggs meant by his impudence.
However, Mr Swiveller had Miss Sophy's hand for the first quadrille 
(country-dances being low, were utterly proscribed), and so gained an 
advantage over his rival, who sat despondingly in a corner and contemplated 
the glorious figure of the young lady as she moved through the mazy dance. 
Nor was this the only start Mr Swiveller had of the market-gardener; for, 
determining to show the family what quality of man they trifled with, and 
influenced perhaps by his late libations, he performed such feats of 
agility and such spins and whirls as filled the company with astonishment, 
and in particular caused a very long gentleman who was dancing with a very 
short scholar, to stand quite transfixed by wonder and admiration. Even Mrs 
Wackles forgot for the moment to snub three small young ladies who were 
inclined to be happy, and could not repress a rising thought that to have 
such a dancer as that in the family would be a pride indeed.
At this momentous crisis, Miss Cheggs proved herself a vigorous and useful 
ally; for, not confining herself to expressing by scornful smiles a 
contempt for Mr Swiveller's accomplishments, she took every opportunity of 
whispering into Miss Sophy's ear expressions of condolence and sympathy on 
her being worried by such a ridiculous creature, declaring that she was 
frightened to death lest Alick should fall upon him, and beat him, in the 
fullness of his wrath, and entreating Miss Sophy to observe how the eyes of 
the said Alick gleamed with love and fury; passions, it may be observed, 
which being too much for his eyes, rushed into his nose also, and suffused 
it with a crimson glow.
"You must dance with Miss Cheggs," said Miss Sophy to Dick Swiveller, after 
she had herself danced twice with Mr Cheggs, and made great show of 
encouraging his advances. "She's such a nice girl - and her brother's quite 
delightful."
"Quite delightful is he?" muttered Dick. "Quite delighted too, I should 
say, from the manner in which he's looking this way."
Here Miss Jane (previously instructed for the purpose) interposed her many 
curls and whispered her sister to observe how jealous Mr Cheggs was.
"Jealous! Like his impudence!" said Richard Swiveller.
"His impudence, Mr Swiveller!" said Miss Jane, tossing her head. "Take care 
he don't hear you, sir, or you may be sorry for it."
"Oh pray, Jane - " said Miss Sophy.
"Nonsense!" replied her sister, "why shouldn't Mr Cheggs be jealous if he 
likes? I like that, certainly. Mr Cheggs has as good a right to be jealous 
as anybody else has, and perhaps he may have a better right soon, if he 
hasn't already. You know best about that, Sophy!"
Though this was a concerted plot between Miss Sophy and her sister, 
originating in humane intentions, and having for its object the inducing Mr 
Swiveller to declare himself in time; it failed in its effect; for Miss 
Jane being one of those young ladies who are prematurely shrill and 
shrewish, gave such undue importance to her part, that Mr Swiveller retired 
in dudgeon, resigning his mistress to Mr Cheggs, and conveying a defiance 
into his looks which that gentleman indignantly returned.
"Did you speak to me, sir?" said Mr Cheggs, following him into a corner. - 
"Have the kindness to smile, sir, in order that we may not be suspected. - 
Did you speak to me, sir?"
Mr Swiveller looked with a supercilious smile at Mr Cheggs's toes, then 
raised his eyes from them to his ancle, from that to his shin, from that to 
his knee, and so on very gradually, keeping up his right leg, until he 
reached his waistcoat, when he raised his eyes from button to button until 
he reached his chin, and travelling straight up the middle of his nose came 
at last to his eyes, when he said abruptly,
"No, sir, I didn't."
"Hem!" said Mr Cheggs, glancing over his shoulder, "have the goodness to 
smile again, sir. Perhaps you wished to speak to me, sir."
"No, sir, I didn't do that, either."
"Perhaps you may have nothing to say to me now, sir," said Mr Cheggs 
fiercely.
At these words, Richard Swiveller withdrew his eyes from Mr Cheggs's face, 
and traveling down the middle of his nose, and down his waistcoat, and down 
his right leg, reached his toes again and carefully surveyed them; this 
done, he crossed over, and coming up the other leg, and thence approaching 
by the waistcoat as before, said when he had got to his eyes, "No, sir, I 
haven't."
"Oh indeed, sir!" said Mr Cheggs. "I'm glad to hear it. You know where I'm 
to be found, I suppose, sir, in case you should have anything to say to 
me?"
"I can easily inquire, sir, when I want to know."
"There's nothing more we need say, I believe, sir?"
"Nothing more, sir." - With that they closed the tremendous dialogue by 
frowning mutually. Mr Cheggs hastened to tender his hand to Miss Sophy, and 
Mr Swiveller sat himself down in a corner in a very moody state.
Hard by this corner, Mrs Wackles and Miss Wackles were seated, looking on 
at the dance; and unto Mrs and Miss Wackles, Miss Cheggs occasionally 
darted when her partner was occupied with his share of the figure, and made 
some remark or other which was gall and wormwood to Richard Swiveller's 
soul. Looking into the eyes of Mrs and Miss Wackles for encouragement, and 
sitting very upright and uncomfortable on a couple of hard stools, were two 
of the day-scholars; and when Miss Wackles smiled, and Mrs Wackles smiled, 
the two little girls on the stools sought to curry favour by smiling 
likewise, in gracious acknowledgment of which attention the old lady 
frowned them down instantly, and said that if they dared to be guilty of 
such an impertinence again, they should be sent under convoy to their 
respective homes. This threat caused one of the young ladies, she being of 
a weak and trembling temperament, to shed tears, and for this offence they 
were both filed off immediately, with a dreadful promptitude that struck 
terror into the souls of all the pupils.
"I've got such news for you," said Miss Cheggs, approaching once more, 
"Alick has been saying such things to Sophy. Upon my word, you know, it's 
quite serious and in earnest, that's clear."
"What's he been saying, my dear?" demanded Mrs Wackles.
"All manner of things," replied Miss Cheggs, "you can't think how out he 
has been speaking!"
Richard Swiveller considered it advisable to hear no more, but taking 
advantage of a pause in the dancing, and the approach of Mr Cheggs to pay 
his court to the old lady, swaggered with an extremely careful assumption 
of extreme carelessness to wards the door, passing on the way Miss Jane 
Wackles, who in all the glory of her curls was holding a flirtation (as 
good practice when no better was to be had) with a feeble old gentleman who 
lodged in the parlour. Near the door sat Miss Sophy, still fluttered and 
confused by the attentions of Mr Cheggs, and by her side Richard Swiveller 
lingered for a moment to exchange a few parting words.
"My boat is on the shore and my bark is on the sea, but before I pass this 
door I will say farewell to thee," murmured Dick, looking gloomily upon 
her.
"Are you going!" said Miss Sophy, whose heart sunk within her at the result 
of her stratagem, but who affected a light indifference notwithstanding.
"Am I going!" echoed Dick bitterly. "Yes I am. What then?"
"Nothing, except that it's very early," said Miss Sophy; "but you are your 
own master of course."
"I would that I had been my own mistress too," said Dick, "before I had 
ever entertained a thought of you. Miss Wackles, I believed you true, and I 
was blest in so believing, but now I mourn that e'er I knew, a girl so fair 
yet so deceiving."
Miss Sophy bit her lip and affected to look with great interest after Mr 
Cheggs, who was quaffing lemonade in the distance.
"I came here," said Dick, rather oblivious of the purpose with which he had 
really come, "with my bosom expanded, my heart dilated, and my sentiments 
of a corresponding description. I go away with feelings that may be 
conceived, but cannot be described: feeling within myself the desolating 
truth that my best affections have experienced, this night, a stifler!"
"I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Swiveller," said Miss Sophy with 
downcast eyes. "I'm very sorry if - "
"Sorry, ma'am!" said Dick, "sorry in the possession of a Cheggs! But I wish 
you a very good night: concluding with this slight remark, that there is a 
young lady growing up at this present moment for me, who has not only great 
personal attractions but great wealth, and who has requested her next of 
kin to propose for my hand, which, having a regard for some members of her 
family, I have consented to promise. It's a gratifying circumstance which 
you'll be glad to hear, that a young and lovely girl is growing into a 
woman expressly on my account, and is now saving up for me. I thought I'd 
mention it. I have now merely to apologise for trespassing so long upon 
your attention. Good night!"
"There's one good thing springs out of all this," said Richard Swiveller to 
himself when he had reached home and was hanging over the candle with the 
extinguisher in his hand, "which is, that I now go heart and soul, neck and 
heels, with Fred in all his scheme about little Nelly, and right glad he'll 
be to find me so strong upon it. He shall know all about that tomorrow, and 
in the mean time, as it's rather late, I'll try and get a wink or two of 
the balmy."
"The balmy" came almost as soon as it was courted. In a very few minutes Mr 
Swiveller was fast asleep, dreaming that he had married Nelly Trent and 
came into the property, and that his first act of power was to lay waste 
the market-garden of Mr Cheggs and turn it into a brick-field.


Chapter 9

The child, in her confidence with Mrs Quilp, had but feebly described the 
sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness of the cloud which 
overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its hearth. Besides that it was 
very difficult to impart to any person not intimately acquainted with the 
life she led, an adequate sense of its gloom and loneliness, a constant 
fear of in some way committing or injuring the old man to whom she was so 
tenderly attached, had restrained her, even in the midst of her heart's 
overflowing, and made her timid of allusion to the main cause of her 
anxiety and distress.
For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by variety and uncheered by 
pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary evenings or the long 
solitary nights, it was not the absence of every slight and easy pleasure 
for which young hearts beat high, or the knowing nothing of childhood but 
its weakness and its easily wounded spirit, that had rung such tears from 
Nell. To see the old man struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden 
grief, to mark his wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated at times 
with a dreadful fear that his mind was wandering, and to trace in his words 
and looks the dawning of despondent madness; to watch and wait and listen 
for confirmation of these things day after day, and to feel and know that, 
come what might, they were alone in the world with no one to help or advise 
or care about them - these were causes of depression and anxiety that might 
have sat heavily on an older breast with many influences at work to cheer 
and gladden it, but how heavily on the mind of a young child to whom they 
were ever present, and who was constantly surrounded by all that could keep 
such thoughts in restless action!
And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. When he could, 
for a moment, disengage his mind from the phantom that haunted and brooded 
on it always, there was his young companion with the same smile for him, 
the same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same love and care that, 
sinking deep into his soul, seemed to have been present to him through his 
whole life. And so he went on, content to read the book of her heart from 
the page first presented to him, little dreaming of the story that lay 
hidden in its other leaves, and murmuring within himself that at least the 
child was happy.
She had been once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms, and moving 
with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures, making them older 
by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and cheerful 
presence. But, now, the chambers were cold and gloomy, and when she left 
her own little room to while away the tedious hours, and sat in one of 
them, she was still and motionless as their inanimate occupants, and had no 
heart to startle the echoes - hoarse from their long silence - with her 
voice.
In one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street, where the 
child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night, 
alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch and wait; at 
these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her mind, in crowds.
She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as they 
passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the opposite 
houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that in which she 
sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her sitting there, as 
she did only to see them look out and draw in their heads again. There was 
a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the roofs, in which, by often looking 
at them, she had fancied ugly faces that were frowning over at her and 
trying to peer into the room; and she felt glad when it grew too dark to 
make them out, though she was sorry too, when the man came to light the 
lamps in the street - for it made it late, and very dull inside. Then, she 
would draw in her head to look round the room and see that everything was 
in its place and hadn't moved; and looking out into the street again, would 
perhaps see a man passing with a coffin on his back, and two or three 
others silently following him to a house where somebody lay dead; which 
made her shudder and think of such things until they suggested afresh the 
old man's altered face and manner, and a new train of fears and 
speculations. If he were to die - if sudden illness had happened to him, 
and he were never to come home again, alive - if, one night, he should come 
home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and after she had gone to bed and 
had fallen asleep and was perhaps dreaming pleasantly, and smiling in her 
sleep, he should kill himself and his blood come creeping, creeping, on the 
ground to her own bedroom door - These thoughts were too terrible to dwell 
upon, and again she would have recourse to the street, now trodden by fewer 
feet, and darker and more silent than before. The shops were closing fast, 
and lights began to shine from the upper windows, as the neighbours went to 
bed. By degrees, these dwindled away and disappeared, or were replaced, 
here and there, by a feeble rush-candle which was to burn all night. Still, 
there was one late shop at no great distance which sent forth a ruddy glare 
upon the pavement even yet, and looked bright and companionable. But, in a 
little time, this closed, the light was extinguished, and all was gloomy 
and quiet, except when some stray footsteps sounded on the pavement, or a 
neighbour, out later than his wont, knocked lustily at his house-door to 
rouse the sleeping inmates.
When the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it had) the 
child would close the window, and steal softly downstairs, thinking as she 
went that if one of those hideous faces below, which often mingled with her 
dreams, were to meet her by the way, rendering itself visible by some 
strange light of its own, how terrified she would be. But these fears 
vanished before a well-trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect of her own 
room. After praying fervently, and with many bursting tears, for the old 
man, and the restoration of his peace of mind and the happiness they once 
enjoyed, she would lay her head upon the pillow and sob herself to sleep: 
often starting up again, before the daylight came, to listen for the bell, 
and respond to the imaginary summons which had roused her from her slumber.
One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs Quilp, the old man, 
who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not leave home. The 
child's eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her joy subsided when they 
reverted to his worn and sickly face.
"Two days," he said, "two whole, clear days have passed, and there is no 
reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?"
"Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed."
"True," said the old man, faintly. "Yes. But tell me again, Nell. My head 
fails me. What was it that he told thee? Nothing more than that he would 
see me tomorrow or next day? That was in the note."
"Nothing more," said the child. "Shall I go to him again tomorrow, dear 
grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back, before breakfast."
The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her towards him.
"'Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he deserts me, Nell, 
at this moment - if he deserts me now, when I should, with his assistance, 
be recompensed for all the time and money I have lost, and all the agony of 
mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, I am ruined, and - 
worse, far worse than that - have ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If 
we are beggars -!"
"What if we are?" said the child boldly. "Let us be beggars and be happy."
"Beggars - and happy!" said the old man. "Poor child!"
"Dear grandfather," cried the girl with an energy which shone in her 
flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, "I am not a child 
in that I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may beg, or work 
in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather than live as we do 
now."
"Nelly!" said the old man.
"Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now," the child repeated, more 
earnestly than before. "If you are sorrowful let me know why and be 
sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every day, let me 
be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be poor 
together; but let me be with you, do let me be with you; do not let me see 
such a change and not know why, or I shall break my heart and die. Dear 
grandfather, let us leave this sad place tomorrow, and beg our way from 
door to door."
The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the pillow of 
the couch on which he lay.
"Let us be beggars," said the child passing an arm round his neck, "I have 
no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall. Let us walk through 
country places, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of 
money again, or anything that can make you sad, but rest at nights, and 
have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day, and thank God together! 
Let us never set foot in dark rooms or melancholy houses, any more, but 
wander up and down wherever we like to go; and when you are tired, you 
shall stop to rest in the pleasantest place that we can find, and I will go 
and beg for both."
The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old man's neck; 
nor did she weep alone.
These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for other eyes. And 
yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in all that passed, 
and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no less a person than Mr Daniel 
Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child first placed herself at 
the old man's side, refrained - actuated, no doubt, by motives of the 
purest delicacy - from interrupting the conversation, and stood looking on 
with his accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a tiresome attitude to a 
gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the dwarf being one of that 
kind of persons who usually make themselves at home, he soon cast his eyes 
upon a chair, into which he skipped with uncommon agility, and perching 
himself on the back with his feet upon the seat, was thus enabled to look 
on and listen with greater comfort to himself, besides gratifying at the 
same time that taste for doing something fantastic and monkey-like, which 
on all occasions had strong possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg 
cocked carelessly over the other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, 
his head turned a little on one side, and his ugly features twisted into a 
complacent grimace. And in this position the old man, happening in course 
of time to look that way, at length chanced to see him: to his unbounded 
astonishment.
The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this agreeable figure; 
in their first surprise both she and the old man, not knowing what to say, 
and half doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. Not at all 
disconcerted by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the same attitude, 
merely nodding twice or thrice with great condescension. At length, the old 
man pronounced his name, and inquired how he came there.
"Through the door," said Quilp pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. 
"I'm not quite small enough to get through key holes. I wish I was. I want 
to have some talk with you, particularly, and in private - with nobody 
present, neighbour. Good-bye, little Nelly."
Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed her 
cheek.
"Ah!" said the dwarf, smacking his lips, "what a nice kiss that was - just 
upon the rosy part. What a capital kiss!"
Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark. Quilp looked after 
her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the door, fell to 
complimenting the old man upon her charms.
"Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbour," said Quilp, nursing 
his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much: "such a chubby, rosy, 
cosy, little Nell!"
The old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly struggling with a 
feeling of the keenest and most exquisite impatience. It was not lost upon 
Quilp, who delighted in torturing him, or indeed anybody else, when he 
could.
"She's so," said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be quite 
absorbed in the subject, "so small, so compact, so beautifully modelled, so 
fair, with such blue veins, and such a transparent skin, and such little 
feet, and such winning ways - but bless me, you're nervous! Why neighbour, 
what's the matter? I swear to you," continued the dwarf dismounting from 
the chair and sitting down in it, with a careful slowness of gesture very 
different from the rapidity with which he had sprung up unheard, "I swear 
to you that I had no idea old blood ran so fast or kept so warm. I thought 
it was sluggish in its course, and cool, quite cool. I am pretty sure it 
ought to be. Yours must be out of order, neighbour."
"I believe it is," groaned the old man, clasping his head with both hands. 
"There's burning fever here, and something now and then to which I fear to 
give a name."
The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced 
restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his seat. Here 
he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for some time, and then 
suddenly raising it, said,
"Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?"
"No!" returned Quilp.
"Then," said the old man, clenching his hands desperately, and looking 
upward, "the child and I are lost!"
"Neighbour," said Quilp glancing sternly at him, and beating his hand twice 
or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering attention, "let me be 
plain with you, and play a fairer game than when you held all the cards, 
and I saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret from me now."
The old man looked up trembling.
"You are surprised," said Quilp. "Well, perhaps that's natural. You have no 
secret from me now, I say; no, not one. For now, I know, that all those 
sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and supplies that you have 
had from me, have found their way to - shall I say the word?"
"Aye!" replied the old man, "say it if you will."
"To the gaming-table," rejoined Quilp, "your nightly haunt. This was the 
precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the secret certain 
source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my money (if I had been the 
fool you took me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of gold, your El 
Dorado, eh?"
"Yes," cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes, "it was. It 
is. It will be, till I die."
"That I should have been blinded," said Quilp, looking contemptuously at 
him, "by a mere shallow gambler."
"I am no gambler," cried the old man, fiercely. "I call Heaven to witness 
that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play; that at every piece 
I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's name, and called on Heaven to 
bless the venture - which it never did. Whom did it prosper? Who were those 
with whom I played? Men who lived by plunder, profligacy, and riot; 
squandering their gold in doing ill, and propagating vice and evil. My 
winnings would have been from them, my winnings would have been bestowed to 
the last farthing on a young sinless child, whose life they would have 
sweetened and made happy. What would they have contracted? The means of 
corruption, wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have hoped in such a 
cause - tell me that! Who would not have hoped as I did?"
"When did you first begin this mad career?" asked Quilp, his taunting 
inclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief and wildness.
"When did I first begin?" he rejoined, passing his hand across his brow. 
"When was it, that I first began? When should it be, but when I began to 
think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all, how 
short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she would be left to 
the rough mercies of the world, with barely enough to keep her from the 
sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was, that I began to think about it."
"After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed off to 
sea?" said Quilp.
"Shortly after that," replied the old man. "I thought of it a long time, 
and had it in my sleep for months. Then I began. I found no pleasure in it, 
I expected none. What has it ever brought to me but anxious days and 
sleepless nights; but loss of health and peace of mind, and gain of 
feebleness and sorrow!"
"You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to me. While I 
thought you were making your fortune (as you said you were) you were making 
yourself a beggar, eh? Dear me! And so it comes to pass that I hold every 
security you could scrape together, and a bill of sale upon the - upon the 
stock and property," said Quilp, standing up and looking about him, as if 
to assure himself that none of it had been taken away. "But did you never 
win?"
"Never!" groaned the old man. "Never won back my loss!"
"I thought," sneered the dwarf, "that if a man played long enough he was 
sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off a loser."
"And so he is," cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from his state 
of despondency, and lashed into the most violent excitement, "so he is; I 
have felt that from the first, I have always known it, I've seen it, I 
never felt it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed, 
three nights, of winning the same large sum, I never could dream that dream 
before, though I have often tried. Do not desert me, now I have this 
chance. I have no resource but you, give me some help, let me try this one 
last hope."
The dwarf shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.
"See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp," said the old man, drawing some 
scraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand, and clasping the 
dwarf's arm, "only see here. Look at these figures, the result of long 
calculation, and painful and hard experience. I must win. I only want a 
little help once more, a few pounds, but two score pounds, dear Quilp."
"The last advance was seventy," said the dwarf, "and it went in one night."
"I know it did," answered the old man, "but that was the very worst fortune 
of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp, consider, consider," the old 
man cried, trembling so much the while, that the papers in his hand 
fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind, "that orphan child! If I were 
alone, I could die with gladness - perhaps even anticipate that doom which 
is dealt out so unequally: coming, as it does, on the proud and happy in 
their strength, and shunning the needy and afflicted, and all who court it 
in their despair - but what I have done has been for her. Help me for her 
sake I implore you - not for mine, for hers!"
"I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city," said Quilp, looking at his 
watch with perfect self-possession, "or I should have been very glad to 
have spent half an hour with you while you composed yourself - very glad."
"Nay, Quilp, good Quilp," gasped the old man, catching at his skirts - " 
you and I have talked together, more than once, of her poor mother's story. 
The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that. Do 
not be hard upon me, but take that into account. You are a great gainer by 
me. Oh spare me the money for this one last hope!"
"I couldn't do it really," said Quilp with unusual politeness, "though I 
tell you what - and this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind as showing 
how the sharpest among us may be taken in sometimes - I was so deceived by 
the penurious way in which you lived, alone with Nelly - "
"All done to save money for tempting fortune, and to make her triumph 
greater," cried the old man.
"Yes yes, I understand that now," said Quilp: "but I was going to say, I 
was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation you had among 
those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated assurances that you 
would make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest you paid me, 
that I'd have advanced you, even now, what you want, on your simple note of 
hand, if I hadn't unexpectedly become acquainted with your secret way of 
life."
"Who is it," retorted the old man desperately, "that, notwithstanding all 
my caution, told you. Come. Let me know the name - the person."
The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child would 
lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed, which, as nothing 
was to be gained by it, it was well to conceal, stopped short in his answer 
and said, "Now, who do you think?"
"It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy, and you tampered 
with him?" said the old man.
"How came you to think of him?" said the dwarf in a tone of great 
commiseration. "Yes it was Kit. Poor Kit!"
So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave; stopping 
when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and grinning with 
extraordinary delight.
"Poor Kit!" muttered Quilp. "I think it was Kit who said I was an uglier 
dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it. Ha ha ha! Poor 
Kit!"
And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he went.


Chapter 10

Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's house, unobserved. In 
the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to one of the many 
passages which diverged from the main street, there lingered one, who, 
having taken up his position when the twilight first came on, still 
maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning against the wall with 
the manner of a person who had a long time to wait, and being well used to 
it was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude for the hour together.
This patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those who 
passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His eyes were constantly directed 
towards one object; the window at which the child was accustomed to sit. If 
he withdrew them for a moment, it was only to glance at a clock in some 
neighbouring shop, and then to strain his sight once more in the old 
quarter with increased earnestness and attention.
It has been remarked that this personage evinced no weariness in his place 
of concealment; nor did he, long as his waiting was. But as the time went 
on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the clock more 
frequently and at the window less hopefully than before. At length, the 
clock was hidden from his sight by some envious shutters, then the church 
steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then the quarter past, and then the 
conviction seemed to obtrude itself on his mind that it was of no use 
tarrying there any longer.
That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he was by no means 
willing to yield to it, was apparent from his reluctance to quit the spot; 
from the tardy steps with which he often left it, still looking over his 
shoulder at the same window; and from the precipitation with which he as 
often returned, when a fancied noise or the changing and imperfect light 
induced him to suppose it had been softly raised. At length, he gave the 
matter up, as hopeless for that night, and suddenly breaking into a run as 
though to force himself away, scampered off at his utmost speed, nor once 
ventured to look behind him, lest he should be tempted back again.
Without relaxing his pace, or stopping to take breath, this mysterious 
individual dashed on through a great many alleys and narrow ways until he 
at length arrived in the square paved court, when he subsided into a walk, 
and making for a small house from the window of which a light was shining, 
lifted the latch of the door and passed in.
"Bless us!" cried a woman turning sharply round, "who's that? Oh! It's you, 
Kit!"
"Yes mother, it's me."
"Why, how tired you look, my dear!"
"Old master an't gone out tonight," said Kit; "and so she hasn't been at 
the window at all." With which words, he sat down by the fire, and looked 
very mournful and discontented.
The room in which Kit sat himself down, in this condition, was an extremely 
poor and homely place, but with that air of comfort about it, nevertheless, 
which - or the spot must be a wretched one indeed - cleanliness and order 
can always impart in some degree. Late as the Dutch clock showed it to be, 
the poor woman was still hard at work at the ironing-table; a young child 
lay sleeping in a cradle near the fire; and another, a sturdy boy of two or 
three years old, very wide awake, with a very tight night-cap on his head, 
and a nightgown very much too small for him on his body, was sitting bolt 
upright in a clothes-basket, staring over the rim with his great round eyes 
and looking as if he had thoroughly made up his mind never to go to sleep 
any more; which, as he had already declined to take his natural rest, and 
had been brought out of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful prospect for 
his relations and friends. It was rather a queer-looking family: Kit, his 
mother, and the children, being all strongly alike.
Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us are too often - but 
he looked at the youngest child who was sleeping soundly, and from him to 
his other brother in the clothes-basket, and from him to their mother, who 
had been at work without complaint since morning, and thought it would be a 
better and kinder thing to be good-humoured. So he rocked the cradle with 
his foot; made a face at the rebel in the clothes-basket, which put him in 
high good-humour directly; and stoutly determined to be talkative and make 
himself agreeable.
"Ah mother!" said Kit, taking out his clasp knife and falling upon a great 
piece of bread and meat which she had had ready for him, hours before, 
"what a one you are! There an't many such as you, I know."
"I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit," said Mrs Nubbles; "and 
there are, or ought to be, accordin' to what the parson at chapel says."
"Much he knows about it," returned Kit contemptuously. "Wait till he's a 
widder and works like you do, and gets as little, and does as much, and 
keeps his spirits up the same, and then I'll ask him what's o'clock and 
trust him for being right to half a second."
"Well," said Mrs Nubbles, evading the point, "your beer's down there by the 
fender, Kit."
"I see," replied her son, taking up the porter pot, "my love to you, 
mother. And the parson's health too if you like. I don't bear him any 
malice, not I!"
"Did you tell me, just now, that your master hadn't gone out tonight?" 
inquired Mrs Nubbles.
"Yes," said Kit, "worse luck."
"You should say better luck, I think," returned his mother, "because Miss 
Nelly won't have been left alone."
"Ah!" said Kit, "I forgot that. I said worse luck, because I've been 
watching ever since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her."
"I wonder what she'd say," cried his mother, stopping in her work, and 
looking round, "if she knew that every night when she - poor thing - is 
sitting alone at that window, you are watching in the open street for fear 
any harm should come to her, and that you never leave the place or come 
home to your bed though you're ever so tired, till such time as you think 
she's safe in hers."
"Never mind what she'd say," replied Kit, with something like a blush on 
his uncouth face; "she'll never know nothing, and consequently, she'll 
never say nothing."
Mrs Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or two, and coming to the 
fireplace for another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while she rubbed it 
on a board and dusted it with a duster, but said nothing until she had 
returned to her table again: when, holding the iron at an alarming short 
distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and looking round with a 
smile, she observed:
"I know what some people would say, Kit - "
"Nonsense," interposed Kit with a perfect apprehension of what was to 
follow.
"No, but they would indeed. Some people would say that you'd fallen in love 
with her, I know they would."
To this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother "get out," and 
forming sundry strange figures with his legs and arms, accompanied by 
sympathetic contortions of his face. Not deriving from these means the 
relief which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the bread and 
meat, and took a quick drink of the porter; by which artificial aids he 
choked himself and effected a diversion of the subject.
"Speaking seriously though, Kit," said his mother taking up the theme 
afresh after a time, "for of course I was only in joke just now, it's very 
good and thoughtful, and like you, to do this, and never let any one know 
it, though some day I hope she may come to know it, for I'm sure she would 
be very grateful to you and feel it very much. It's a cruel thing to keep 
the dear child shut up there. I don't wonder that the old gentleman wants 
to keep it from you."
"He don't think it's cruel, bless you," said Kit, "and don't mean to be so, 
or he wouldn't do it - I do consider, mother, that he wouldn't do it for 
all the gold and silver in the world. No, no, that he wouldn't. I know him 
better than that."
"Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it so close from you?" 
said Mrs Nubbles.
"That I don't know," returned her son. "If he hadn't tried to keep it so 
close though I should have never found it out, for it was his getting me 
away at night and sending me off so much earlier than he used to, that 
first made me curious to know what was going on. Hark! what's that?"
"It's only somebody outside."
"It's somebody crossing over here," said Kit, standing up to listen, "and 
coming very fast, too. He can't have gone out after I left and the house 
caught fire, mother!"
The boy stood, for a moment, really bereft, by the apprehension he had 
conjured up, of the power to move. The footsteps drew nearer, the door was 
opened with a hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and breathless, and 
hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried into the room.
"Miss Nelly! What is the matter!" cried mother and son together.
"I must not stay a moment," she returned, "grandfather has been taken very 
ill. I found him in a fit upon the floor - "
"I'll run for a doctor" - said Kit, seizing his brimless hat. "I'll be 
there directly, I'll - "
"No, no," cried Nell, "there is one there, you're not wanted, you - you - 
must never come near us any more!"
"What!" roared Kit.
"Never again," said the child. "Don't ask me why, for I don't know. Pray 
don't ask me why, pray don't be sorry, pray don't be vexed with me! I have 
nothing to do with it indeed!"
Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide; and opened and shut his 
mouth a great many times; but couldn't get out one word.
"He complains and raves of you," said the child, "I don't know what you 
have done, but I hope it's nothing very bad."
"I done?" roared Kit.
"He cries that you're the cause of all his misery," returned the child with 
tearful eyes; "he screamed and called for you; they say you must not come 
near him or he will die. You must not return to us any more. I came to tell 
you. I thought it would be better that I should come than somebody quite 
strange. Oh, Kit, what have you done? you, in whom I trusted so much, and 
who were almost the only friend I had!"
The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder and harder, and 
with eyes growing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless and silent.
"I have brought his money for the week," said the child, looking to the 
woman and laying it on the table - "and - and - a little more, for he was 
always good and kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and do well somewhere 
else and not take this to heart too much. It grieves me very much to part 
with him like this, but there is no help. It must be done. Good night!"
With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight figure trembling 
with the agitation of the scene she had left, the shock she had received, 
the errand she had just discharged, and a thousand painful and affectionate 
feelings, the child hastened to the door, and disappeared as rapidly as she 
had come.
The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, but every reason for 
relying on his honesty and truth, was staggered, notwithstanding, by his 
not having advanced one word in his defence. Visions of gallantry, knavery, 
robbery; and of the nightly absences from home for which he had accounted 
so strangely, having been occasioned by some unlawful pursuit; flocked into 
her brain and rendered her afraid to question him. She rocked herself upon 
a chair, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, but Kit made no attempt 
to comfort her, and remained quite bewildered. The baby in the cradle woke 
up and cried; the boy in the clothes basket fell over on his back with the 
basket upon him, and was seen no more; the mother wept louder yet and 
rocked faster; but Kit, insensible to all the din and tumult, remained in a 
state of utter stupefaction.


Chapter 11

Quiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted rule no longer, 
beneath the roof that sheltered the child. Next morning the old man was in 
a raging fever accompanied with delirium; and sinking under the influence 
of this disorder, he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of his life. 
There was watching enough, now, but it was the watching of strangers who 
made a greedy trade of it, and who, in the intervals of their attendance 
upon the sick man, huddled together with a ghastly good-fellowship, and ate 
and drunk and made merry; for disease and death were their ordinary 
household gods.
Yet, in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the child was more alone 
than she had ever been before; alone in spirit, alone in her devotion to 
him who was wasting away upon his burning bed; alone in her unfeigned 
sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day after day, and night after night, 
found her still by the pillow of the unconscious sufferer, still 
anticipating his every want, still listening to those repetitions of her 
name and those anxieties and cares for her, which were ever uppermost among 
his feverish wanderings.
The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber seemed to be 
retained, on the uncertain tenure of Mr Quilp's favour. The old man's 
illness had not lasted many days when he took formal possession of the 
premises, and all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that 
effect, which few understood and none presumed to call in question. This 
important step secured, with the assistance of a man of law whom he brought 
with him for the purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish himself and his 
coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim against all comers; 
and then set about making his quarters comfortable, after his own fashion.
To this end, Mr Quilp encamped in the back parlour, having first put an 
effectual stop to any further business by shutting up the shop. Having 
looked out, from among the old furniture, the handsomest and most 
commodious chair he could possibly find (which he reserved for his own 
use), and an especially hideous and uncomfortable one (which he 
considerately appropriated to the accommodation of his friend), he caused 
them to be carried into this room, and took up his position in great state. 
The apartment was very far removed from the old man's chamber, but Mr Quilp 
deemed it prudent, as a precaution against infection from fever, and a 
means of wholesome fumigation, not only to smoke himself, without 
cessation, but to insist upon it that his legal friend did the like. 
Moreover, he sent an express to the wharf for the tumbling boy, who, 
arriving with all despatch, was enjoined, to sit himself down in another 
chair just inside the door, continually to smoke a great pipe which the 
dwarf had provided for the purpose, and to take it from his lips under any 
pretence whatever, were it only for one minute at a time, if he dared. 
These arrangements completed, Mr Quilp looked round him with chuckling 
satisfaction, and remarked that he called that comfort.
The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, might have called it 
comfort also but for two drawbacks; one was, that he could by no exertion 
sit easy in his chair, the seat of which was very hard, angular, slippery, 
and sloping; the other, that tobacco smoke always caused him great internal 
discomposure and annoyance. But as he was quite a creature of Mr Quilp's, 
and had a thousand reasons for conciliating his good opinion, he tried to 
smile, and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace he could assume.
This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute, from Bevis Marks in the 
city of London; he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like a wen, a 
protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and hair of a deep red. He wore a 
long black surtout reaching nearly to his ancles, short black trousers, 
high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish grey. He had a cringing 
manner, but a very harsh voice; and his blandest smiles were so extremely 
forbidding, that to have had his company under the least repulsive 
circumstances, one would have wished him to be out of temper that he might 
only scowl.
Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he was winking very much 
in the anguish of his pipe, that he sometimes shuddered when he happened to 
inhale its full flavour, and that he constantly fanned the smoke from him, 
was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee.
"Smoke away, you dog," said Quilp, turning to the boy; "fill your pipe 
again and smoke it fast, down to the last whiff, or I'll put the sealing-
waxed end of it in the fire and rub it red hot upon your tongue."
Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have smoked a small lime-kiln 
if anybody had treated him with it. Wherefore, he only muttered a brief 
defiance of his master, and did as he was ordered.
"Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do you feel like the Grand 
Turk?" said Quilp.
Mr Brass thought that if he did, the Grand Turk's feelings were by no means 
to be envied, but he said it was famous, and he had no doubt he felt very 
like that Potentate.
"This is the way to keep off fever," said Quilp, "this is the way to keep 
off every calamity of life! We'll never leave off all the time we stop here 
- smoke away, you dog, or you shall swallow the pipe!"
"Shall we stop here long, Mr Quilp?" inquired his legal friend, when the 
dwarf had given his boy this gentle admonition.
"We must stop, I suppose, until the old gentleman upstairs is dead," 
returned Quilp.
"He he he!" laughed Brass, "oh! very good!"
"Smoke away!" cried Quilp. "Never stop! you can talk as you smoke. Don't 
lose time."
"He he he!" cried Brass faintly, as he again applied himself to the odious 
pipe. "But if he should get better, Mr Quilp?"
"Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer," returned the dwarf.
"How kind it is of you, sir, to wait 'till then!" said Brass. "Some people, 
sir, would have sold or removed the goods - oh! dear, the very instant the 
law allowed 'em. Some people, sir, would have been all flintiness and 
granite. Some people, sir, would have - "
"Some people would have spared themselves the jabbering of such a parrot as 
you," interposed the dwarf.
"He he he!" cried Brass. "You have such spirits!"
The smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this place, and without 
taking his pipe from his lips, growled,
"Here's the gal a-comin' down."
"The what, you dog?" said Quilp.
"The gal," returned the boy. "Are you deaf?"
"Oh!" said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great relish as if he were 
taking soup, "you and I will have such a settling presently; there's such a 
scratching and bruising in store for you, my dear young friend! Aha! Nelly! 
How is he now, my duck of diamonds?"
"He's very bad," replied the weeping child.
"What a pretty little Nell!" cried Quilp.
"Oh beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed," said Brass. "Quite charming!"
"Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee," said the dwarf, in what he meant 
to be a soothing tone, "or is she going to bed in her own little room 
inside here - which is poor Nelly going to do?"
"What a remarkable pleasant way he has with children!" muttered Brass, as 
if in confidence between himself and the ceiling; "upon my word it's quite 
a treat to hear him."
"I'm not going to stay at all," faltered Nell. "I want a few things out of 
that room, and then I - I - won't come down here any more."
"And a very nice little room it is!" said the dwarf looking into it as the 
child entered. "Quite a bower! You're sure you're not going to use it; 
you're sure you're not coming back, Nelly?"
"No," replied the child, hurrying away, with a few articles of dress she 
had come to remove; "never again! Never again."
"She's very sensitive," said Quilp, looking after her. "Very sensitive; 
that's a pity. The bedstead is much about my size. I think I shall make it 
my little room."
Mr Brass encouraging this idea, as he would have encouraged any other 
emanating from the same source, the dwarf walked in to try the effect. This 
he did, by throwing himself on his back upon the bed with his pipe in his 
mouth, and then kicking up his legs and smoking violently. Mr Brass 
applauding this picture very much, and the bed being soft and comfortable, 
Mr Quilp determined to use it, both as a sleeping place by night and as a 
kind of Divan by day; and in order that it might be converted to the latter 
purpose at once, remained where he was, and smoked his pipe out. The legal 
gentleman being by this time rather giddy and perplexed in his ideas (for 
this was one of the operations of the tobacco on his nervous system), took 
the opportunity of slinking away into the open air, where, in course of 
time, he recovered sufficiently to return with a countenance of tolerable 
composure. He was soon led on by the malicious dwarf to smoke himself into 
a relape, and in that state stumbled into a settee, where he slept till 
morning.
Such were Mr Quilp's first proceedings on entering upon his new property. 
He was, for some days, restrained by business from performing any 
particular pranks, as his time was pretty well occupied between taking, 
with the assistance of Mr Brass, a minute inventory of all the goods in the 
place, and going abroad upon his other concerns, which happily engaged him 
for several hours at a time. His avarice and caution being now thoroughly 
awakened, however, he was never absent from the house one night; and his 
eagerness for some termination, good or bad, to the old man's disorder, 
increasing rapidly, as the time passed by, soon began to vent itself in 
open murmurs and exclamations of impatience.
Nell shrunk timidly from all the dwarf's advances towards conversation, and 
fled from the very sound of his voice; nor were the lawyer's smiles less 
terrible to her than Quilp's grimaces. She lived in such continual dread 
and apprehension of meeting one or other of them on the stairs or in the 
passages if she stirred from her grandfather's chamber, that she seldom 
left it, for a moment, until late at night, when the silence encouraged her 
to venture forth and breathe the purer air of some empty room.
One night, she had stolen to her usual window, and was sitting there very 
sorrowfully - for the old man had been worse that day - when she thought 
she heard her name pronounced by a voice in the street. Looking down, she 
recognised Kit, whose endeavours to attract her attention had roused her 
from her sad reflections.
"Miss Nell!" said the boy in a low voice.
"Yes," replied the child, doubtful whether she ought to hold any 
communication with the supposed culprit, but inclining to her old favourite 
still; "what do you want?"
"I have wanted to say a word to you for a long time," the boy replied, "but 
the people below have driven me away and wouldn't let me see you. You don't 
believe - I hope you don't really believe - that I deserve to be cast off 
as I have been; do you, miss!"
"I must believe it," returned the child. "Or why would grandfather have 
been so angry with you?"
"I don't know," replied Kit. "I'm sure I've never deserved it from him, no, 
nor from you. I can say that, with a true and honest heart, any way. And 
then to be driven from the door, when I only came to ask how old master was 
-!"
"They never told me that," said the child. "I didn't know it indeed. I 
wouldn't have had them do it for the world."
"Thank'ee, miss," returned Kit, "it's comfortable to hear you say that. I 
said I never would believe that it was your doing."
"That was right!" said the child eagerly.
"Miss Nell," cried the boy, coming under the window, and speaking in a 
lower tone, "there are new masters downstairs. It's a change for you."
"It is indeed," replied the child.
"And so it will be for him when he gets better," said the boy, pointing 
towards the sick room.
" - If he ever does," added the child, unable to restrain her tears.
"Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that," said Kit, "I'm sure he will. You 
mustn't be cast down, Miss Nell. Now, don't be, pray!"
These words of encouragement and consolation were few and roughly said, but 
they affected the child and made her, for the moment, weep the more.
"He'll be sure to get better now," said the boy anxiously, "if you don't 
give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself, which would make him worse 
and throw him back, just as he was recovering. When he does, say a good 
word - say a kind word for me, Miss Nell!"
"They tell me I must not even mention your name to him for a long, long 
time," rejoined the child, "I dare not; and even if I might what good would 
a kind word do you, Kit? We shall be very poor. We shall scarcely have 
bread to eat."
"It's not that I may be taken back," said the boy, "that I ask the favour 
of you. It isn't for the sake of food and wages that I've been waiting 
about, so long, in the hopes to see you. Don't think that I'd come in a 
time of trouble to talk of such things as them."
The child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited that he might 
speak again.
"No, it's not that," said Kit hesitating, "it's something very different 
from that. I haven't got much sense I know, but if he could be brought to 
believe that I'd been a faithful servant to him, doing the best I could, 
and never meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't" -
Here Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him to speak out, and 
quickly, for it was very late, and time to shut the window.
"Perhaps he mightn't think it overventuresome of me to say - well then, to 
say this," - cried Kit with sudden boldness. "This home is gone from you 
and him. Mother and I have got a poor one, but that's better than this with 
all these people here; and why not come there, till he's had time to look 
about, and find a better!"
The child did not speak. Kit, in the relief of having made his proposition, 
found his tongue loosened, and spoke out in its favour with his utmost 
eloquence.
"You think," said the boy, "that it's very small and inconvenient. So it 
is, but it's very clean. Perhaps you think it would be noisy, but there's 
not a quieter court than ours in all the town. Don't be afraid of the 
children; the baby hardly ever cries, and the other one is very good - 
besides, I'd mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you much, I'm sure. Do try, Miss 
Nell, do try. The little front room upstairs is very pleasant. You can see 
a piece of the church-clock, through the chimneys, and almost tell the 
time; mother says it would be just the thing for you, and so it would, and 
you'd have her to wait upon you both, and me to run of errands. We don't 
mean money, bless you; you're not to think of that! Will you try him, Miss 
Nell? Only say you'll try him. Do try to make old master come, and ask him 
first what I have done - will you only promise that, Miss Nell?"
Before the child could reply to this honest solicitation, the street door 
opened, and Mr Brass thrusting out his night-capped head called in a surly 
voice, "Who's there!" Kit immediately glided away, and Nell, closing the 
window softly, drew back into the room.
Before Mr Brass had repeated his inquiry many times, Mr Quilp, also 
embellished with a night-cap, emerged from the same door and looked 
carefully up and down the street, and up at all the windows of the house, 
from the opposite side. Finding that there was nobody in sight, he 
presently returned into the house with his legal friend, protesting (as the 
child heard from the staircase, that there was a league and plot against 
him; that he was in danger of being robbed and plundered by a band of 
conspirators who prowled about the house at all seasons; and that he would 
delay no longer, but take immediate steps for disposing of the property and 
returning to his own peaceful roof. Having growled forth these, and a great 
many other threats of the same nature, he coiled himself once more in the 
child's little bed, and Nell crept softly up the stairs.
It was natural enough that her short and unfinished dialogue with Kit 
should leave a strong impression on her mind, and influence her dreams that 
night and her recollections for a long, long time. Surrounded by unfeeling 
creditors, and mercenary attendants upon the sick, and meeting in the 
height of her anxiety and sorrow with little regard or sympathy even from 
the women about her, it is not surprising that the affectionate heart of 
the child should have been touched to the quick by one kind and generous 
spirit, however uncouth the temple in which it dwelt. Thank Heaven that the 
temples of such spirits are not made with hands, and that they may be even 
more worthily hung with poor patchwork than with purple and fine linen!


Chapter 12

At length the crisis of the old man's disorder was past and he began to 
mend. By very slow and feeble degrees his consciousness came back; but the 
mind was weakened and its functions were impaired. He was patient and 
quiet; often sat brooding, but not despondently, for a long space; was 
easily amused, even by a sunbeam on the wall or ceiling; made no complaint 
that the days were long, or the nights tedious; and appeared indeed to have 
lost all count of time, and every sense of care or weariness. He would sit, 
for hours together, with Nell's small hand in his, playing with the fingers 
and stopping sometimes to smooth her hair or kiss her brow; and, when he 
saw that tears were glistening in her eyes, would look, amazed, about him 
for the cause, and forget his wonder even while he looked.
The child and he rode out: the old man propped up with pillows, and the 
child beside him. They were hand in hand as usual. The noise and motion in 
the streets fatigued his brain at first, but he was not surprised, or 
curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked if he remembered this or 
that, 'O yes,' he said, 'quite well - why not?' Sometimes he turned his 
head, and looked, with earnest gaze and outstretched neck, after some 
stranger in the crowd, until he disappeared from sight; but, to the 
question why he did this, he answered not a word.
He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool beside him, 
when a man outside the door asked if he might enter. 'Yes,' he said without 
emotion, 'it was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was master there. Of course he might 
come in.' And so he did.

"I am glad to see you well again at last, neighbour," said the dwarf 
sitting down opposite to him. "You're quite strong now?"
"Yes," said the old man feebly, "yes."
"I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbour," said the dwarf raising 
his voice, for the old man's senses were duller than they had been; "but, 
as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings, the better."
"Surely," returned the old man. "The better for all parties."
"You see," pursued Quilp after a short pause, "the goods being once 
removed, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact."
"You say true," returned the old man. "Poor Nell too, what would she do?"
"Exactly," bawled the dwarf nodding his head; "that's very well observed. 
Then will you consider about it, neighbour?"
"I will, certainly," replied the old man. "We shall not stop here."
"So I supposed," said the dwarf. "I have sold the things. They have not 
yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty well - pretty 
well. Today's Tuesday. When shall they be moved? There's no hurry - shall 
we say this afternoon?"
"Say Friday morning," returned the old man.
"Very good," said the dwarf. "So be it, - with the understanding that I 
can't go beyond that day, neighbour, on any account."
"Good," returned the old man. "I shall remember it."
Mr Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even, spiritless way in 
which all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and repeated 
"on Friday morning. I shall remember it," he had no excuse for dwelling on 
the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave with many expressions 
of good-will and many compliments to his friend on looking so remarkably 
well; and went below stairs to report progress to Mr Brass.
All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in this state. He 
wandered up and down the house and into and out of the various rooms, as if 
with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred neither by 
direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview of the morning or 
the necessity of finding some other shelter. An indistinct idea he had, 
that the child was desolate and in want of help; for he often drew her to 
his bosom and bade her be of good cheer, saying that they would not desert 
each other; but he seemed unable to contemplate their real position more 
distinctly, and was still the listless, passionless creature, that 
suffering of mind and body had left him.
We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor hollow 
mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where, in the dull eyes of doating 
men, are the laughing light and life of childhood, the gaiety that has 
known no check, the frankness that has felt no chill, the hope that has 
never withered, the joys that fade in blossoming? Where, in the sharp 
lineaments of rigid and unsightly death, is the calm beauty of slumber, 
telling of rest for the waking hours that are past, and gentle hopes and 
loves for those which are to come? Lay death and sleep down, side by side, 
and say who shall find the two akin. Send forth the child and childish man 
together, and blush for the pride that libels our own old happy state, and 
gives its title to an ugly and distorted image.
Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man. But, a change 
came upon him that evening, as he and the child sat silently together.
In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree - green and 
flourishing enough, for such a place - and as the air stirred among its 
leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall. The old man sat 
watching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light, until the sun 
went down; and when it was night, and the moon was slowly rising, he still 
sat in the same spot.
To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these few green 
leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished among chimneys and 
house-tops, were pleasant things. They suggested quiet places afar off, and 
rest, and peace.
The child thought, more than once, that he was moved: and had forborne to 
speak. But, now, he shed tears - tears that it lightened her aching heart 
to see - and making as though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to 
forgive him.
"Forgive you - what?" said Nell, interposing to prevent his purpose. "Oh 
grandfather, what should I forgive?"
"All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all that was done in 
that uneasy dream," returned the old man.
"Do not talk so," said the child. "Pray do not. Let us speak of something 
else."
"Yes, yes, we will," he rejoined. "And it shall be of what we talked of 
long ago - many months - months is it, or weeks, or days? which is it, 
Nell?"
"I do not understand you," said the child.
"It has come back upon me today, it has all come back since we have been 
sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell!"
"For what, dear grandfather?"
"For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us speak 
softly. Hush! for if they knew our purpose downstairs, they would cry that 
I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop here, another day. We 
will go far away from here."
"Yes, let us go," said the child earnestly. "Let us begone from this place, 
and never turn back or think of it again. Let us wander barefoot through 
the world, rather than linger here."
"We will" - answered the old man, "we will travel afoot through the fields 
and woods, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to God in the 
places where he dwells. It is far better to lie down at night beneath an 
open sky like that yonder - see how bright it is! - than to rest in close 
rooms which are always full of care and weary dreams. Thou and I together, 
Nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to forget this time, as if 
it had never been."
"We will be happy," cried the child. "We never can be here."
"No, we never can again - never again - that's truly said," rejoined the 
old man. "Let us steal away tomorrow morning - early and softly, that we 
may not be seen or heard - and leave no trace or track for them to follow 
by. Poor Nell! Thy cheek is pale, and thy eyes are heavy with watching and 
weeping - with watching and weeping for me - I know - for me; but thou wilt 
be well again, and merry too, when we are far away. Tomorrow morning, dear, 
we'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow, and be as free and happy as 
the birds."
And then, the old man clasped his hands above her head, and said, in a few 
broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up and down 
together, and never part more until Death took one or other of the twain.
The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no thought of 
hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. She saw in this, but a return of 
the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed, a relief from the gloomy 
solitude in which she had lived, an escape from the heartless people of 
whom she had been surrounded in her late time of trial, the restoration of 
the old man's health and peace, and a life of tranquil happiness. Sun, and 
stream, and meadow, and summer days, shone brightly in her view, and there 
was no dark tint in all the sparkling picture.
The old man had slept, for some hours, soundly in his bed, and she was yet 
busily engaged in preparing for their flight. There were a few articles of 
clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him; old garments, such as 
became their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear; and a staff to support his 
feeble steps, put ready for his use. But this was not all her task; for now 
she must visit the old rooms for the last time.
And how different the parting with them, was, from any she had expected, 
and most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured to herself. How 
could she ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph, when the 
recollection of the many hours she had passed among them rose to her 
swelling heart, and made her feel the wish a cruelty: lonely and sad though 
many of those hours had been! She sat down at the window where she had 
spent so many evenings - darker far, than this - and every thought of hope 
or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place came vividly upon 
her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful associations in an 
instant.
Her own little room, too, where she had so often knelt down and prayed at 
night - prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning now - the little 
room where she had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such pleasant dreams - 
it was hard not to be able to glance round it once more, and to be forced 
to leave it without one kind look or grateful tear. There were some trifles 
there - poor useless things - that she would have liked to take away: but 
that was impossible.
This brought to her mind her bird, her poor bird, who hung there yet. She 
wept bitterly for the loss of this little creature - until the idea 
occurred to her - she did not know how, or why, it came into her head - 
that it might, by some means, fall into the hands of Kit who would keep it 
for her sake, and think, perhaps, that she had left it behind in the hope 
that he might have it, and as an assurance that she was grateful to him. 
She was calmed and comforted by the thought, and went to rest with a 
lighter heart.
From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny places, but with some 
vague object unattained which ran indistinctly through them all, she awoke 
to find that it was yet night, and that the stars were shining brightly in 
the sky. At length, the day began to glimmer, and the stars to grow pale 
and dim. As soon as she was sure of this, she arose, and dressed herself 
for the journey.
The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb him, she 
left him to slumber on, until the sun rose. He was anxious that they should 
leave the house without a minute's loss of time and was soon ready.
The child then took him by the hand, and they trod lightly and cautiously 
down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and often stopping to 
listen. The old man had forgotten a kind of wallet which contained the 
light burden he had to carry; and the going back a few steps to fetch it, 
seemed an interminable delay.
At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the snorting of 
Mr Quilp and his legal friend sounded more terrible in their ears than the 
roars of lions. The bolts of the door were rusty, and difficult to unfasten 
without noise. When they were all drawn back, it was found to be locked, 
and, worst of all the key was gone. Then the child remembered, for the 
first time, one of the nurses having told her that Quilp always locked both 
the house-doors at night, and kept the keys on the table in his bedroom.
It was not without great fear and trepidation, that little Nell slipped off 
her shoes and gliding through the storeroom of old curiosities, where Mr 
Brass - the ugliest piece of goods in all the stock - lay sleeping on a 
mattress, passed into her own little chamber.
Here she stood, for a few moments, quite transfixed with terror at the 
sight of Mr Quilp, who was hanging so far out of bed that he almost seemed 
to be standing on his head, and who, either from the uneasiness of this 
posture, or in one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and growling with 
his mouth wide open, and the whites (or rather the dirty yellows) of his 
eyes distinctly visible. It was no time, however, to ask whether anything 
ailed him; so, possessing herself of the key after one hasty glance about 
the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr Brass, she rejoined the old man in 
safety. They got the door open without noise, and passing into the street, 
stood still.
"Which way?" said the child.
The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then to the 
right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It was plain that 
she was henceforth his guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no 
doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led him gently away.
It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a 
cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were as yet, nearly 
free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the healthy air 
of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping town.
The old man and the child passed on through the glad silence, elate with 
hope and pleasure. They were alone together, once again; every object was 
bright and fresh; nothing reminded them, otherwise than by contrast, of the 
monotony and constraint they had left behind; church towers and steeples, 
frowning and dark at other times, now shone and dazzled in the sun; each 
humble nook and corner rejoiced in light; and the sky, dimmed only by 
excessive distance, shed its placid smile on everything beneath.
Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the two poor adventurers, 
wandering they knew not whither.


Chapter 13

Daniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks in the city of 
London, Gentleman, one of her Majesty's attornies of the Courts of King's 
Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster and a solicitor of the High Court of 
Chancery, slumbered on, unconscious and unsuspicious of any mischance, 
until a knocking at the street door, often repeated and gradually mounting 
up from a modest single rap to a perfect battery of knocks, fired in long 
discharges with a very short interval between, caused the said Daniel Quilp 
to struggle into a horizontal position, and to stare at the ceiling with a 
drowsy indifference, betokening that he heard the noise and rather wondered 
at the same, but couldn't be at the trouble of bestowing any further 
thought upon the subject.
As the knocking, however, instead of accommodating itself to his lazy 
state, increased in vigour and became more importunate, as if in earnest 
remonstrance against his falling asleep again, now that he had once opened 
his eyes, Daniel Quilp began by degrees to comprehend the possibility of 
there being somebody at the door; and thus he gradually came to recollect 
that it was Friday morning, and he had ordered Mrs Quilp to be in waiting 
upon him at an early hour.
Mr Brass, after writhing about, in a great many strange attitudes, and 
often twisting his face and eyes into an expression like that which is 
usually produced by eating gooseberries very early in the season, was by 
this time awake also. Seeing that Mr Quilp invested himself in his everyday 
garments, he hastened to do the like, putting on his shoes before his 
stockings, and thrusting his legs into his coat sleeves, and making such 
other small mistakes in his toilet as are not uncommon to those who dress 
in a hurry, and labour under the agitation of having been suddenly roused.
While the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was groping under the table, 
muttering desperate imprecations on himself, and mankind in general, and 
all inanimate objects to boot, which suggested to Mr Brass the question 
"what's the matter?"
"The key," said the dwarf, looking viciously at him, "the door-key, - 
that's the matter. D'ye know anything of it?"
"How should I know anything of it, sir?" returned Mr Brass.
"How should you?" repeated Quilp with a sneer. "You're a nice lawyer, an't 
you? Ugh, you idiot!"
Not caring to represent to the dwarf in his present humour, that the loss 
of a key by another person could scarcely be said to affect his (Brass's) 
legal knowledge in any material degree, Mr Brass humbly suggested that it 
must have been forgotten over night, and was, doubtless, at that moment in 
its native keyhole. Notwithstanding that Mr Quilp had a strong conviction 
to the contrary, founded on his recollection of having carefully taken it 
out, he was fain to admit that this was possible, and therefore went 
grumbling to the door where, sure enough, he found it.
Now, just as Mr Quilp laid his hand upon the lock, and saw with great 
astonishment that the fastenings were undone, the knocking came again with 
most irritating violence, and the daylight which had been shining through 
the keyhole was intercepted on the outside by a human eye. The dwarf was 
very much exasperated, and wanting somebody to wreak his ill-humour upon 
determined to dart out suddenly, and favour Mrs Quilp with a gentle 
acknowledgment of her attention in making that hideous uproar.
With this view, he drew back the lock very silently and softly, and opening 
the door all at once, pounced out upon the person on the other side, who 
had at that moment raised the knocker for another application, and at whom 
the dwarf ran head first, throwing out his hands and feet together, and 
biting the air in the fullness of his malice.
So far, however, from rushing upon somebody who offered no resistance and 
implored his mercy, Mr Quilp was no sooner in the arms of the individual 
whom he had taken for his wife than he found himself complimented with two 
staggering blows on the head, and two more, of the same quality, in the 
chest; and closing with his assailant, such a shower of buffets rained down 
upon his person as sufficed to convince him that he was in skilful and 
experienced hands. Nothing daunted by this reception, he clung tight to his 
opponent, and bit, and hammered away with such good-will and heartiness 
that it was at least a couple of minutes before he was dislodged. Then, and 
not until then, Daniel Quilp found himself, all flushed and dishevelled, in 
the middle of the street, with Mr Richard Swiveller performing a kind of 
dance round him and requiring to know "whether he wanted any more."
"There's plenty more of it at the same shop," said Mr Swiveller, by turns 
advancing and retreating in a threatening attitude, "a large and extensive 
assortment always on hand - country orders executed with promptitude and 
dispatch - will you have a little more, sir - don't say no, if you'd rather 
not."
"I thought it was somebody else," said Quilp rubbing his shoulders, "why 
didn't you say who you were?"
"Why didn't you say who you were?" returned Dick, "instead of flying out of 
the house like a Bedlamite?"
"It was you that - that knocked," said the dwarf getting up with a short 
groan, "was it?"
"Yes, I am the man," replied Dick. "That lady had begun when I came, but 
she knocked too soft, so I relieved her." As he said this, he pointed 
towards Mrs Quilp, who stood trembling at a little distance.
"Humph!" muttered the dwarf, darting an angry look at his wife, "I thought 
it was your fault! And you, sir - don't you know there has been somebody 
ill here, that you knock as if you'd beat the door down?"
"Damme!" answered Dick, "that's why I did it. I thought there was somebody 
dead here."
"You came for some purpose, I suppose," said Quilp. "What is it you want?"
"I want to know how the old gentleman is," rejoined Mr Swiveller, "and how 
to hear from Nell herself, with whom I should like to have a little talk. 
I'm a friend of the family, sir, - at least I'm a friend of one of the 
family and that's the same thing."
"You'd better walk in then," said the dwarf. "Go on, sir, go on. Now Mrs 
Quilp - after you, ma'am."
Mrs Quilp hesitated, but Mr Quilp insisted. And it was not a contest of 
politeness, or by any means a matter of form, for she knew very well that 
her husband wished to enter the house in this order, that he might have a 
favourable opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her arms, which were 
seldom free from impressions of his fingers in black and blue colours. Mr 
Swiveller, who was not in the secret, was a little surprised to hear a 
suppressed scream, and, looking round, to see Mrs Quilp following him with 
a sudden jerk; but he did not remark on these appearances, and soon forgot 
them.
"Now, Mrs Quilp," said the dwarf when they had entered the shop, "go you 
upstairs, if you please, to Nelly's room, and tell her that she's wanted."
"You seem to make yourself at home here," said Dick, who was unacquainted 
with Mr Quilp's authority.
"I am at home, young gentleman," returned the dwarf.
Dick was pondering what these words might mean, and still more what the 
presence of Mr Brass might mean, when Mrs Quilp came hurrying downstairs, 
declaring that the rooms above, were empty.
"Empty, you fool!" said the dwarf.
"I give you my word, Quilp," answered his trembling wife, "that I have been 
into every room and there's not a soul in any of them."
"And that," said Mr Brass, clapping his hands once, with an emphasis, 
"explains the mystery of the key!"
Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his wife, and frowningly 
at Richard Swiveller; but, receiving no enlightenment from any of them, 
hurried upstairs, whence he soon hurried down again, confirming the report 
which had been already made.
"It's a strange way of going," he said, glancing at Swiveller: "very 
strange not to communicate with me who am such a close and intimate friend 
of his! Ah! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll bid Nelly write - yes, 
yes, that's what he'll do. Nelly's very fond of me. Pretty Nell!"
Mr Swiveller looked, as he was, all open-mouthed astonishment. Still 
glancing furtively at him, Quilp turned to Mr Brass and observed, with 
assumed carelessness, that this need not interfere with the removal of the 
goods.
"For indeed," he added, "we knew that they'd go away today, but not that 
they'd go so early, or so quietly. But they have their reasons, they have 
their reasons."
"Where in the devil's name are they gone?" said the wondering Dick.
Quilp shook his head and pursed up his lips, in a manner which implied that 
he knew very well, but was not at liberty to say.
"And what," said Dick, looking at the confusion about him, "what do you 
mean by moving the goods?"
"That I have bought 'em, sir," rejoined Quilp. "Eh? What then?"
"Has the sly old fox made his fortune then, and gone to live in a tranquil 
cot in a pleasant spot with a distant view of the changing sea?" said Dick, 
in great bewilderment.
"Keeping his place of retirement very close, that he may not be visited too 
often by affectionate grandsons and their devoted friends, eh?" added the 
dwarf, rubbing his hands hard; "I say nothing, but is that your meaning?"
Richard Swiveller was utterly aghast at this unexpected alteration of 
circumstances, which threatened the complete overthrow of the project in 
which he bore so conspicuous a part, and seemed to nip his prospects in the 
bud. Having only received from Frederick Trent, late on the previous night, 
information of the old man's illness, he had come upon a visit of 
condolence and inquiry to Nell, prepared with the first instalment of that 
long train of fascinations which was to fire her heart at last. And here, 
when he had been thinking of all kinds of graceful and insinuating 
approaches, and meditating on the fearful retaliation which was slowly 
working against Sophy Wackles - here were Nell, the old man, and all the 
money gone, melted away, decamped he knew not whither, as if with a 
foreknowledge of the scheme and a resolution to defeat it in the very 
outset, before a step was taken.
In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised and troubled by the 
flight which had been made. It had not escaped his keen eye that some 
indispensable articles of clothing were gone with the fugitives, and 
knowing the old man's weak state of mind, he marvelled what that course of 
proceeding might be in which he so readily procured the concurrence of the 
child. It must not be supposed (or it would be a gross injustice to Mr 
Quilp) that he was tortured by any disinterested anxiety on behalf of 
either. His uneasiness arose from a misgiving that the old man had some 
secret store of money which he had not suspected; and the bare idea of its 
escaping his clutches, overwhelmed him with mortification and self-
reproach.
In this frame of mind, it was some consolation to him to find that Richard 
Swiveller was, for different reasons, evidently irritated and disappointed 
by the same cause. It was plain, thought the dwarf, that he had come there, 
on behalf of his friend, to cajole or frighten the old man out of some 
small fraction of that wealth of which they supposed him to have an 
abundance. Therefore, it was a relief to vex his heart with a picture of 
the riches the old man hoarded, and to expatiate on his cunning in removing 
himself even beyond the reach of importunity.
"Well," said Dick, with a blank look, "I suppose it's of no use my staying 
here."
"Not the least in the world," rejoined the dwarf.
"You'll mention that I called, perhaps?" said Dick.
Mr Quilp nodded, and said he certainly would, the very first time he saw 
them.
"And say," added Mr Swiveller, "say, sir, that I was wafted here upon the 
pinions of concord; that I came to remove, with the rake of friendship, the 
seeds of mutual violence and heart-burning, and to sow in their place, the 
germs of social harmony. Will you have the goodness to charge yourself with 
that commission, sir?"
"Certainly!" rejoined Quilp.
"Will you be kind enough to add to it, sir," said Dick, producing a very 
small limp card, "that that is my address, and that I am to be found at 
home every morning. Two distinct knocks, sir, will produce the slavery at 
any time. My particular friends, sir, are accustomed to sneeze when the 
door is opened, to give her to understand that they are my friends and have 
no interested motives in asking if I'm at home. I beg your pardon; will you 
allow me to look at that card again?
"Oh! by all means," rejoined Quilp.
"By a slight and not unnatural mistake, sir," said Dick, substituting 
another in its stead, "I had handed you the pass-ticket of a select 
convivial circle called the Glorious Apollers, of which I have the honor to 
be Perpetual Grand. That is the proper document, sir. Good morning."
Quilp bade him good day; the perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious 
Apollers, elevating his hat in honour of Mrs Quilp, dropped it carelessly 
on the side of his head again, and disappeared with a flourish.
By this time, certain vans had arrived for the conveyance of the goods, and 
divers strong men in caps were balancing chests of drawers and other 
trifles of that nature upon their heads, and performing muscular feats 
which heightened their complexions considerably. Not to be behindhand in 
the bustle, Mr Quilp went to work with surprising vigour; hustling and 
driving the people about, like an evil spirit; setting Mrs Quilp upon all 
kinds of arduous and impracticable tasks; carrying great weights up and 
down, with no apparent effort; kicking the boy from the wharf, whenever he 
could get near him; and inflicting, with his loads, a great many sly bumps 
and blows on the shoulders of Mr Brass; as he stood upon the doorsteps to 
answer all the inquiries of curious neighbours, which was his department. 
His presence and example diffused such alacrity among the persons employed, 
that, in a few hours, the house was emptied of everything but pieces of 
matting, empty porter-pots, and scattered fragments of straw.
Seated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of matting, the dwarf 
was regaling himself in the parlour, with bread and cheese and beer, when 
he observed without appearing to do so, that a boy was prying in at the 
outer-door. Assured that it was Kit, though he saw little more than his 
nose, Mr Quilp hailed him by his name; whereupon, Kit came in and demanded 
what he wanted.
"Come here, you sir," said the dwarf. "Well, so your old master and young 
mistress have gone?"
"Where?" rejoined Kit, looking round.
"Do you mean to say you don't know where?" answered Quilp, sharply. "Where 
have they gone, eh?"
"I don't know," said Kit.
"Come," retorted Quilp, "let's have no more of this! Do you mean to say 
that you don't know they went away by stealth, as soon as it was light this 
morning?"
"No," said the boy, in evident surprise.
"You don't know that?" cried Quilp. "Don't I know that you were hanging 
about the house the other night, like a thief, eh? Weren't you told then?"
"No," replied the boy.
"You were not? said Quilp. "What were you told then; what were you talking 
about?"
Kit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep the matter secret 
now, related the purpose for which he had come on that occasion, and the 
proposal he had made.
"Oh!" said the dwarf, after a little consideration.
"Then I think they'll come to you yet."
"Do you think they will?" cried Kit, eagerly.
"Aye, I think they will," returned the dwarf. "Now, when they do, let me 
know; d'ye hear? Let me know, and I'll give you something. I want to do 'em 
a kindness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless I know where they are. You 
hear what I say?"
Kit might have returned some answer which would not have been agreeable to 
his irascible questioner, if the boy from the wharf, who had been skulking 
about the room in search of anything that might have been left about by 
accident, had not happened to cry, "Here's a bird! What's to be done with 
this?"
"Wring its neck," rejoined Quilp.
"Oh, no, don't do that," said Kit, stepping forward. "Give it to me."
"Oh, yes, I dare say," cried the other boy. "Come! You let the cage alone, 
and let me wring its neck will you? He said I was to do it. You let the 
cage alone, will you?"
"Give it here, give it to me, you dogs," roared Quilp.
"Fight for it, you dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself!"
Without further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each other, tooth and 
nail, while Quilp, holding up the cage in one hand, and chopping the ground 
with his knife in an ecstacy, urged them on by his taunts and cries to 
fight more fiercely. They were a pretty equal match, and rolled about 
together, exchanging blows which were by no means child's play, until at 
length Kit, planting a well directed hit in his adversary's chest, 
disengaged himself, sprung nimbly up, and snatching the cage from Quilp's 
hands made off with his prize.
He did not stop once, until he reached home, where his bleeding face 
occasioned great consternation, and caused the elder child to howl 
dreadfully.
"Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what have you been doing!" 
cried Mrs Nubbles.
"Never you mind, mother," answered her son, wiping his face on the 
jacktowel behind the door. "I'm not hurt, don't you be afraid for me. I've 
been a fightin' for a bird and won him, that's all. Hold your noise, little 
Jacob. I never see such a naughty boy in all my days!"
"You have been a fighting for a bird!" exclaimed his mother.
"Ah! Fightin' for a bird!" replied Kit, "and here he is. Miss Nelly's bird, 
mother, that they was agoin' to wring the neck of! I stopped that, though - 
ha ha ha! They wouldn't wring his neck and me by, no no. It wouldn't do, 
mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha ha ha!"
Kit laughing so heartily, with his swoln and bruised face looking out of 
the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and then his mother laughed, and then 
the baby crowed and kicked with great glee, and then they all laughed in 
concert: partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly because they were very 
fond of each other. When this fit was over, Kit exhibited the bird to both 
children, as a great and precious rarity - it was only a poor linnet - and 
looking about the wall for an old nail, made a scaffolding of a chair and 
table and twisted it out with great exultation.
"Let me see," said the boy, "I think I'll hang him in the winder, because 
it's more light and cheerful, and he can see the sky there, if he looks up 
very much. He's such a one to sing, I can tell you!"
So, the scaffolding was made again and Kit, climbing up with the poker for 
a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung up the cage, to the immeasurable 
delight of the whole family. When it had been adjusted and straightened a 
great many times, and he had walked backwards into the fireplace in his 
admiration of it, the arrangement was pronounced to be perfect.
"And now mother," said the boy, "before I rest any more, I'll go out and 
see if I can find a horse to hold, and then I can buy some birdseed, and a 
bit of something nice for you, into the bargain."


Chapter 14

As it was very easy for Kit to persuade himself that the old house was in 
his way, his way being anywhere, he tried to look upon his passing it at 
once more as a matter of imperative and disagreeable necessity, quite apart 
from any desire of his own, to which he could not choose but yield. It is 
not uncommon for people who are much better fed and taught than Christopher 
Nubbles had ever been, to make duties of their inclinations in matters of 
more doubtful propriety, and to take great credit for the self-denial with 
which they gratify themselves.
There was no need of any caution this time, and no fear of being detained 
by having to play out a return match with Daniel Quilp's boy. The place was 
entirely deserted, and looked as dusty and dingy as if had been so for 
months. A rusty padlock was fastened on the door, ends of discoloured 
blinds and curtains flapped drearily against the half-opened upper windows, 
and the crooked holes cut in the closed shutters below, were black with the 
darkness of the inside. Some of the glass in the window he had so oftened 
watched, had been broken in she rough hurry of the morning, and that room 
looked more deserted and dull than any. A group of idle urchins had taken 
possession of the doorsteps; some were plying the knocker and listening 
with delightful dread to the hollow sounds it spread through the dismantled 
house; others were clustered about the keyhole, watching half in jest and 
half in earnest for "the ghost," which an hour's gloom, added to the 
mystery that hung about the late inhabitants, had already raised. Standing 
all alone in the midst of the business and bustle of the street, the house 
looked a picture of cold desolation; and Kit, who remembered the cheerful 
fire that used to burn there on a winter's night and the no less cheerful 
laugh that made the small room ring, turned quite mournfully away.
It must be especially observed in justice to poor Kit that he was by no 
means of a sentimental turn, and perhaps had never heard that adjective in 
all his life. He was only a soft-hearted grateful fellow, and had nothing 
genteel or polite about him; consequently, instead of going home again, in 
his grief, to kick the children and abuse his mother (for, when your finely 
strung people are out of sorts, they must have everybody else unhappy 
likewise), he turned his thoughts to the vulgar expedient of making them 
more comfortable if he could.
Bless us, what a number of gentlemen on horseback there were riding up and 
down, and how few of them wanted their horses held! A good city speculator 
or a parliamentary commissioner could have told to a fraction, from the 
crowds that were cantering about, what sum of money was realised in London, 
in the course of a year, by holding horses alone. And undoubtedly it would 
have been a very large one, if only a twentieth part of the gentlemen 
without grooms had had occasion to alight; but they had not; and it is 
often an ill-natured circumstance like this which spoils the most ingenious 
estimate in the world.
Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with slow; now lingering as 
some rider slackened his horse's pace and looked about him; and now darting 
at full speed up a bye street as he caught a glimpse of some distant 
horseman going lazily up the shady side of the road, and promising to stop, 
at every door. But on they all went, one after another, and there was not a 
penny stirring. "I wonder," thought the boy, "if one of these gentlemen 
knew there was nothing in the cupboard at home, whether he'd stop on 
purpose, and make believe that he wanted to call somewhere, that I might 
earn a trifle?"
He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say nothing of repeated 
disappointments, and was sitting down upon a step to rest, when there 
approached towards him, a little clattering, jingling four-wheeled chaise, 
drawn by a little obstinate-looking rough-coated pony, and driven by a 
little fat placid-faced old gentleman. Beside the little old gentleman sat 
a little old lady, plump and placid like himself, and the pony was coming 
along at his own pace, and doing exactly as he pleased with the whole 
concern. If the old gentleman remonstrated by shaking the reins, the pony 
replied by shaking his head. It was plain that the utmost the pony would 
consent to do, was to go in his own way up any street that the old 
gentleman particularly wished to traverse, but that it was an understanding 
between them that he must do this after his own fashion or not at all.
As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at the little turnout, 
that the old gentleman looked at him. Kit rising and putting his hand to 
his hat, the old gentleman intimated to the pony that he wished to stop, to 
which proposal the pony (who seldom objected to that part of his duty) 
graciously acceded.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Kit. "I'm sorry you stopped, sir. I only 
meant did you want your horse minded."
"I'm going to get down in the next street," returned the old gentleman. "If 
you like to come on after us, you may have the job."
Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran off at a sharp angle to 
inspect a lamp-post on the opposite side of the way, and then went off at a 
tangent to another lamp-post on the other side. Having satisfied himself 
that they were of the same pattern and materials, he came to a stop, 
apparently absorbed in meditation.
"Will you go on, sir," said the old gentleman, gravely, "or are we to wait 
here for you 'till it's too late for our appointment?"
The pony remained immovable.
"Oh you naughty Whisker," said the old lady. "Fie upon you! I am ashamed of 
such conduct."
The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his feelings, for he 
trotted on directly, though in a sulky manner, and stopped no more until he 
came to a door whereon was a brass plate with the words "Witherden - 
Notary." Here the old gentleman got out and helped out the old lady, and 
then took from under the seat a nosegay resembling in shape and dimensions 
a full-sized warming-pan with the handle cut short off. This, the old lady 
carried into the house with a staid and stately air, and the old gentleman 
(who had a club-foot) followed close upon her.
They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of their voices, into the 
front parlour, which seemed to be a kind of office. The day being very warm 
and the street a quiet one, the windows were wide open; and it was easy to 
hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside.
At first, there was a great shaking of hands and shuffling of feet, 
succeeded by the presentation of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed by the 
listener to be that of Mr Witherden the Notary, was heard to exclaim a 
great many times, "oh, delicious!" "oh, fragrant indeed!" and a nose, also 
supposed to be the property of that gentleman, was heard to inhale the 
scent with a snuffle of exceeding pleasure.
"I brought it in honour of the occasion, sir," said the old lady.
"Ah! an occasion indeed, ma'am; an occasion which does honour to me, ma'am, 
honour to me," rejoined Mr Witherden, the Notary. "I have had many a 
gentleman articled to me, ma'am, many a one. Some of them are now rolling 
in riches, unmindful of their old companion and friend, ma'am; others are 
in the habit of calling upon me to this day and saying, 'Mr Witherden, some 
of the pleasantest hours I ever spent in my life were spent in this office -
 were spent, sir, upon this very stool; but there was never one among the 
number, ma'am, attached as I have been to many of them, of whom I augured 
such bright things as I do of your only son."
"Oh dear!" said the old lady. "How happy you do make us when you tell us 
that, to be sure!"
"I tell you ma'am," said Mr Witherden, "what I think as an honest man, 
which, as the poet observes, is the noblest work of God. I agree with the 
poet in every particular, ma'am. The mountainous Alps on the one hand, or a 
humming-bird on the other, is nothing, in point of workmanship, to an 
honest man - or woman - or woman."
"Anything that Mr Witherden can say of me," observed a small quiet voice, 
"I can say, with interest, of him, I am sure."
"It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance," said the Notary, 
"to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and I hope I know how 
to appreciate it. I trust, Mr Garland, my dear sir, that we may mutually 
congratulate each other upon this auspicious occasion."
To this, the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might. There 
appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and when it was 
over, the old gentleman said that, though he said it who should not, he 
believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his parents than Abel 
Garland had been to his.
"Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting for a 
great many years, until we were well enough off - coming together when we 
were no longer young, and then being blessed with one child who has always 
been dutiful and affectionate - why, it's a source of great happiness to us 
both, sir."
"Of course it is, I have no doubt of it," returned the Notary in a 
sympathising voice. "It's the contemplation of this sort of thing, that 
makes me deplore my fate in being a bachelor. There was a young lady once, 
sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of the first respectability - 
but that's a weakness. Chuckster, bring in Mr Abel's articles."
"You see, Mr Witherden," said the old lady, "that Abel has not been brought 
up like the run of young men. He has always had a pleasure in our society, 
and always been with us. Abel has never been absent from us for a day; has 
he, my dear?"
"Never, my dear," returned the old gentleman, "except when he went to 
Margate one Saturday, with Mr Tomkinley that had been a teacher at that 
school he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but he was very ill after 
that, you remember, my dear; it was quite a dissipation."
"He was not used to it, you know," said the old lady; "and he couldn't bear 
it, that's the truth. Besides he had no comfort in being there without us, 
and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself with."
"That was it, you know," interposed the same small quiet voice that had 
spoken once before. "I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate, and to 
think that the sea was between us - oh, I never shall forget what I felt 
when I first thought that the sea was between us!"
"Very natural under the circumstances," observed the Notary. "Mr Abel's 
feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your nature, ma'am, and 
his father's nature, and human nature. I trace the same current now, 
flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive proceedings. - I am about to 
sign my name, you observe, at the foot of the articles which Mr Chuckster 
will witness; and placing my finger upon this blue wafer with the vandyked 
corners, I am constrained to remark in a distinct tone of voice - don't be 
alarmed ma'am, it is merely a form of law - that I deliver this as my act 
and deed. Mr Abel will place his name against the other wafer, repeating 
the same cabalistic words, and the business is over. Ha ha ha! You see how 
easily these things are done!"
There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr Abel went through the 
prescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet were 
renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of wineglasses and a 
great talkativeness on the part of everybody. In about a quarter of an hour 
Mr Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear and his face inflamed with wine) 
appeared at the door, and condescending to address Kit by the jocose 
appellation of "Young Snob," informed him that the visitors were coming 
out.
Out they came forthwith; Mr Witherden, who was short, chubby, fresh-
coloured, brisk, and pompous, leading the old lady with extreme politeness, 
and the father and son following them, arm in arm. Mr Abel, who had a 
quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of the same age as his 
father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in face and figure, though 
wanting something of his full, round cheerfulness, and substituting its 
place a timid reserve. In all other respects, in the neatness of the dress, 
and even in the club-foot, he and the old gentleman were precisely alike.
Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the 
arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an indispensable 
portion of her equipage, Mr Abel got into a little box behind which had 
evidently been made for his express accommodation, and smiled at everybody 
present by turns, beginning with his mother and ending with the pony. There 
was then a great to do to make the pony hold up his head that the bearing-
rein might be fastened; at last even this was effected; and the old 
gentleman, taking his seat and the reins, put his hand in his pocket to 
find a sixpence for Kit.
He had no sixpences, neither had the old lady, nor Mr Abel, nor the notary, 
nor Mr Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling too much, but there 
was no shop in the street to get change at, so he gave it to the boy.
"There," he said jokingly, "I'm coming here again next Monday at the same 
time, and mind you're here, my lad, to work it out."
"Thank you, sir," said Kit. "I'll be sure to be here."
He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying so, 
especially Mr Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to relish the 
joke amazingly. As the pony, with a presentiment that he was going home, or 
a determination that he would not go anywhere else (which was the same 
thing), trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no time to justify himself, and 
went his way also. Having expended his treasure in such purchases as he 
knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting some seed for the 
wonderful bird, he hastened back as fast as he could, so elated with his 
success and great good-fortune, that he more than half expected Nell and 
the old man would have arrived before him.


Chapter 15

Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on the 
morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled sensation of 
hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the clear 
distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But although she would 
gladly have given him her hand and thanked him for what he had said at 
their last meeting, it was always a relief to find, when they came nearer 
to each other, that the person who approached was not he, but a stranger; 
for even if she had not dreaded the effect which the sight of him might 
have wrought upon her fellow-traveller, she felt that to bid farewell to 
anybody now, and most of all to him who had been so faithful and so true, 
was more than she could bear. It was enough to leave dumb things behind, 
and objects that were insensible both to her love and sorrow. To have 
parted from her only other friend upon the threshold of that wild journey, 
would have wrung her heart indeed.
Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and while 
we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve to say it? On the 
eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends who are tenderly 
attached will separate with the usual look, the usual pressure of the hand, 
planning one final interview for the morrow, while each well knows that it 
is but a poor feint to save the pain of uttering that one word, and that 
the meeting will never be. Should possibilities be worse to bear than 
certainties? We do not shun our dying friends; the not having distinctly 
taken leave of one among them, whom we left in all kindness and affection 
will often embitter the whole remainder of a life.
The town was glad with morning light; places that had shone ugly and 
distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams 
dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before 
sleeper's eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of 
the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark, felt it was 
morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little cells; bright-eyed 
mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled timidly together; the sleek 
house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat winking at the rays of the sun 
starting through keyhole and cranny in the door, and longed for her 
stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside. The nobler beasts confined in 
dens, stood motionless behind their bars, and gazed on fluttering boughs, 
and sunshine peeping through some little window, with eyes in which old 
forests gleamed - then trod impatiently the track their prisoned feet had 
worn - and stopped and gazed again. Men in their dungeons stretched their 
cramped cold limbs, and cursed the stone that no bright sky could warm. The 
flowers that sleep by night, opened their gentle eyes and turned them to 
the day. The light, creation's mind, was everywhere, and all things owned 
its power.
The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or exchanging a smile 
or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence. Bright and happy as it was, 
there was something solemn in the long deserted streets, from which, like 
bodies without souls, all habitual character and expression had departed, 
leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made them all alike. All was so 
still at that early hour, that the few pale people whom they met seemed as 
much unsuited to the scene, as the sickly lamp which had been here and 
there left burning, was powerless and faint in the full glory of the sun.
Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men's abodes 
which yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect began to melt 
away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts and 
coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm, then others came, then others 
yet more active, then a crowd. The wonder was, at first, to see a 
tradesman's room window open, but it was a rare thing to see one closed; 
then, smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were thrown up to let 
in air, and doors were opened, and servant girls, looking lazily in all 
directions but their brooms, scattered brown clouds of dust into the eyes 
of shrinking passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkmen who spoke of 
country fairs, and told of waggons in the mews, with awnings and all things 
complete, and gallant swains to boot, which another hour would see upon 
their journey.
This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and great 
traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was already rife. 
The old man looked about him with a startled and bewildered gaze, for those 
were places that he hoped to shun. He pressed his finger on his lip, and 
drew the child along by narrow courts and winding ways, nor did he seem at 
ease until they had left it far behind, often casting a backward look 
towards it, murmuring that ruin and self-murder were crouching in every 
street, and would follow if they scented them; and that they could not fly 
too fast.
Again, this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neighbourhood, 
where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows patched with rags 
and paper, told of the populous poverty that sheltered there. The shops 
sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers were pinched 
and griped alike. Here were poor streets where faded gentility essayed with 
scanty space and shipwrecked means to make its last feeble stand, but tax-
gatherer and creditor came there as elsewhere, and the poverty that yet 
faintly struggled was hardly less squalid and manifest than that which had 
long ago submitted and given up the game.
This was a wide, wide track - for the humble followers of the camp of 
wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile - but its character 
was still the same. Damp rotten houses, many to let, many yet building, 
many half-built and mouldering away - lodgings, where it would be hard to 
tell which needed pity most, those who let, or those who came to take - 
children, scantily fed and clothed, spread over every street, and sprawling 
in the dust - scolding mothers, stamping their slipshod feet with noisy 
threats upon the pavement - shabby fathers, hurrying with dispirited looks 
to the occupation which brought them "daily bread" and little more - 
mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers, tailors, chandlers, driving their 
trades in parlours and kitchens, and back rooms and garrets, and sometimes 
all of them under the same roof - brick-fields skirting gardens paled with 
staves of old casks, or timber pillaged from houses burnt down, and 
blackened and blistered by the flames - mounds of dock-weed, nettles, 
coarse grass and oyster shells, heaped in rank confusion - small dissenting 
chapels to teach, with no lack of illustration, the miseries of Earth, and 
plenty of new churches, erected with a little superfluous wealth, to show 
the way to Heaven.
At length these streets, becoming more straggling yet, dwindled and 
dwindled away, until there were only small garden patches bordering the 
road, with many a summer-house innocent of paint, and built of old timber 
or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-stalks that grew 
about it, and grottoed at the seams with toadstools and tight-sticking 
snails. To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two, with plots of ground 
in front, laid out in angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow paths 
between, where footstep never strayed to make the gravel rough. Then came 
the public-house, freshly painted in green and white, with tea-gardens and 
a bowling-green, spurning its old neighbour with the horse trough where the 
waggons stopped; then fields; and then some houses, one by one, of goodly 
size, with lawns, some even with a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife. 
Then came a turnpike; then fields again with trees and haystacks; then, a 
hill; and on the top of that the traveller might stop, and - looking back 
at old St. Paul's looming through the smoke, its cross peeping above the 
cloud (if the day were clear) and glittering in the sun; and casting his 
eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew until he traced it down to the 
furthest outposts of the invading army of bricks and mortar whose station 
lay for the present nearly at his feet - might feel at last that he was 
clear of London.
Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and his 
little guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they were bound) sat 
down to rest. She had had the precaution to furnish her basket with some 
slices of bread and meat, and here they made their frugal breakfast.
The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of the 
waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, the thousand 
exquisite scents and sounds that floated in the air, - deep joys to most of 
us, but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd, or who live 
solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human well, - sunk into 
their breasts and made them very glad. The child had repeated her artless 
prayers once that morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had ever done in 
all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her lips again. The 
old man took off his hat - he had no memory for the words - but he said 
amen, and that they were very good.
There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with strange plates, 
upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored whole evenings, 
wondering whether it was true in every word, and where those distant 
countries with the curious names might be. As she looked back upon the 
place they had left, one part of it came strongly on her mind.
"Dear grandfather," she said, "only that this place is prettier and a great 
deal better than the real one, if that in the book is like it, I feel as if 
we were both Christian, and laid down on this grass all the cares and 
troubles we brought with us; never to take them up again."
"No - never to return - never to return" - replied the old man, waving his 
hand toward the city. "Thou and I are free of it now, Nell. They shall 
never lure us back."
"Are you tired?" said the child, "are you sure you don't feel ill from this 
long walk?"
"I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away," was his reply. 
"Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be further away - a long, long way 
further. We are too near to stop, and be at rest. Come!"
There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child laved her 
hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth to walk again. She 
would have the old man refresh himself in this way too, and making him sit 
down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her hands, and dried it 
with her simple dress.
"I can do nothing for myself, my darling," said the grandfather. "I don't 
know how it is I could once, but the time's gone. Don't leave me, Nell; say 
that thou'lt not leave me. I loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I 
lose thee too, my dear, I must die!"
He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously. The time had been, 
and a very few days before, when the child could not have restrained her 
tears and must have wept with him. But now she soothed him with gentle and 
tender words, smiled at his thinking they could ever part, and rallied him 
cheerfully upon the jest. He was soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to 
himself in a low voice, like a little child.
He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The road was 
pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn, above which, 
poised high in the clear blue sky, the lark trilled out her happy song. The 
air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its way, and the bees, 
upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their drowsy satisfaction as 
they floated by.
They were now in the open country; the houses were very few and scattered 
at long intervals, often miles apart. Occasionally they came upon a cluster 
of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board put across the open door 
to keep the scrambling children from the road, others shut up close while 
all the family were working in the fields. These were often the 
commencement of a little village: and after an interval came a 
wheelwright's shed or perhaps a blacksmith's forge; then a thriving farm 
with sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses peering over the low wall 
and scampering away when harnessed horses passed upon the road, as though 
in triumph at their freedom. There were dull pigs too, turning up the 
ground in search of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous grumblings 
as they prowled about, or crossed each other in their quest; plump pigeons 
skimming round the roof or strutting on the eaves; and ducks and geese, far 
more graceful in their own conceit, waddling awkwardly about the edges of 
the pond or sailing glibly on its surface. The farmyard passed, then came 
the little inn; the humbler beer-shop; and the village tradesman's; then 
the lawyer's and the parson's at whose dread names the beer-shop trembled; 
the church then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees; then there were 
a few more cottages; then a cage, and pound, and not unfrequently, on a 
bank by the wayside, a deep old dusty well. Then came the trim hedged 
fields on either hand, and the open road again.
They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds 
were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again, and though 
jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before long and proceeded briskly 
forward.
They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and still 
kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the morning. It was nearly 
five o'clock in the afternoon, when drawing near another cluster of 
labourers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each, doubtful at which to 
ask permission to rest awhile, and buy a draught of milk.
It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of being 
repulsed. Here was a crying child and there a noisy wife. In this, the 
people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she stopped at one 
where the family were sitting round a table - chiefly because there was an 
old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the hearth, and she thought he 
was a grandfather and would feel for hers.
There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young sturdy 
children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner preferred, than 
granted. The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged two 
stools towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's gown, and 
looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand.
"God save you master," said the old cottager in a thin piping voice; "are 
you travelling far?"
"Yes, sir, a long way" - replied the child; for her grandfather appealed to 
her.
"From London?" inquired the old man.
The child said yes.
Ah! he had been in London many a time - used to go there often once, with 
waggons. It was nigh two and thirty years since he had been there last, and 
he did hear say there were great changes. Like enough! He had changed 
himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was a long time and eighty-four a 
great age, though there was some he had known that had lived to very hard 
upon a hundred - and not so hearty as he neither - no, nothing like it.
"Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair," said the old man, knocking his 
stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so sharply. "Take a pinch out 
o' that box; I don't take much myself, for it comes dear, but I find it 
wakes me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me. I should have a son 
pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived, but they listed him for a so'ger - 
he come back home though, for all he had but one poor leg. He always said 
he'd be buried near the sundial he used to climb upon when he was a baby, 
did my poor boy, and his words come true - you can see the place with your 
own eyes; we've kept the turf up, ever since."
He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes, said she 
needn't be afraid that he was going to talk about that any more. He didn't 
wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by what he said he 
asked pardon, that was all.
The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket and selecting 
its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty meal. The 
furniture of the room was very homely of course - a few rough chairs and a 
table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of crockery and delf, a 
gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright-red, walking out with a very 
blue parasol, a few common, coloured scripture subjects in frames upon the 
wall and chimney, an old dwarf clothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a 
few bright saucepans and a kettle, comprised the whole. But everything was 
clean and neat, and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of 
comfort and content to which she had long been unaccustomed.
"How far is it to any town or village?" she asked of the husband.
"A matter of good five mile, my dear," was the reply; "but you're not going 
on tonight?"
"Yes, yes, Nell," said the old man hastily, urging her too by signs. 
"Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk 'till midnight."
"There's a good barn hard by, master," said the man "or there's traveller's 
lodging, I know, at the Plow an' Harrer. Excuse me, but you do seem a 
little tired, and unless you're very anxious to get on - "
"Yes, yes, we are," returned the old man fretfully. "Further away, dear 
Nell, pray further away."
"We must go on, indeed," said the child, yielding to his restless wish. "We 
thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon. I'm quite ready, 
grandfather."
But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that one of her 
little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and a mother too, she 
would not suffer her to go until she had washed the place and applied some 
simple remedy, which she did so carefully and with such a gentle hand - 
rough-grained and hard though it was, with work - that the child's heart 
was too full to admit of her saying more than a fervent, "God bless you!" 
nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak, until they had left the 
cottage some distance behind. When she turned her head, she saw that the 
whole family, even the old grandfather, were standing in the road watching 
them as they went, and so, with many waves of the hand, and cheering nods, 
and on one side at least not without tears, they parted company.
They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they had done yet, for 
another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of wheels behind 
them, and looking round observed an empty cart approaching pretty briskly. 
The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and looked earnestly at 
Nell.
"Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?" he said.
"Yes, sir," replied the child.
"Ah! They asked me to look out for you," said the man. "I'm going your way. 
Give me your hand - jump up, master."
This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and could 
scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a luxurious carriage, 
and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had scarcely settled 
herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she fell asleep, for 
the first time that day.
She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn up a 
bye-lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out, and pointing to some 
trees at a very short distance before them, said that the town lay there, 
and that they had better take the path which they would see leading through 
the churchyard. Accordingly, towards this spot they directed their weary 
steps.


Chapter 16

The sun was setting when they reached the wicket gate at which the path 
began, and, as the rain falls upon the just and unjust alike, it shed its 
warm tint even upon the resting-places of the dead, and bade them be of 
good hope for its rising on the morrow. The church was old and grey, with 
ivy clinging to the walls, and round the porch. Shunning the tombs, it 
crept about the mounds, beneath which slept poor humble men: twining for 
them the first wreaths they had ever won, wreaths less liable to wither and 
far more lasting in their kind, than some which were graven deep in stone 
and marble, and told in pompous terms of virtues meekly hidden for many a 
year, and only revealed at last to executors and mourning legatees.
The clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull blunt sound among the graves, 
was cropping the grass; at once deriving orthodox consolation from the dead 
parishioners, and enforcing last Sunday's text that this was what all flesh 
came to; a lean ass who had sought to expound it also, without being 
qualified and ordained, was pricking his ears in an empty pound hard by, 
and looking with hungry eyes upon his priestly neighbour.
The old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and strayed among the 
tombs; for there the ground was soft, and easy to their tired feet. As they 
passed behind the church, they heard voices near at hand, and presently 
came on those who had spoken.
They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes upon the grass, and so 
busily engaged as to be at first unconscious of intruders. It was not 
difficult to divine that they were of a class of itinerant showmen - 
exhibitors of the freaks of Punch - for, perched cross-legged upon a 
tombstone behind them was a figure of that hero himself, his nose and chin 
as hooked and his face as beaming as usual. Perhaps his imperturbable 
character was never more strikingly developed, for he preserved his usual 
equable smile notwithstanding that his body was dangling in a most 
uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and shapeless, while his long 
peaked cap, unequally balanced against his exceedingly slight legs, 
threatened every instant to bring him toppling down.
In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two men, and in part 
jumbled together in a long flat box, were the other persons of the Drama. 
The hero's wife and one child, the hobby-horse, the doctor, the foreign 
gentleman who not being familiar with the language is unable in the 
representation to express his ideas otherwise than by the utterance of the 
word "Shallabalah" three distinct times, the radical neighbour who will by 
no means admit that a tin bell is an organ, the executioner, and the devil, 
were all here. Their owners had evidently come to that spot to make some 
needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one of them was engaged in 
binding together a small gallows with thread, while the other was intent 
upon fixing a new black wig, with the aid of a small hammer and some tacks, 
upon the head of the radical neighbour, who had been beaten bald.
They raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were close 
upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their looks of curiosity. 
One of them, the actual exhibiter no doubt, was a little merry faced man 
with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have unconsciously 
imbibed something of his hero's character. The other - that was he who took 
the money - had rather a careful and cautious look, which was perhaps 
inseparable from his occupation also.
The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and 
following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the first 
time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may be remarked, 
seemed to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most flourishing 
epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.)
"Why do you come here to do this?" said the old man, sitting down beside 
them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight.
"Why you see," rejoined the little man, "we're putting up for tonight at 
the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the present 
company undergoing repair."
"No!" cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, "why not, eh? why 
not?"
"Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the interest, 
wouldn't it?" replied the little man. "Would you care a ha'penny for the 
Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and without his wig? - 
certainly not."
"Good!" said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and 
drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. "Are you going to show 'em 
tonight? are you?"
"That is the intention, governor," replied the other, "and unless I'm much 
mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a calculating at this minute what we've lost 
through your coming upon us. Cheer up Tommy, it can't be much."
The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive of 
the estimate he had formed of the travellers' finances.
To this Mr Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as he 
twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box,
"I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you 
stood in front of the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd 
know human natur' better."
"Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch," 
rejoined his companion. "When you played the ghost in the reg'lar drama in 
the fairs, you believed in everything except ghosts. But now you're a 
universal mistruster. I never see a man so changed."
"Never mind," said Mr Codlin, with the air of a discontented philosopher. 
"I know better now, and p'raps I'm sorry for it."
Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised them, Mr 
Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his friend:
"Look here; here's all this Judy's clothes falling to pieces again. You 
haven't got a needle and thread I suppose?"
The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully as he contemplated 
this severe indisposition of a principal performer. Seeing that they were 
at a loss, the child said timidly:
"I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me try to 
mend it for you? I think I can do it neater than you could."
Even Mr Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable. Nelly, 
kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her task, and 
accomplishing it to a miracle.
While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with an 
interest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced at her 
helpless companion. When she had finished her work he thanked her, and 
inquired whither they were travelling.
"N - no further tonight, I think," said the child, looking towards her 
grandfather.
"If you're wanting a place to stop at," the man remarked, "I should advise 
you to take up at the same house with us. That's it - the long, low, white 
house there. It's very cheap."
The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have remained in the 
churchyard all night if his new acquaintance had stayed there too. As he 
yielded to this suggestion a ready and rapturous assent, they all arose and 
walked away together; he keeping close to the box of puppets in which he 
was quite absorbed, the merry little man carrying it slung over his arm by 
a strap attached to it for the purpose, Nelly having hold of her 
grandfather's hand, and Mr Codlin sauntering slowly behind, casting up at 
the church tower and neighbouring trees such looks as he was accustomed in 
town-practice to direct to drawing-room and nursery windows, when seeking 
for a profitable spot on which to plant the show.
The public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady who made no 
objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty and 
were at once prepossessed in her behalf. There was no other company in the 
kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very thankful that they had 
fallen upon such good quarters. The landlady was very much astonished to 
learn that they had come all the way from London, and appeared to have no 
little curiosity touching their farther destination. The child parried her 
inquiries as well as she could, and with no great trouble, for finding that 
they appeared to give her pain, the old lady desisted.
"These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an hour's time," she said, 
taking her into the bar; "and your best plan will be to sup with them. 
Meanwhile you shall have a little taste of something that'll do you good, 
for I'm sure you must want it after all you've gone through today. Now 
don't look after the old gentleman, because when you've drank that, he 
shall have some too."
As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, however, or to touch 
anything in which he was not the first and greatest sharer, the old lady 
was obliged to help him first. When they had been thus refreshed, the whole 
house hurried away into an empty stable where the show stood, and where, by 
the light of a few flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung by a line 
from the ceiling, it was to be forthwith exhibited.
And now Mr Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after blowing away at the Pan's 
pipes until he was intensely wretched, took his station on one side of the 
checked drapery which concealed the mover of the figures, and putting his 
hands in his pockets, prepared to reply to all questions and remarks of 
Punch, and to make a dismal feint of being his most intimate private 
friend, of believing in him to the fullest and most unlimited extent, of 
knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and glorious existence in 
that temple, and that he was at all times and under every circumstance the 
same intelligent and joyful person that the spectators then beheld him. All 
this Mr Codlin did with the air of a man who had made up his mind for the 
worst and was quite resigned; his eye slowly wandering about during the 
briskest repartee to observe the effect upon the audience, and particularly 
the impression made upon the landlord and landlady, which might be 
productive of very important results in connection with the supper.
Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any anxiety, for the whole 
performance was applauded to the echo, and voluntary contributions were 
showered in with a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the 
general delight. Among the laughter none was heard more loud and frequent 
than the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she, poor child, with her head 
drooping on her shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be 
roused by any of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in his glee.
The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet would not 
leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed. He, happily 
insensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile and 
admiring face to all that his new friends said; and it was not until they 
retired yawning to their room, that he followed the child upstairs.
It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, where they were to 
rest, but they were well pleased with their lodging and had hoped for none 
so good. The old man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged that Nell 
would come and sit at his bedside as she had done for so many nights. She 
hastened to him, and sat there till he slept.
There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in the wall, in her 
room, and when she left him, she opened it, quite wondering at the silence. 
The sight of the old church and the graves about it in the moonlight, and 
the dark trees whispering among themselves, made her more thoughtful than 
before. She closed the window again, and sitting down upon the bed, thought 
of the life that was before them.
She had a little money, but it was very little, and when that was gone, 
they must begin to beg. There was one piece of gold among it, and an 
emergency might come when its worth to them would be increased a hundred 
fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and never produce it unless their 
case was absolutely desperate, and no other resource was left them.
Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress, and going 
to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber.


Chapter 17

Another bright day shining in through the small casement, and claiming 
fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her. At sight of the 
strange room and its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm, 
wondering how she had been removed from the familiar chamber in which she 
seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and whither she had been conveyed. 
But, another glance around called to her mind all that had lately passed, 
and she sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.
It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out into 
the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her feet, and 
often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in others, that 
she might not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious kind of pleasure in 
lingering among these houses of the dead, and read the inscriptions on the 
tombs of the good people (a great number of good people were buried there), 
passing on from one to another with increasing interest.
It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the cawing 
of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of some tall old 
trees, and were calling to one another, high up in air. First, one sleek 
bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung and dangled in the wind, 
uttered his hoarse cry, quite by chance as it would seem, and in a sober 
tone as though he were but talking to himself. Another answered, and he 
called again, but louder than before; then another spoke and then another; 
and each time the first, aggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case 
more strongly. Other voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs lower 
down and higher up and midway, and to the right and left, and from the tree-
tops; and others, arriving hastily from the grey church turrets and old 
belfry window, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and swelled and 
dropped again, and still went on; and all this noisy contention amidst a 
skimming to and fro, and lighting on fresh branches, and frequent change of 
place, which satirised the old restlessness of those who lay so still 
beneath the moss and turf below, and the strife in which they had worn away 
their lives.
Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down, and 
feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect silence would 
have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now stopping to replace 
with careful hands the bramble which had started from some green mound it 
helped to keep in shape, and now peeping through one of the low latticed 
windows into the church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and 
baize of whitened-green mouldering from the pew-sides and leaving the naked 
wood to view. There were the seats where the poor old people sat, worn, 
spare, and yellow like themselves; the rugged font where children had their 
names, the homely altar where they knelt in after life, the plain black 
tressels that bore their weight on their last visit to the cool old shady 
church. Every thing told of long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-
rope in the porch was frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age.
She was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had died at 
twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she heard a faltering 
step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble woman bent with the weight 
of years, who tottered to the foot of that same grave and asked her to read 
the writing on the stone. The old woman thanked her when she had done, 
saying that she had had the words by heart for many a long, long year, but 
could not see them now.
"Were you his mother?" said the child.
"I was his wife, my dear."
She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was fifty-
five years ago.
"You wonder to hear me say that," remarked the old woman, shaking her head. 
"You're not the first. Older folk than you have wondered at the same thing 
before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn't change us more than life, my 
dear."
"Do you come here often?" asked the child.
"I sit here very often in the summer time," she answered, "I used to come 
here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago, bless God!"
"I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home," said the old woman 
after a short silence. "I like no flowers so well as these, and haven't for 
five - and fifty years. It's a long time, and I'm getting very old!"
Then growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener though it 
was but a child, she told her how she had wept and moaned and prayed to die 
herself, when this happened; and how when she first came to that place, a 
young creature strong in love and grief, she had hoped that her heart was 
breaking as it seemed to be. But that time passed by, and although she 
continued to be sad when she came there, still she could not bear to come, 
and so went on till it was pain no longer, but a solemn pleasure and a duty 
she had learned to like. And now that five-and-fifty years were gone, she 
spoke of the dead man as if he had been her son and grandson with a kind of 
pity for his youth, growing out of her own old age, and exalting of his 
strength and manly beauty as compared with her own weakness and decay; and 
yet she spoke about him as her husband too, and thinking of herself in 
connection with him, as she used to be and not as she was now, talked of 
their meeting in another world as if he were dead but yesterday, and she, 
separated from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of that 
comely girl who seemed to have died with him.
The child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave, and 
thoughtfully retraced her steps.
The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still doomed to 
contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing among the linen 
the candle-ends which had been saved from the previous night's performance; 
while his companion received the compliments of all the loungers in the 
stable-yard, who, unable to separate him from the mastermind of Punch, set 
him down as next in importance to that merry outlaw, and loved him scarcely 
less. When he had sufficiently acknowledged his popularity he came in to 
breakfast, at which meal they all sat down together.
"And where are you going today?" said the little man, addressing himself to 
Nell.
"Indeed I hardly know, - we have not determined yet," replied the child.
"We're going on to the races," said the little man. "If that's your way and 
you like to have us for company let us travel together. If you prefer going 
alone, only say the word and you'll find that we shan't trouble you."
"We'll go with you," said the old man. "Nell, - with them, with them."
The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must shortly 
beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where crowds 
of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled together for the purposes of 
enjoyment and festivity, determined to accompany these men so far. She 
therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said, glancing timidly 
towards his friend, that if there was no objection to their accompanying 
them as far as the race town -
"Objection!" said the little man. "Now be gracious for once, Tommy, and say 
that you'd rather they went with us. I know you would. Be gracious, Tommy."
"Trotters," said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and eat very greedily, 
as it is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes; "you're too 
free."
"Why, what harm can it do?" urged the other.
"No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps," replied Mr Codlin; "but 
the principle's a dangerous one, and you're too free I tell you."
"Well, are they to go with us or not?"
"Yes, they are," said Mr Codlin; "but you might have made a favour of it, 
mightn't you?"
The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually merged 
into the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory 
adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason of the small size 
of his legs. Short Trotters, however, being a compound name, inconvenient 
of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom it had been bestowed was 
known among his intimates either as "Short," or "Trotters," and was seldom 
accosted at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal conversations 
and on occasions of ceremony.
Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the 
remonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin, a jocose answer calculated to 
turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with great relish to the 
cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and butter, strongly impressed upon 
his companions that they should do the like. Mr Codlin indeed required no 
such persuasion, as he had already eat as much as he could possibly carry 
and was now moistening his clay with strong ale, whereof he took deep 
draughts with a silent relish and invited nobody to partake, - thus again 
strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of mind.
Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and charging the 
ale to the company generally (a practice also savouring of misanthropy) 
divided the sum total into two fair and equal parts, assigning one moiety 
to himself and friend, and the other to Nelly and her grandfather. These 
being duly discharged and all things ready for their departure, they took 
farewell of the landlord and landlady and resumed their journey.
And here Mr Codlin's false position in society and the effect it wrought 
upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for whereas he had been 
last night accosted by Mr Punch as "master" and had by inference left the 
audience to understand that he maintained that individual for his own 
luxurious entertainment and delight, here he was, now, painfully walking 
beneath the burden of that same Punch's temple, and bearing it bodily upon 
his shoulders on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In place of 
enlivening his patron with a constant fire of wit or the cheerful rattle of 
his quarter-staff on the heads of his relations and acquaintance, here was 
that beaming Punch utterly devoid of spine, all slack and drooping in a 
dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck, and not one of his 
social qualities remaining.
Mr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals with 
Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led the way; with 
the flat box, the private luggage (which was not extensive) tied up in a 
bundle, and a brazen-trumpet slung from his shoulder-blade. Nell and her 
grandfather walked next him on either hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up 
the rear.
When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house of good 
appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen-trumpet and carolled a 
fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to Punches and their 
consorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr Codlin pitched the temple, 
and hastily unfolding the drapery and concealing Short therewith, 
flourished hysterically on the pipes and performed an air. Then the 
entertainment began as soon as might be; Mr Codlin having the 
responsibility of deciding on its length and protracting or expediting the 
time of the hero's final triumph over the enemy of mankind, according as he 
judged that the after crop of halfpence would be plentiful or scant. When 
it had been gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and on 
they went again.
Sometimes they played out the toll across the bridge or ferry, and once 
exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector, being 
drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to have it to himself. There 
was one small place of rich promise in which their hopes were blighted, for 
a favourite character in the play having gold lace upon his coat and being 
a meddling wooden-headed fellow was held to be a libel on the beadle, for 
which reason the authorities enforced a quick retreat; but they were 
generally well received, and seldom left a town without a troop of ragged 
children shouting at their heels.
They made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and were yet 
upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short beguiled the time 
with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that happened. Mr 
Codlin on the other hand cursed his fate, and all the hollow things of 
earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with the theatre on his 
back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin.
They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met, and Mr 
Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and seated himself 
in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes, and disdainful of the 
company of his fellow-creatures, when two monstrous shadows were seen 
stalking towards them from a turning in the road by which they had come. 
The child was at first quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants - 
for such they looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath the shadow 
of the trees - but Short, telling her there was nothing to fear, blew a 
blast upon the trumpet, which was answered by a cheerful shout.
"It's Grinder's lot, ain't it?" cried Mr Short in a loud key.
"Yes," replied a couple of shrill voices.
"Come on then," said Short. "Let's have a look at you. I thought it was 
you."
Thus invited, "Grinder's lot" approached with redoubled speed and soon came 
up with the little party.
Mr Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young 
gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who used his 
natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his back a drum. The 
public costume of the young people was of the highland kind, but the night 
being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore over his kilt a man's pea 
jacket reaching to his ankles, and a glazed hat; the young lady too was 
muffled in an old cloth pelisse and a handkerchief tied about her head. 
Their Scotch bonnets ornamented with plumes of jet black feathers, Mr 
Grinder carried on his instrument.
"Bound for the races, I see," said Mr Grinder coming up out of breath. "So 
are we. How are you, Short?" With that they shook hands in a very friendly 
manner. The young people being too high up for the ordinary salutations, 
saluted Short after their own fashion. The young gentleman twisted up his 
right stilt and patted him on the shoulder, and the young lady rattled her 
tambourine.
"Practice?" said Short, pointing to the stilts.
"No," returned Grinder. "It comes either to walkin' in 'em or carryin' of 
'em, and they like walkin' in 'em best. It's wery pleasant for the 
prospects. Which road are you takin'? We go the nighest."
"Why, the fact is," said Short, "that we are going the longest way, because 
then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But three or four 
mile gained tonight is so many saved tomorrow, and if you keep on, I think 
our best way is to do the same."
"Where's your partner?" inquired Grinder.
"Here he is," cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face in the 
proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of countenance not 
often seen there; "and he'll see his partner boiled alive before he'll go 
on tonight. That's what he says."
"Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted to 
something pleasanter," urged Short. "Respect associations, Tommy, even if 
you do cut up rough."
"Rough or smooth," said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little 
footboard, where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his legs 
and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit them to 
popular admiration, "rough or smooth, I won't go further than a mile and a 
half tonight. I put up at the Jolly Sandboys and nowhere else. If you like 
to come there, come there. If you like to go on by yourself, go on by 
yourself, and do without me if you can."
So saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene, and immediately presenting 
himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a jerk, and made 
off with most remarkable agility.
Any further controversy being now out of the question, Short was fain to 
part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his morose companion. 
After lingering at the finger-post for a few minutes to see the stilts 
frisking away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum toiling slowly 
after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet as a parting salute, and 
hastened with all speed to follow Mr Codlin. With this view he gave his 
unoccupied hand to Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer as they would 
soon be at the end of their journey for that night, and stimulating the old 
man with a similar assurance, led them at a pretty swift pace towards their 
destination, which he was the less unwilling to make for, as the moon was 
now overcast and the clouds were threatening rain.


Chapter 18

The Jolly Sandboys was a small roadside inn of pretty ancient date, with a 
sign, representing three Sandboys increasing their jollity with as many 
jugs of ale and bags of gold, creaking and swinging on its post on the 
opposite side of the road. As the travellers had observed that day many 
indications of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race town, such as 
gipsey camps, carts laden with gambling booths and their appurtenances, 
itinerant show men of various kinds, and beggars and trampers of every 
degree, all wending their way in the same direction, Mr Codlin was fearful 
of finding the accommodations forestalled; this fear increasing as he 
diminished the distance between himself and the hostelry, he quickened his 
pace, and notwithstanding the burden he had to carry, maintained a round 
trot until he reached the threshold. Here he had the gratification of 
finding that his fears were without foundation, for the landlord was 
leaning against the door-post looking lazily at the rain, which had by this 
time begun to descend heavily, and no tinkling of cracked bell, nor 
boisterous shout, nor noisy chorus, gave note of company within.
"All alone?" said Mr Codlin, putting down his burden and wiping his 
forehead.
"Alone as yet," rejoined the landlord, glancing at the sky, "but we shall 
have more company tonight I expect. Here one of you boys, carry that show 
into the barn. Make haste in out of the wet, Tom; when it came on to rain, 
I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a glorious blaze in the kitchen 
I can tell you."
Mr Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon found that the landlord 
had not commended his preparations without good reason. A mighty fire was 
blazing on the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney with a cheerful 
sound, which a large iron cauldron, bubbling and simmering in the heat, 
lent its pleasant aid to swell. There was a deep ruddy blush upon the room, 
and when the landlord stirred the fire, sending the flames skipping and 
leaping up - when he took off the lid of the iron pot and there rushed out 
a savoury smell, while the bubbling sound grew deeper and more rich, and an 
unctuous steam came floating out, hanging in a delicious mist above their 
heads - when he did this, Mr Codlin's heart was touched. He sat down in the 
chimney-corner and smiled.
Mr Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner, eyeing the landlord as with a 
roguish look he held the cover in his hand, and, feigning that his doing so 
was needful to the welfare of the cookery, suffered the delightful steam to 
tickle the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the fire was upon the 
landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling eye, and upon his watering 
mouth, and upon his pimpled face, and upon his round fat figure. Mr Codlin 
drew his sleeve across his lips, and said in a murmuring voice, "What is 
it!"
"It's a stew of tripe," said the landlord smacking his lips, "and cow-
heel," smacking them again, "and bacon," smacking them once more, "and 
steak," smacking them for the fourth time, "and peas, cauliflowers, new 
potatoes, and sparrow grass, all working up together in one delicious 
gravy." Having come to the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times, 
and taking a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, 
put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were over.
"At what time will it be ready?" asked Mr Codlin faintly.
"It'll be done to a turn," said the landlord looking up at the clock - and 
the very clock had a colour in its fat white face, and looked a clock for 
Jolly Sandboys to consult - "it'll be done to a turn at twenty-two minutes 
before eleven."
"Then," said Mr Codlin, "fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let nobody 
bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time arrives."
Nodding his approval of this decisive and manly course of procedure, the 
landlord retired to draw the beer, and presently returning with it applied 
himself to warm the same in a small tin vessel shaped funnel-wise, for the 
convenience of sticking it far down in the fire and getting at the bright 
places. This was soon done, and he handed it over to Mr Codlin with that 
creamy froth upon the surface which is one of the happy circumstances 
attendant on mulled malt.
Greatly softened by this soothing beverage, Mr Codlin now bethought him of 
his companions, and acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that their arrival 
might be shortly looked for. The rain was rattling against the windows and 
pouring down in torrents, and such was Mr Codlin's extreme amiability of 
mind, that he more than once expressed his earnest hope that they would not 
be so foolish as to get wet.
At length they arrived, drenched with the rain and presenting a most 
miserable appearance, notwithstanding that Short had sheltered the child as 
well as he could under the skirts of his own coat, and they were nearly 
breathless from the haste they had made. But their steps were no sooner 
heard upon the road than the landlord, who had been at the outer door 
anxiously watching for their coming, rushed into the kitchen and took the 
cover off. The effect was electrical. They all came in with smiling faces 
though the wet was dripping from their clothes upon the floor, and Short's 
first remark was, "What a delicious smell!"
It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the side of a cheerful 
fire, and in a bright room. They were furnished with slippers and such dry 
garments as the house or their own bundles afforded, and ensconcing 
themselves as Mr Codlin had already done, in the warm chimney-corner, soon 
forgot their late troubles or only remembered them as enhancing the 
delights of the present time. Overpowered by the warmth and comfort and the 
fatigue they had undergone, Nelly and the old man had not long taken their 
seats here when they fell asleep.
"Who are they?" whispered the landlord.
Short shook his head, and wished he knew himself.
"Don't you know?" asked the host, turning to Mr Codlin.
"Not I," he replied. "They're no good, I suppose."
"They're no harm," said Short. "Depend upon that. I tell you what - it's 
plain that the old man an't in his right mind -"
"If you haven't got anything newer than that to say," growled Mr Codlin, 
glancing at the clock, "you'd better let us fix our minds upon the supper, 
and not disturb us."
"Hear me out, won't you?" retorted his friend. "It's very plain to me, 
besides, that they're not used to this way of life. Don't tell me that that 
handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she's done these 
last two or three days. I know better."
"Well, who does tell you she has?" growled Mr Codlin, again glancing at the 
clock and from it to the cauldron, "can't you think of anything more 
suitable to present circumstances than saying things and then contradicting 
'em?"
"I wish somebody would give you your supper," returned Short, "for there'll 
be no peace till you've got it. Have you seen how anxious the old man is to 
get on - always wanting to be furder away - furder away. Have you seen 
that?"
"Ah! what then?" muttered Thomas Codlin.
"This, then," said Short. "He has given his friends the slip. Mind what I 
say, - he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this delicate young 
creetur all along of her fondness for him to be his guide and travelling 
companion - where to, he knows no more than the man in the moon. Now I'm 
not a-going to stand that."
"You're not a-going to stand that!" cried Mr Codlin, glancing at the clock 
again and pulling his hair with both hands in a kind of frenzy, but whether 
occasioned by his companion's observation or the tardy pace of Time, it was 
difficult to determine. "Here's a world to live in!"
"I," repeated Short emphatically and slowly, "am not a-going to stand it. I 
am not a-going to see this fair young child a-falling into bad hands, and 
getting among people that she's no more fit for, than they are to get among 
angels as their ordinary chums. Therefore when they develope an intention 
of parting company from us, I shall take measures for detaining of 'em, and 
restoring 'em to their friends, who I dare say have had their 
disconsolation pasted up on every wall in London by this time."
"Short!" said Mr Codlin, who with his head upon his hands and his elbows on 
his knees had been shaking himself impatiently from side to side up to this 
point and occasionally stamping on the ground, but who now looked up with 
eager eyes; "it's possible that there may be uncommon good sense in what 
you've said. If there is, and there should be a reward, Short, remember 
that we're partners in everything!"
His companion had only time to nod a brief assent to this position, for the 
child awoke at the instant. They had drawn close together during the 
previous whispering, and now hastily separated and were rather awkwardly 
endeavouring to exchange some casual remarks in their usual tone, when 
strange footsteps were heard without, and fresh company entered.
These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who came pattering in one 
after the other, headed by an old bandy dog of particularly mournful 
aspect, who, stopping when the last of his followers had got as far as the 
door, erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round at his 
companions, who immediately stood upon their hind legs, in a grave and 
melancholy row. Nor was this the only remarkable circumstance about these 
dogs, for each of them wore a kind of little coat of some gaudy colour 
trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of them had a cap upon his head, 
tied very carefully under his chin, which had fallen down upon his nose and 
completely obscured one eye; add to this that the gaudy coats were all wet 
through and discoloured with rain, and that the wearers were splashed and 
dirty, and some idea may be formed of the unusual appearance of these new 
visitors to the Jolly Sandboys.
Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, however, were the least 
surprised, merely remarking that these were Jerry's dogs and that Jerry 
could not be far behind. So there the dogs stood, patiently winking and 
gaping and looking extremely hard at the boiling pot, until Jerry himself 
appeared, when they all dropped down at once and walked about the room in 
their natural manner. This posture, it must be confessed, did not much 
improve their appearance, as their own personal tails and their coat tails -
 both capital things in their way - did not agree together.
Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall black-whiskered man in 
a velveteen coat, who seemed well known to the landlord and his guests and 
accosted them with great cordiality. Disencumbering himself of a barrel 
organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining in his hand a small whip 
wherewith to awe his company of comedians, he came up to the fire to dry 
himself, and entered into conversation.
"Your people don't usually travel in character, do they?" said Short, 
pointing to the dresses of the dogs. "It must come expensive if they do?"
"No," replied Jerry, "no, it's not the custom with us. But we've been 
playing a little on the road today, and we come out with a new wardrobe at 
the races, so I didn't think it worth while to stop to undress. Down, 
Pedro!"
This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who being a new member of 
the company and not quite certain of his duty, kept his unobscured eye 
anxiously on his master, and was perpetually starting upon his hind legs 
when there was no occasion, and falling down again.
"I've got a animal here," said Jerry, putting his hand into the capacious 
pocket of his coat, and diving into one corner as if he were feeling for a 
small orange or an apple or some such article, "a animal here, wot I think 
you know something of, Short!"

"Ah!" cried Short, "let's have a look at him."
"Here he is," said Jerry, producing a little terrier from his pocket. "He 
was once a Toby of yours, warn't he?"
In some versions of the great drama of Punch there is a small dog - a 
modern innovation - supposed to be the private property of that gentleman, 
whose name is always Toby. This Toby has been stolen in youth from another 
gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the confiding hero, who having no guile 
himself has no suspicion that it lurks in others; but Toby, entertaining a 
grateful recollection of his old master, and scorning to attach himself to 
any new patrons, not only refuses to smoke a pipe at the bidding of Punch, 
but to mark his old fidelity more strongly, seizes him by the nose and 
wrings the same with violence, at which instance of canine attachment the 
spectators are deeply affected. This was the character which the little 
terrier in question had once sustained; if there had been any doubt upon 
the subject he would speedily have resolved it by his conduct; for not only 
did he, on seeing Short, give the strongest tokens of recognition, but 
catching sight of the flat-box he barked so furiously at the pasteboard 
nose which he knew was inside, that his master was obliged to gather him up 
and put him into his pocket again, to the great relief of the whole 
company.
The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which process Mr 
Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork in the 
most convenient place and establishing himself behind them. When everything 
was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last time, and then 
indeed there burst forth such a goodly promise of supper, that if he had 
offered to put it on again or had hinted at postponement, he would 
certainly have been sacrificed on his own hearth.
However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead thereof assisted a stout 
serving girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into a large tureen; a 
proceeding which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes which fell 
upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness. At length the dish was 
lifted on the table, and mugs of ale having been previously set round, 
little Nell ventured to say grace, and supper began.
At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind legs quite 
surprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about to cast some 
morsels of food to them before she tasted it herself, hungry though she 
was, when their master interposed.
"No my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand but mine if you please. 
That dog," said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the troop, and 
speaking in a terrible voice, "lost a halfpenny today. He goes without his 
supper."
The unfortunate creature dropped upon his forelegs directly, wagged his 
tail, and looked imploringly at his master.
"You must be more careful, sir," said Jerry, walking coolly to the chair 
where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop. "Come here. Now sir, 
you play away at that, while we have supper, and leave off if you dare!"
The dog immediately began to grind most mournful music. His master having 
shown him the whip resumed his seat and called up the others, who, at his 
directions, formed in a row, standing upright as a file of soldiers.
"Now gentlemen," said Jerry, looking at them attentively. "The dog whose 
name's called, eats. The dogs whose names an't called, keep quiet. Carlo!"
The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel thrown 
towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle. In this manner they 
were fed at the discretion of their master. Meanwhile the dog in disgrace 
ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, sometimes in slow, but 
never leaving off for an instant. When the knives and forks rattled very 
much, or any of his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he 
accompanied the music with a short howl, but he immediately checked it on 
his master looking round, and applied himself with increased diligence to 
the Old Hundredth.


Chapter 19

Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two more 
travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been walking in 
the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with water. One of 
these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady without legs or 
arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a silent gentleman who 
earned his living by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had rather 
deranged the expression of his countenance by putting small leaden lozenges 
into his eyes and bringing them out at his mouth, which was one of his 
professional accomplishments. The name of the first of these newcomers was 
Vuffin; the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was 
called Sweet William. To render them as comfortable as he could, the 
landlord bestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both gentlemen 
were perfectly at their ease.
"How's the Giant?" said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire.
"Rather weak upon his legs," returned Mr Vuffin, "I begin to be afraid he's 
going at the knees."
"That's a bad lookout," said Short.
"Aye! Bad indeed," replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a sigh. 
"Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more about him 
than they do for a dead cabbage stalk."
"What becomes of the old giants?" said Short, turning to him again after a 
little reflection.
"They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs," said Mr Vuffin.
"The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when they can't be shown, eh?" 
remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
"It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish or about the 
streets," said Mr Vuffin. "Once make a giant common and giants will never 
draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man with a wooden 
leg what a property he'd be!"
"So he would!" observed the landlord and Short both together. "That's very 
true."
"Instead of which," pursued Mr Vuffin, "if you was to advertise Shakespeare 
played entirely by wooden legs, it's my belief you wouldn't draw a 
sixpence."
"I don't suppose you would," said Short. And the landlord said so too.
"This shows, you see," said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an 
argumentative air, "this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants 
still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all 
their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There was one 
giant - a black 'un - as left his carawan some year ago and took to 
carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as crossing-
sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation against anybody in particular," 
said Mr Vuffin looking solemnly round, "but he was ruining the trade; - and 
he died."
The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs, who 
nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.
"I know you do, Jerry," said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning. "I know you 
remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served him 
right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had three-and-twenty 
wans - I remember the time when old Maunders had in his cottage in Spa 
Fields in the winter time when the season was over, eight male and female 
dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight old 
giants in green coat, red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-lows; and 
there was one dwarf as had grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant 
wasn't quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs, not 
being able to reach up any higher. I know that's a fact, for Maunders told 
it me himself."
"What about the dwarfs, when they get old?" inquired the landlord.
"The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is," returned Mr Vuffin; "a grey-
headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant weak in 
the legs and not standing upright! - keep him in the carawan, but never 
show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be offered."
While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the 
time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm 
corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence for 
practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other feats of 
dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to the company, 
who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child 
prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the 
company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep at a humble 
distance.
After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret, but 
had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She opened it 
directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas Codlin, whom 
she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep downstairs.
"What is the matter?" said the child.
"Nothing's the matter, my dear," returned her visitor. "I'm your friend. 
Perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your friend - not him."
"Not who?" the child inquired.
"Short, my dear. I tell you what," said Codlin, "for all his having a kind 
of way with him that you'd be very apt to like, I'm the real open-hearted 
man. I mayn't look it, but I am indeed."
The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken effect 
upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the consequence.
"Short's very well and seems kind," resumed the misanthrope, "but he 
overdoes it. Now I don't."
Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin's usual deportment, it was 
that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than overdid it. 
But the child was puzzled and could not tell what to say.
"Take my advice," said Codlin; "don't ask me why, but take it. As long as 
you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don't offer to leave us - 
not on any account - but always stick to me and say that I'm your friend. 
Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that it was me that was 
your friend?"
"Say so where, - and when?" inquired the child innocently.
"O, nowhere in particular," replied Codlin, a little put out as it seemed 
by the question; "I'm only anxious that you should think me so, and do me 
justice. You can't think what an interest I have in you. Why didn't you 
tell me your little history - that about you and the poor old gentleman? 
I'm the best adviser that ever was, and so interested in you - so much more 
interested than Short. I think they're breaking up downstairs; you needn't 
tell Short, you know, that we've had this little talk together. God bless 
you. Recollect the friend. Codlin's the friend, not Short. Short's very 
well as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin - not Short."
Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting 
looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe, 
leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still ruminating 
upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy stairs and landing 
cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers, who were passing to 
their beds. When they had all passed, and the sound of their footsteps had 
died away, one of them returned, and after a little hesitation and rustling 
in the passage, as if he were doubtful what door to knock at, knocked at 
hers.
"Yes?" said the child from within.
"It's me - Short" - a voice called through the keyhole. "I only wanted to 
say that we must be off early tomorrow morning my dear, because unless we 
get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages won't be worth a 
penny. You'll be sure to be stirring early and go with us? I'll call you."
The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his "good night" heard 
him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these men, 
increased by the recollection of their whispering together downstairs and 
their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite free from a 
misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she could have stumbled 
on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed against her fatigue; and 
she soon forgot it in sleep.
Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking softly 
at her door entreated that she would get up directly, as the proprietor of 
the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time they might get a good 
deal in advance both of him and the conjuror, who was talking in his sleep, 
and from what he could be heard to say, appeared to be balancing a donkey 
in his dreams. She started from her bed without delay, and roused the old 
man with so much expedition that they were both ready as soon as Short 
himself, to that gentleman's unspeakable gratification and relief.
After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast of which the staple 
commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of the landlord 
and issued from the door of the Jolly Sandboys. The morning was fine and 
warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late rain, the hedges gayer and 
more green, the air clear, and everything fresh and healthful. Surrounded 
by these influences, they walked on pleasantly enough.
They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the altered 
behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on sulkily by 
himself as he had theretofore done, kept close to her, and when he had an 
opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion, warned her by 
certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any trust in Short, but 
to reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did he confine himself to 
looks and gestures, for when she and her grandfather were walking on beside 
the aforesaid Short, and that little man was talking with his accustomed 
cheerfulness on a variety of indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified 
his jealousy and distrust by following close at her heels, and occasionally 
admonishing her ancles with the legs of the theatre in a very abrupt and 
painful manner.
All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and 
suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform 
outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went through 
his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her and the old 
man, or with a show of great friendship and consideration invited the 
latter to lean upon his arm, and so held him tight until the representation 
was over and they again went forward. Even Short seemed to change in this 
respect, and to mingle with his good-nature something of a desire to keep 
them in safe custody. This increased the child's misgivings, and made her 
yet more anxious and uneasy.
Meanwhile they were drawing near the town where the races were to begin 
next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gypsies and trampers on the 
road, wending their way towards it, and straggling out from every byway and 
cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a stream of people, some 
walking by the side of covered carts, others with horses, others with 
donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads upon their backs, but all 
tending to the same point. The public-houses by the wayside, from being 
empty and noiseless as those in the remoter parts had been, now sent out 
boisterous shouts and clouds of smoke; and, from the misty windows, 
clusters of broad red faces looked down upon the road. On every piece of 
waste or common ground, some small gambler drove his noisy trade, and 
bellowed to the idle passers-by to stop and try their chance; the crowd 
grew thicker and more noisy: gilt gingerbread in blanket-stalls exposed its 
glories to the dust; and often a four-horse carriage, dashing by, obscured 
all objects in the gritty cloud it raised, and left them, stunned and 
blinded, far behind.
It was dark before they reached the town itself, and long indeed the few 
last miles had been. Here all was tumult and confusion; the streets were 
filled with throngs of people - many strangers were there, it seemed, by 
the looks they cast about - the church-bells rang out their noisy peals, 
and flags streamed from windows and housetops. In the large inn-yards 
waiters flitted to and fro and ran against each other, horses clattered on 
the uneven stones, carriage steps fell rattling down, and sickening smells 
from many dinners came in a heavy lukewarm breath upon the sense. In the 
smaller public-houses, fiddles with all their might and main were squeaking 
out the tune to staggering feet; drunken men, oblivious of the burden of 
their song, joined in a senseless howl, which drowned the tinkling of the 
feeble bell and made them savage for their drink; vagabond groups assembled 
round the doors to see the stroller woman dance, and add their uproar to 
the shrill flageolet and deafening drum.
Through this delirious scene, the child, frightened and repelled by all she 
saw, led on her bewildered charge, clinging close to her conductor, and 
trembling lest in the press she should be separated from him and left to 
find her way alone. Quickening their steps to get clear of all the roar and 
riot, they at length passed through the town, and made for the racecourse, 
which was upon an open heath, situated on an eminence, a full mile distant 
from its furthest bounds.
Although there were many people here, none of the best favoured or best 
clad, busily erecting tents and driving stakes into the ground, and 
hurrying to and fro with dusty feet and many a grumbled oath - although 
there were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between the wheels of 
carts, crying themselves to sleep - and poor lean horses and donkeys just 
turned loose, grazing among the men and women, and pots and kettles, and 
half-lighted fires, and ends of candles flaring and wasting in the air - 
for all this, the child felt it an escape from the town, and drew her 
breath more freely. After a scanty supper, the purchase of which reduced 
her little stock so low, that she had only a few halfpence with which to 
buy a breakfast on the morrow, she and the old man lay down to rest in a 
corner of a tent, and slept, despite the busy preparations that were going 
on around them all night long.
And now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread. Soon 
after sunrise in the morning she stole out from the tent, and rambling into 
some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such humble 
flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays and offer them to the 
ladies in the carriages when the company arrived. Her thoughts were not 
idle while she was thus employed; when she returned and was seated beside 
the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her flowers together, while 
the two men lay dozing in another corner, she plucked him by the sleeve, 
and slightly glancing towards them, said in a low voice -
"Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if I spoke 
of anything but what I am about. What was that, you told me before we left 
the old house? That if they knew what we were going to do, they would say 
that you were mad, and part us?"
The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror; but she checked 
him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers, while she tied them up, 
and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said -
"I know that was what you told me. You needn't speak, dear. I recollect it 
very well. It was not likely that I should forget it. Grandfather, these 
men suspect that we have secretly left our friends, and mean to carry us 
before some gentleman and have us taken care of and sent back. If you let 
your hand tremble so, we can never get away from them, but if you're only 
quiet now, we shall do so easily."
"How?" muttered the old man. "Dear Nelly, how? They will shut me up in a 
stone room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell - flog me with 
whips, and never let me see thee more!"
"You're trembling again," said the child. "Keep close to me all day. Never 
mind them, don't look at them but me. I shall find a time when we can steal 
away. When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop or speak a word. 
Hush! That's all."
"Halloa! what are you up to, my dear?" said Mr Codlin, raising his head, 
and yawning. Then observing that his companion was fast asleep, he added in 
an earnest whisper, "Codlin's the friend, remember - not Short."
"Making some nosegays," the child replied; "I am going to try and sell 
some, these three days of the races. Will you have one - as a present I 
mean?"
Mr Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried towards him 
and placed it in his hand. He stuck it in his button-hole with an air of 
ineffable complacency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly at the 
unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down again, "Tom Codlin's 
the friend by G -!"
As the morning wore on, the tents assumed a gayer and more brilliant 
appearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling softly on the turf. 
Men who had lounged about all night in smock-frocks and leather leggings, 
came out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or mountebanks; 
or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken servants at gambling booths; or in 
sturdy yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful games. Black-eyed gipsey girls, 
hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell fortunes, and pale 
slender women with consumptive faces lingered upon the footsteps of 
ventriloquists and conjurors, and counted the sixpences with anxious eyes 
long before they were gained. As many of the children as could be kept 
within bounds, were stowed away, with all the other signs of dirt and 
poverty, among the donkeys, carts, and horses; and as many as could not be 
thus disposed of ran in and out in all intricate spots, crept between 
people's legs and carriage wheels, and came forth unharmed from under 
horses' hoofs. The dancing-dogs, the stilts, the little lady and the tall 
man, and all the other attractions, with organs out of number numbered and 
bands innumerable, emerged from the holes and corners in which they had 
passed the night, and flourished boldly in the sun.
Along the uncleared course. Short led his party, sounding the brazen 
trumpet and revelling in the voice of Punch; and at his heels went Thomas 
Codlin, bearing the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nelly and her 
grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear. The child bore upon her 
arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid 
and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage; but alas! there were 
many bolder beggars there, gypsies who promised husbands, and other adepts 
in their trade, and although some ladies smiled gently as they shook their 
heads, and others cried to the gentlemen beside them "See, what a pretty 
face!" they let the pretty face pass on, and never thought that it looked 
tired or hungry.
There was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, and she was one 
who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing 
clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a 
little distance, appearing to forget her, quite. There were many ladies all 
around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the two 
young men (not unfavourably at them), and left her to herself. She motioned 
away a gipsey-woman urgent to tell her fortune, saying that it was told 
already and had been for some years, but called the child towards her, and 
taking her flowers put money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home 
and keep at home for God's sake.
Many a time they went up and down those long long lines, seeing everything 
but the horses and the race; when the bell rung to clear the course, going 
back to rest among the carts and donkeys, and not coming out again until 
the heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch displayed in the full zenith 
of his humour, but all this while the eye of Thomas Codlin was upon them, 
and to escape without notice was impracticable.
At length, late in the day, Mr Codlin pitched the show in a convenient 
spot, and the spectators were soon in the very triumph of the scene. The 
child, sitting down with the old man close behind it, had been thinking how 
strange it was that horses who were such fine honest creatures should seem 
to make vagabonds of all the men they drew about them, when a loud laugh at 
some extemporaneous witticism of Mr Short's, having allusion to the 
circumstances of the day, roused her from her meditation and caused her to 
look around.
If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment. Short was 
plying the quarter-stave vigorously and knocking the characters in the fury 
of the combat against the sides of the show, the people were looking on 
with laughing faces, and Mr Codlin had relaxed into a grim smile as his 
roving eye detected hands going into waistcoat pockets and groping secretly 
for sixpences. If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very 
moment. They seized it and fled.
They made a path through booths and carriages and throngs of people and 
never once stopped to look behind. The bell was ringing and the course was 
cleared by the time they reached the ropes, but they dashed across it 
insensible to the shouts and screeching that assailed them for breaking in 
upon its sanctity, and creeping under the brow of the hill at a quick pace, 
made for the open fields.


Chapter 20

Day after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning from some new effort 
to procure employment, Kit raised his eyes to the window of the little room 
he had so much commended to the child, and hoped to see some indication of 
her presence. His own earnest wish, coupled with the assurance he had 
received from Quilp, filled him with the belief that she would yet arrive 
to claim the humble shelter he had offered, and from the death of each 
day's hope, another hope sprung up to live tomorrow.
"I think they must certainly come tomorrow, eh, mother?" said Kit, laying 
aside his hat with a weary air and sighing as he spoke. "They have been 
gone a week. They surely couldn't stop away more than a week, could they 
now?"
The mother shook her head, and reminded him how often he had been 
disappointed already.
"For the matter of that," said Kit, "you speak true and sensible enough, as 
you always do, mother. Still I do consider that a week is quite long enough 
for 'em to be rambling about; don't you say so?"
"Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they may not come back for 
all that."
Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this contradiction, and not 
the less so from having anticipated it in his own mind and knowing how just 
it was. But the impulse was only momentary, and the vexed look became a 
kind one before it had crossed the room.
"Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em? You don't think they've 
gone to sea, anyhow?"
"Not gone for sailors, certainly," returned the mother with a smile. "But I 
cannot help thinking that they have gone to some foreign country."
"I say," cried Kit with a rueful face, "don't talk like that, mother."
"I am afraid they have, and that's the truth, she said. "It's the talk of 
all the neighbours, and there are some even that know of their having been 
seen on board ship, and can tell you the name of the place they've gone to, 
which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a very hard one."
"I don't believe it, said Kit. "Not a word of it. A set of idle 
chatterboxes, how should they know!"
"They may be wrong of course," returned the mother. "I can't tell about 
that, though I don't think it's at all unlikely that they're in the right, 
for the talk is that the old gentleman had put by a little money that 
nobody knew of, not even that ugly little man you talk to me about - what's 
his name - and that he and Miss Nell have gone to live abroad where it 
can't be taken from them, and they will never be disturbed. That don't seem 
very far out of the way now, do it?"
Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admission that it did not, 
and clambering up to the old nail took down the cage and set himself to 
clean it and to feed the bird. His thoughts reverting from this occupation 
to the little old gentleman who had given him the shilling, he suddenly 
recollected that that was the very day - nay, nearly the very hour - at 
which the little old gentleman had said he should be at the Notary's house 
again. He no sooner remembered this, than he hung up the cage with great 
precipitation, and hastily explaining the nature of his errand, went off at 
full speed to the appointed place.
It was some two minutes after the time when he reached the spot, which was 
a considerable distance from his home, but by great good luck the little 
old gentleman had not yet arrived; at least there was no pony-chaise to be 
seen, and it was not likely that he had come and gone again in short a 
space. Greatly relieved to find that he was not too late, Kit leant against 
a lamppost to take breath, and waited the advent of the pony and his 
charge.
Sure enough, before long the pony came trotting round the corner of the 
street, looking as obstinate as pony might, and picking his steps as if he 
were spying about for the cleanest places, and would by no means dirty his 
feet or hurry himself inconveniently. Behind the pony sat the little old 
gentleman, and by the old gentleman's side sat the little old lady, 
carrying just such a nosegay as she had brought before.
The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the chaise, came up the 
street in perfect unanimity, until they arrived within some half a dozen 
doors of the Notary's house, when the pony, deceived by a brass plate 
beneath a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and maintained by a sturdy 
silence that that was the house they wanted.
"Now, sir, will you have the goodness to go on; this is not the place," 
said the old gentleman.
The pony looked with great attention into a fire-plug which was near him, 
and appeared to be quite absorbed in contemplating it.
"Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker!" cried the old lady, "After being so good 
too, and coming along so well! I am quite ashamed of him. I don't know what 
we are to do with him, I really don't."
The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and 
properties of the fire-plug, looked into the air after his old enemies the 
flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling his ear at that 
moment he shook his head and whisked his tail, after which he appeared full 
of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The old gentleman having 
exhausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to lead him; whereupon the 
pony, perhaps because he held this to be a sufficient concession, perhaps 
because he happened to catch sight of the other brass-plate, or perhaps 
because he was in a spiteful humour, darted off with the old lady and 
stopped at the right house, leaving the old gentleman to come panting on 
behind.
It was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's head, and touched his 
hat with a smile.
"Why, bless me," cried the old gentleman, "the lad is here! My dear, do you 
see?"
"I said I'd be here, sir," said Kit, patting Whisker's neck. "I hope you've 
had a pleasant ride, sir. He's a very nice little pony."
"My dear," said the old gentleman. "This is an uncommon lad; a good lad, 
I'm sure."
"I'm sure he is," rejoined the old lady. "A very good lad, and I am sure he 
is a good son.
Kit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by touching his hat again 
and blushing very much. The old gentleman then handed the old lady out, and 
after looking at him with an approving smile, they went into the house - 
talking about him as they went, Kit could not help feeling. Presently Mr 
Witherden, smelling very hard at the nosegay, came to the window and looked 
at him, and after that Mr Abel came and looked at him, and after that the 
old gentleman and lady came and looked at him again, and after that they 
all came and looked at him together, which Kit, feeling very much 
embarrassed by, made a pretence of not observing. Therefore he patted the 
pony more and more; and this liberty the pony most handsomely permitted.
The faces had not disappeared from the window many moments when Mr 
Chuckster in his official coat and with his hat hanging on his head just as 
it happened to fall from its peg, appeared upon the pavement, and telling 
him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and he would mind the chaise the 
while. In giving him this direction Mr Chuckster remarked that he wished 
that he might be blessed if he could make out whether he (Kit) was 
"precious raw" or "precious deep," but intimated by a distrustful shake of 
the head that he inclined to the latter opinion.
Kit entered the office in a great tremour, for he was not used to going 
among strange ladies and gentlemen, and the tin boxes and bundles of dusty 
papers had in his eyes an awful and venerable air. Mr Witherden too was a 
bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast, and all eyes were upon him, 
and he was very shabby.
"Well boy," said Mr Witherden, "you came to work out that shilling; - not 
to get another, hey?"
"No indeed, sir," replied Kit, taking courage to look up. "I never thought 
of such a thing."
"Father alive?" said the Notary.
"Dead sir."
"Mother?"
"Yes sir."
"Married again - eh?"
Kit made answer, not without some indignation, that she was a widow with 
three children, and that as to her marrying again, if the gentleman knew 
her he wouldn't think of such a thing. At this reply Mr Witherden buried 
his nose in the flowers again, and whispered behind the nosegay to the old 
gentleman that he believed the lad was as honest a lad as need be.
"Now," said Mr Garland when they had made some further inquiries of him, "I 
am not going to give you anything - "
"Thank you sir," Kit replied; and quite seriously too, for this 
announcement seemed to free him from the suspicion which the Notary had 
hinted.
" - But," resumed the old gentleman, "perhaps I may want to know something 
more about you, so tell me where you live, and I'll put it down in my 
pocketbook."
Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the address with his pencil. 
He had scarcely done so, when there was a great uproar in the street, and 
the old lady hurrying to the window cried that Whisker had run away, upon 
which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the others followed.
It seemed that Mr Chuckster had been standing with his hands in his pockets 
looking carelessly at the pony, and occasionally insulting him with such 
admonitions as "Stand still," - "Be quiet," - "Woa-a-a," and the like, 
which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne. Consequently, the pony being 
deterred by no considerations of duty or obedience, and not having before 
him the slightest fear of the human eye, had at length started off, and was 
at that moment rattling down the street, - Mr Chuckster, with his hat off 
and a pen behind his ear, hanging on in the rear of the chaise, and making 
futile attempts to draw it the other way, to the unspeakable admiration of 
all beholders. Even in running away, however, Whisker was perverse, for he 
had not gone very far when he suddenly stopped, and before assistance could 
be rendered, commenced backing at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone 
forward. By these means Mr Chuckster was pushed and hustled to the office 
again, in a most inglorious manner, and arrived in a state of great 
exhaustion and discomfiture.
The old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr Abel (whom they had come to 
fetch) into his. The old gentleman, after reasoning with the pony on the 
extreme impropriety of his conduct, and making the best amends in his power 
to Mr Chuckster, took his place also, and they drove away, waving a 
farewell to the Notary and his clerk, and more than once turning to nod 
kindly to Kit as he watched them from the road.


Chapter 21

Kit turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and the chaise, and the 
little old lady, and the little old gentleman, and the little young 
gentleman to boot, in thinking what could have become of his late master 
and his lovely grandchild, who were the fountain-head of all his 
meditations. Still casting about for some plausible means of accounting for 
their non-appearance, and of persuading himself that they must soon return, 
he bent his steps towards home, intending to finish the task which the 
sudden recollection of his contract had interrupted, and then to sally 
forth once more to seek his fortune for the day.
When he came to the corner of the court in which he lived, lo and behold 
there was the pony again! Yes, there he was, looking more obstinate than 
ever; and, alone in the chaise, keeping a steady watch upon his every wink, 
sat Mr Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by chance and seeing Kit pass by, 
nodded to him as though he would have nodded his head off.
Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own home too, but it never 
occurred to him for what purpose the pony might have come there, or where 
the old lady and the old gentleman had gone, until he lifted the latch of 
the door, and walking in, found them seated in the room in conversation 
with his mother, at which unexpected sight he pulled off his hat and made 
his best bow in some confusion.
"We are here before you, you see, Christopher," said Mr Garland smiling.
"Yes, sir," said Kit; and as he said it, he looked towards his mother for 
an explanation of the visit.
"The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear," said she, in reply to this 
mute interrogation, "to ask me whether you were in a good place, or in any 
place at all, and when I told him no, you were not in any, he was so good 
as to say that - "
"That we wanted a good lad in our house," said the old gentleman and the 
old lady both together, "and that perhaps we might think of it, if we found 
everything as we would wish it to be."
As this thinking of it, plainly meant the thinking of engaging Kit, he 
immediately partook of his mother's anxiety and fell into a great flutter; 
for the little old couple were very methodical and cautious, and asked so 
many questions that he began to be afraid there was no chance of his 
success.
"You see, my good woman," said Mrs Garland to Kit's mother, "that it's 
necessary to be very careful and particular in such a matter as this, for 
we're only three in family, and are very quiet regular folks, and it would 
be a sad thing if we made any kind of mistake, and found things different 
from what we hoped and expected."
To this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite true, and quite 
right, and quite proper, and Heaven forbid that she should shrink, or have 
cause to shrink, from any inquiry into her character or that of her son, 
who was a very good son though she was his mother, in which respect, she 
was bold to say, he took after his father, who was not only a good son to 
his mother, but the best of husbands and the best of fathers besides, which 
Kit could and would corroborate she knew, and so would little Jacob and the 
baby likewise if they were old enough, which unfortunately they were not, 
though as they didn't know what a loss they had had, perhaps, it was a 
great deal better that they should be as young as they were; and so Kit's 
mother wound up a long story by wiping her eyes with her apron, and patting 
little Jacob's head, who was rocking the cradle and staring with all his 
might at the strange lady and gentleman.
When Kit's mother had done speaking the old lady struck in again, and said 
that she was quite sure she was a very honest and very respectable person 
or she never would have expressed herself in that manner, and that 
certainly the appearance of the children and the cleanliness of the house 
deserved great praise and did her the utmost credit, whereat Kit's mother 
dropped a curtsey and became consoled. Then the good woman entered into a 
long and minute account of Kit's life and history from the earliest period 
down to that time, not omitting to make mention of his miraculous fall out 
of a back-parlour window when an infant of tender years, or his uncommon 
sufferings in a state of measles which were illustrated by correct 
imitations of the plaintive manner in which he called for toast and water, 
day and night, and said "don't cry, mother, I shall soon be better;" for 
proof of which statements reference was made to Mrs Green, lodger, at the 
cheesemonger's round the corner, and divers other ladies and gentlemen in 
various parts of England and Wales (and one Mr Brown who was supposed to be 
then a corporal in the East Indies, and who could of course be found with 
very little trouble), within whose personal knowledge the circumstances had 
occurred. This narration ended, Mr Garland put some questions to Kit 
respecting his qualifications, and general acquirements, while Mrs Garland 
noticed the children, and hearing from Kit's mother certain remarkable 
circumstances which had attended the birth of each, related certain other 
remarkable circumstances which had attended the birth of her own son, Mr 
Abel, from which it appeared that both Kit's mother and herself had been, 
above and beyond all other women of what condition or age soever, 
peculiarly hemmed in with perils and dangers. Lastly, inquiry was made into 
the nature and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and a small advance being made to 
improve the same, he was formally hired at an annual income of Six Pounds, 
over and above his board and lodging, by Mr and Mrs Garland, of Abel 
Cottage, Finchley.
It would be difficult to say which party was most pleased with this 
arrangement, the conclusion of which was hailed with nothing but pleasant 
looks and cheerful smiles on both sides. It was settled that Kit should 
repair to his new abode on the next day but one, in the morning; and 
finally, the little old couple, after bestowing a bright half-crown on 
little Jacob and another on the baby, took their leaves; being escorted as 
far as the street by their new attendant, who held the obdurate pony by the 
bridle while they took their seats, and saw them drive away with a 
lightened heart.
"Well, mother," said Kit, hurrying back into the house, "I think my 
fortune's about made now."
"I should think it was indeed, Kit," rejoined his mother. "Six pound a 
year! Only think!"
"Ah!" said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which the consideration of 
such a sum demanded, but grinning with delight in spite of himself. 
"There's a property!"
Kit drew a long breath when he had said this, and putting his hands deep 
into his pockets as if there were one year's wages at least in each, looked 
at his mother, as though he saw through her, and down an immense 
perspective of sovereigns beyond.
"Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sundays, mother! such a 
scholar of Jacob, such a child of the baby, such a room of the one 
upstairs! Six pound a year!"
"Hem!" croaked a strange voice. "What's that about six pounds a year? What 
about six pounds a year!" And as the voice made this inquiry, Daniel Quilp 
walked in with Richard Swiveller at his heels.
"Who said he was to have six pound a year?" said Quilp, looking sharply 
around. "Did the old man say it, or did little Nell say it? And what's he 
to have it for, and where are they, eh!"
The good woman was so much alarmed by the sudden apparition of this unknown 
piece of ugliness, that she hastily caught the baby from its cradle and 
retreated into the furthest corner of the room; while little Jacob, sitting 
upon his stool with his hands on his knees, looked full at him in a species 
of fascination, roaring lustily all the time. Richard Swiveller took an 
easy observation of the family over Mr Quilp's head, and Quilp himself with 
his hands in his pockets, smiled in an exquisite enjoyment of the commotion 
he occasioned.
"Don't be frightened, mistress," said Quilp after a pause. "Your son knows 
me; I don't eat babies; I don't like 'em. It will be as well to stop that 
young screamer though, in case I should be tempted to do him a mischief. 
Halloa, sir! Will you be quiet?"
Little Jacob stemmed the course of two tears which he was squeezing out of 
his eyes, and instantly subsided into a silent horror.
"Mind you don't break out again, you villain," said Quilp, looking sternly 
at him, "or I'll make faces at you and throw you into fits, I will. Now, 
you sir, why haven't you been to me as you promised?"
"What should I come for?" retorted Kit. "I hadn't any business with you, no 
more than you had with me."
"Here, mistress," said Quilp, turning quickly away, and appealing from Kit 
to his mother. "When did his old master come or send here last? Is he here 
now? If not, where's he gone?"
"He has not been here at all," she replied. "I wish we knew where they have 
gone, for it would make my son a good deal easier in his mind, and me too. 
If you're the gentleman named Mr Quilp, I should have thought you'd have 
known, and so I told him only this very day."
"Humph!" muttered Quilp, evidently disappointed to believe that this was 
true. "That's what you tell this gentleman too, is it?"
"If the gentleman comes to ask the same question, I can't tell him anything 
else, sir; and I only wish I could, for our own sakes," was the reply.
Quilp glanced at Richard Swiveller, and observed that having met him on the 
threshold, he assumed that he had come in search of some intelligence of 
the fugitives. He supposed he was right.
"Yes," said Dick, "that was the object of the present expedition. I fancied 
it possible - but let us go ring fancy's knell. I'll begin it."
"You seem disappointed," observed Quilp.
"A baffler, sir, a baffler, that's all," returned Dick. "I have entered 
upon a speculation which has proved a baffler; and a Being of brightness 
and beauty will be offered up a sacrifice at Cheggs's altar. That's all 
sir."
The dwarf eyed Richard with a sarcastic smile, but Richard, who had been 
taking a rather strong lunch with a friend, observed him not, and continued 
to deplore his fate with mournful and despondent looks. Quilp plainly 
discerned that there was some secret reason for this visit and his uncommon 
disappointment, and, in the hope there might be means of mischief lurking 
beneath it, resolved to worm it out. He had no sooner adopted this 
resolution, than he conveyed as much honesty into his face as it was 
capable of expressing, and sympathised with Mr Swiveller exceedingly.
"I'm disappointed myself," said Quilp, "out of mere friendly feeling for 
them; but you have real reasons, private reasons I have no doubt, for your 
disappointment, and therefore it comes heavier than mine."
"Why, of course it does," Dick observed, testily.
"Upon my word, I'm very sorry, very sorry. I'm rather cast down myself. As 
we are companions in adversity, shall we be companions in the surest way of 
forgetting it? If you had no particular business, now, to lead you in 
another direction," urged Quilp, plucking him by the sleeve and looking 
slyly into his face out of the corners of his eyes, "there is a house by 
the waterside where they have some of the noblest Schiedam - reputed to be 
smuggled, but that's between ourselves - that can be got in all the world. 
The landlord knows me. There's a little summer-house overlooking the river, 
where we might take a glass of this delicious liquor with a whiff of the 
best tobacco - it's in this case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain 
knowledge - and be perfectly snug and happy, could we possibly contrive it; 
or is there any very particular engagement that peremptorily takes you 
another way, Mr Swiveller, eh?"
As the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a compliant smile, and his 
eyebrows slowly unbent. By the time he had finished, Dick was looking down 
at Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking up at him, and there 
remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house in question. 
This they did, straightway. The moment their backs were turned, little 
Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from the point where Quilp had frozen 
him.
The summer-house of which Mr Quilp had spoken, was a rugged wooden box, 
rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and threatened to 
slide down into it. The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy building, 
sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by great bars of wood 
which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up so long that 
even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and of a windy night 
might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole fabric were about to come 
toppling down. The house stood - if anything so old and feeble could be 
said to stand - on a piece of waste ground, blighted with the unwholesome 
smoke of factory chimneys, and echoing the clank of iron wheels and rush of 
troubled water. Its internal accommodations amply fulfilled the promise of 
the outside. The rooms were low and damp, the clammy walls were pierced 
with chinks and holes, the rotten floors had sunk from their level, the 
very beams started from their places and warned the timid stranger from 
their neighbourhood.
To this inviting spot, entreating him to observe its beauties as they 
passed along, Mr Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table of the 
summer house, scored deep with many a gallows and initial letter, there 
soon appeared a wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor. Drawing it off into 
the glasses with the skill of a practiced hand, and mixing it with about a 
third part of water; Mr Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller his portion, 
and lighting his pipe from an end of a candle in a very old and battered 
lantern, drew himself together upon a seat and puffed away.
"Is it good?" said Quilp, as Richard Swiveller smacked his lips, "is it 
strong and fiery? Does it make you wink, and choak, and your eyes water, 
and your breath come short - does it?"
"Does it?" cried Dick, throwing away part of the contents of his glass, and 
filling it up with water, "why, man, you don't mean to tell me that you 
drink such fire as this?"
"No!" rejoined Quilp. "Not drink it! Look here. And here. And here, again. 
Not drink it!"
As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank three small glassfuls of the 
raw spirit, and then with a horrible grimace took a great many pulls at his 
pipe, and swallowing the smoke, discharged it in a heavy cloud from his 
nose. This feat accomplished he drew himself together in his former 
position, and laughed excessively.
"Give us a toast!" cried Quilp, rattling on the table in a dexterous manner 
with his fist and elbow alternately, in a kind of tune, "a woman, a beauty. 
Let's have a beauty for our toast and empty our glasses to the last drop. 
Her name, come!"
"If you want a name," said Dick, "here's Sophy Wackles."
"Sophy Wackles," screamed the dwarf, "Miss Sophy Wackles that is - Mrs 
Richard Swiveller that shall be - ha ha ha!"
"Ah!" said Dick, "you might have said that a few weeks ago, but it won't do 
now, my buck. Immolating herself upon the shrine of Cheggs - "
"Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs's ears off," rejoined Quilp. "I won't hear of 
Cheggs. Her name is Swiveller or nothing. I'll drink her health again, and 
her father's and her mother's; and to all her sisters and brothers - the 
glorious family of the Wackleses - all the Wackleses in one glass - down 
with it to the dregs!"
"Well," said Richard Swiveller, stopping short in the act of raising the 
glass to his lips and looking at the dwarf in a species of stupor as he 
flourished his arms and legs about; "you're a jolly fellow, but of all the 
jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you have the queerest and most 
extraordinary way with you, upon my life you have."
This candid declaration tended rather to increase than restrain Mr Quilp's 
eccentricities, and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see him in such a 
roystering vein, and drinking not a little himself, for company, - began 
imperceptibly to become more companionable and confiding, so that being 
judiciously led on by Mr Quilp, he grew at last very confiding indeed. 
Having once got him into this mood, and knowing now the key note to strike 
whenever he was at a loss, Daniel Quilp's task was comparatively an easy 
one, and he was soon in possession of the whole details of the scheme 
contrived between the easy Dick and his more designing friend.
"Stop!" said Quilp. "That's the thing, that's the thing. It can be brought 
about it shall be brought about. There's my hand upon it; I'm your friend 
from this minute."
"What! do you think there's still a chance?" inquired Dick, in surprise at 
this encouragement.
"A chance!" echoed the dwarf, "a certainty! Sophy Wackles may become a 
Cheggs or anything else she likes, but not a Swiveller. Oh you lucky dog! 
He's richer than any Jew alive; you're a made man. I see in you now nothing 
but Nelly's husband, rolling in gold and silver. I'll help you. It shall be 
done. Mind my words, it shall be done."
"But how?" said Dick.
"There's plenty of time," rejoined the dwarf, "and it shall be done. We'll 
sit down and talk it over again all the way through. Fill your glass while 
I am gone. I shall be back directly - directly."
With these hasty words, Daniel Quilp withdrew into a dismantled, skittle-
ground behind the public-house, and, throwing himself upon the ground 
actually screamed and rolled about in uncontrollable delight.
"Here's sport!" he cried, "sport ready to my hand, all invented and 
arranged, and only to be enjoyed. It was this shallow-pated fellow who made 
my bones ache t'other day, was it? It was his friend and fellow-plotter, Mr 
Trent, that once made eyes at Mrs Quilp, and leered and looked, was it? 
After labouring for two or three years in their precious scheme, to find 
that they've got a beggar at last, and one of them tied for life. Ha ha ha! 
He shall marry Nell. He shall have her, and I'll be the first man, when the 
knot's tied hard and fast, to tell 'em what they've gained and what I've 
helped 'em to. Here will be a clearing of old scores, here will be a time 
to remind 'em what a capital friend I was and how I helped 'em to the 
heiress. Ha ha ha!"
In the height of his ecstacy, Mr Quilp had like to have met with a 
disagreeable check, for rolling very near a broken dog-kennel, there leapt 
forth a large fierce dog, who, but that his chain was of the shortest, 
would have given him a disagreeable salute. As it was, the dwarf remained 
upon his back in perfect safety, taunting the dog with hideous faces, and 
triumphing over him in his inability to advance another inch, though there 
were not a couple of feet between them.
"Why don't you come and bite me, why don't you come and tear me to pieces, 
you coward?" said Quilp, hissing, and worrying the animal until he was 
nearly mad. "You're afraid, you bully, you're afraid, you know you are."
The dog tore and strained and tore at his chain with starting eyes and 
furious bark, but there the dwarf lay, snapping his fingers with gestures 
of defiance and contempt. When he had sufficiently recovered from his 
delight, he rose, and with his arms akimbo, achieved a kind of demon-dance 
round the kennel, just without the limits of the chain, driving the dog 
quite wild. Having by this means composed his spirits and put himself in a 
pleasant train, he returned to his unsuspicious companion, whom he found 
looking at the tide with exceeding gravity, and thinking of that same gold 
and silver which Mr Quilp had mentioned.


Chapter 22

The remainder of that day and the whole of the next, were a busy time for 
the Nubbles family, to whom everything connected with Kit's outfit and 
departure was matter of as great moment as if he had been about to 
penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take a cruise round the world. 
It would be difficult to suppose that there ever was a box which was opened 
and shut so many times within four-and-twenty hours, as that which 
contained his wardrobe and necessaries; and certainly there never was one 
which to two small eyes presented such a mine of clothing, as this mighty 
chest with its three shirts and proportionate allowance of stockings and 
pocket-handkerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished vision of little Jacob. 
At last it was conveyed to the carrier's at whose house, at Finchley, Kit 
was to find it next day; and the box being gone, there remained but two 
questions for consideration: firstly, whether the carrier would lose, or 
dishonestly feign to lose, the box upon the road: and secondly, whether 
Kit's mother perfectly understood how to take care of herself in the 
absence of her son.
"I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really losing it, but 
carriers are under great temptation to pretend they lose things, no doubt," 
said Mrs Nubbles apprehensively, in reference to the first point.
"No doubt about it," returned Kit, with a serious look; "upon my word 
mother, I don't think it was right to trust it to itself. Somebody ought to 
have gone with it, I'm afraid."
"We can't help it now," said his mother; "but it was foolish and wrong. 
People oughtn't to be tempted."
Kit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a carrier any more, save 
with an empty box; and having formed this christian determination, he 
turned his thoughts to the second question.
"You know you must keep up your spirits mother, and not be lonesome because 
I'm not at home. I shall very often be able to look in when I come into 
town I dare say, and I shall send you a letter sometimes, and when the 
quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of course; and then see if we 
don't take little Jacob to the play, and let him know what oysters means."
"I hope plays mayn't be sinful, Kit, but I'm a'most afraid," said Mrs 
Nubbles.
"I know who has been putting that in your head," rejoined her son 
disconsolately; "that's Little Bethel again. Now I say, mother, pray don't 
take to going there regularly, for if I was to see your good-humoured face 
that has always made home cheerful, turned into a grievous one, and the 
baby trained to look grievous too, and to call itself a young sinner (bless 
its heart) and a child of the devil (which is calling its dead father 
names); if I was to see this, and see little Jacob looking grievous 
likewise, I should so take it to heart that I'm sure I should go and list 
for a soldier, and run my head on purpose against the first cannon-ball I 
saw coming my way."
"Oh Kit, don't talk like that."
"I would indeed, mother, and unless you want to make me feel very wretched 
and uncomfortable, you'll keep that bow on your bonnet, which you'd more 
than half a mind to pull off last week. Can you suppose there's any harm in 
looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our poor circumstances will 
permit? Do I see anything in the way I'm made, which calls upon me to be a 
snivelling, solemn, whispering chap, sneaking about as if I couldn't help 
it, and expressing myself in a most unpleasant snuffle? On the contrary, 
don't I see every reason why I shouldn't? Just hear this! Ha ha ha! An't 
that as nat'ral as walking, and as good for the health? Ha ha ha! An't that 
as nat'ral as a sheep's bleating, or a pig's grunting, or a horse's 
neighing, or a bird's singing? Ha ha ha! Isn't it, mother?"
There was something contagious in Kit's laugh, for his mother, who had 
looked grave before, first subsided into a smile, and then fell to joining 
in it heartily, which occasioned Kit to say that he knew it was natural, 
and to laugh the more. Kit and his mother, laughing together in a pretty 
loud key, woke the baby, who, finding that there was something very jovial 
and agreeable in progress, was no sooner in its mother's arms than it began 
to kick and laugh, most vigorously. This new illustration of his argument 
so tickled Kit, that he fell backward in his chair in a state of 
exhaustion, pointing at the baby and shaking his sides till he rocked 
again. After recovering twice or thrice, and as often relapsing, he wiped 
his eyes and said grace; and a very cheerful meal their scanty supper was.
With more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many young gentlemen who start 
upon their travels, and leave well-stocked homes behind them, would deem 
within the bounds of probability (if matters so low could be herein set 
down), Kit left the house at an early hour next morning, and set out to 
walk to Finchley; feeling a sufficient pride in his appearance to have 
warranted his excommunication from Little Bethel from that time forth, if 
he had ever been one of that mournful congregation.
Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit was clad, it may be 
briefly remarked that he wore no livery, but was dressed in a coat of 
pepper-and-salt with waistcoat of canary colour, and nether garments of 
iron grey; besides these glories, he shone in the lustre of a new pair of 
boots and an extremely stiff and shiny hat, which on being struck anywhere 
with the knuckles-sounded like a drum. And in this attire, rather wondering 
that he attracted so little attention, and attributing the circumstance to 
the insensibility of those who got up early, he made his way towards Abel 
Cottage.
Without encountering any more remarkable adventure on the road, than 
meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the exact counterpart of his old one, on 
whom he bestowed half the sixpence he possessed, Kit arrived in course of 
time at the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honour of human nature, 
he found the box in safety. Receiving from the wife of this immaculate man, 
a direction to Mr Garland's, he took the box upon his shoulder and repaired 
thither directly.
To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a thatched roof and 
little spires at the gable-ends, and pieces of stained glass in some of the 
windows, almost as large as pocket-books. On one side of the house was a 
little stable, just the size for the pony, with a little room over it, just 
the size for Kit. White curtains were fluttering, and birds in cages that 
looked as bright as if they were made of gold, were singing, at the 
windows; plants were arranged on either side of the path, and clustered 
about the door; and the garden was bright with flowers in full bloom; which 
shed a sweet odour all round, and had a charming and elegant appearance. 
Everything, within the house and without, seemed to be the perfection of 
neatness and order. In the garden there was not a weed to be seen, and to 
judge from some dapper gardening-tools, a basket, and a pair of gloves 
which were lying in one of the walks, old Mr Garland had been at work in it 
that very morning.
Kit looked about him, and admired, and looked again, and this a great many 
times before he could make up his mind to turn his head another way and 
ring the bell. There was abundance of time to look about him again though, 
when he had rung it, for nobody came, so after ringing twice or thrice he 
sat down upon his box, and waited.
He rung the bell a great many times, and yet nobody came. But at last, as 
he was sitting upon the box thinking about giants' castles, and princesses 
tied up to pegs by the hair of their heads, and dragons bursting out from 
behind gates, and other incidents of the like nature, common in storybooks 
to youths of low degree on their first visit to strange houses, the door 
was gently opened, and a little servant girl, very tidy, modest, and 
demure, but very pretty too, appeared.
"I suppose you're Christopher, sir," said the servant-girl.
Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was.
"I'm afraid you've rung a good many times, perhaps, she rejoined, "but we 
couldn't hear you, because we've been catching the pony."
Kit rather wondered what this meant but as he couldn't stop there, asking 
questions, he shouldered the box again and followed the girl into the hall, 
where through a back-door he descried Mr Garland leading Whisker in triumph 
up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as he afterwards learned) 
dodged the family round a small paddock in the rear, for one hour and three 
quarters.
The old gentleman received him very kindly and so did the old lady, whose 
previous good opinion of him was greatly enhanced by his wiping his boots 
on the mat until the soles of his feet burnt again. He was then taken into 
the parlour to be inspected in his new clothes; and when he had been 
surveyed several times, and had afforded by his appearance unlimited 
satisfaction, he was taken into the stable (where the pony received him 
with uncommon complaisance); and thence into the little chamber he had 
already observed, which was very clean and comfortable; and thence into the 
garden, in which the old gentleman told him he would be taught to employ 
himself, and where he told him, besides, what great things he meant to do 
to make him comfortable, and happy, if he found he deserved it. All these 
kindnesses Kit acknowledged with various expressions of gratitude, and so 
many touches of the new hat, that the brim suffered considerably. When the 
old gentleman had said all he had to say in that way of promise and advice, 
and Kit had said all he had to say in the way of assurance and 
thankfulness, he was handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning the 
little servant-girl (whose name was Barbara), instructed her to take him 
downstairs and give him something to eat and drink, after his walk.
Downstairs, therefore, Kit went; and at the bottom of the stairs there was 
such a kitchen as was never before seen or heard of out of a toy-shop 
window, with everything in it as bright and glowing, and as precisely 
ordered too, as Barbara herself. And in this kitchen, Kit sat himself down 
at a table as white as a tablecloth to eat cold meat, and drink small ale, 
and use his knife and fork the more awkwardly, because there was an unknown 
Barbara looking on and observing him.
It did not appear, however, that there was anything remarkably tremendous 
about this strange Barbara, who having lived a very quiet life, blushed 
very much, and was quite as embarrassed and uncertain what she ought to say 
or do, as Kit could possibly be. When he had sat for some little time, 
attentive to the ticking of the sober clock, he ventured to glance 
curiously at the dresser, and there, among the plates and dishes, were 
Barbara's little work-box with a sliding lid to shut in the balls of 
cotton, and Barbara's prayer-book, and Barbara's hymn-book, and Barbara's 
Bible. Barbara's little looking-glass hung in a good light near the window, 
and Barbara's bonnet was on a nail behind the door. From all these mute 
signs and tokens of her presence, he naturally glanced at Barbara herself, 
who sat as a mute as they, shelling peas into a dish; and just when Kit was 
looking at her eyelashes and wondering - quite in the simplicity of his 
heart - what colour her eyes might be, it perversely happened that Barbara 
raised her head a little to look at him, when both pair of eyes were 
hastily withdrawn, and Kit leant over his plate and Barbara over her pea-
shells, each in extreme confusion at having been detected by the other.


Chapter 23

Mr Richard Swiveller wending homewards from the Wilderness (for such was 
the appropriate name of Quilp's choice retreat), after a sinuous and 
corkscrew fashion, with many checks and stumbles; after stopping suddenly 
and staring about him, then as suddenly running forward a few paces, and as 
suddenly halting again and shaking his head; doing everything with a jerk, 
and nothing by premeditation; - Mr Richard Swiveller wending his way 
homewards after this fashion, which is considered by evil minded men to be 
symbolical of intoxication and is not held by such persons to denote that 
state of deep wisdom and reflection in which the actor knows himself to be, 
began to think that possibly he had misplaced his confidence and that the 
dwarf might not be precisely the sort of a person to whom to entrust a 
secret of such delicacy and importance. And being led and tempted on by 
this remorseful thought into a condition which the evil-minded class before 
referred to would term the maudlin state or stage of drunkenness, it 
occurred to Mr Swiveller to cast his hat upon the ground, and moan, crying 
aloud that he was an unhappy orphan, and that if he had not been an unhappy 
orphan things had never come to this.
"Left an infant by my parents, at an early age," said Mr Swiveller, 
bewailing his hard lot, "cast upon the world in my tenderest period, and 
thrown upon the mercies of a deluding dwarf, who can wonder at my weakness! 
Here's a miserable orphan for you. Here," said Mr Swiveller, raising his 
voice to a high pitch, and looking sleepily round, "is a miserable orphan!"
"Then," said somebody hard by, "let me be a father to you."
Mr Swiveller swayed himself to and fro to preserve his balance, and, 
looking into a kind of a haze which seemed to surround him, at last 
perceived two eyes dimly twinkling through the mist, which he observed 
after a short time were in the neighbourhood of a nose and mouth. Casting 
his eyes down towards that quarter in which, with reference to a man's 
face, his legs are usually to be found, he observed that the face had a 
body attached; and when he looked more intently he was satisfied that the 
person was Mr Quilp, who indeed had been in his company all the time, but 
whom he had some vague idea of having left a mile or two behind.
"You have deceived an orphan sir," said Mr Swiveller solemnly.
"I! I'm a second father to you," replied Quilp.
"You my father sir!" retorted Dick. "Being all right myself sir, I request 
to be left alone - instantly sir."
"What a funny fellow you are!" cried Quilp.
"Go sir," returned Dick, leaning against a post and waving his hand. "Go 
deceiver go, some day sir, p'r'aps, you'll waken, from pleasure's dream to 
know, the grief of orphans forsaken. Will you go sir?"
The dwarf taking no heed of this adjuration, Mr Swiveller advanced with the 
view of inflicting upon him condign chastisement. But forgetting his 
purpose or changing his mind before he came close to him, he seized his 
hand and vowed eternal friendship, declaring with an agreeable frankness 
that from that time forth they were brothers in everything but personal 
appearance. Then he told his secret all over again, with the addition of 
being pathetic on the subject of Miss Wackles, who, he gave Mr Quilp to 
understand, was the occasion of any slight incoherency he might observe in 
his speech at that moment, which was attributable solely to the strength of 
his affection and not to rosy wine or other fermented liquor. And then they 
went on arm in arm, very lovingly together.
"I'm as sharp," said Quilp to him, at parting, "as sharp as a ferret, and 
as cunning as a weasel. You bring Trent to me; assure him that I'm his 
friend though I fear he a little distrusts me (I don't know why, I have not 
deserved it); and you've both of you made your fortunes - in perspective."
"That's the worst of it," returned Dick. "These fortunes in perspective 
look such a long way off."
"But they look smaller than they really are, on that account," said Quilp 
pressing his arm. "You'll have no conception of the value of your prize 
until you draw close to it. Mark that."
"D'ye think not?" said Dick.
"Aye, I do; and I am certain of what I say, that's better," returned the 
dwarf. "You bring Trent to me. Tell him I am his friend and yours - why 
shouldn't be?"
"There's no reason why you shouldn't certainly," replied Dick, "and perhaps 
there are a great many why you should - at least there would be nothing 
strange in your wanting to be my friend if you were a choice spirit, but 
then you know you're not a choice spirit."
"I not a choice spirit?" cried Quilp.
"Devil a bit sir," returned Dick. "A man of your appearance couldn't be. If 
you're any spirit at all, sir, you're an evil spirit. Choice spirits," 
added Dick, smiting himself on the breast, "are quite a different looking 
sort of people, you may take your oath of that, sir."
Quilp glanced at his free spoken friend with a mingled expression of 
cunning and dislike, and wringing his hand almost at the same moment, 
declared that he was an uncommon character and had his warmest esteem. With 
that they parted; Mr Swiveller to make the best of his way home and sleep 
himself sober; and Quilp to cogitate on the discovery he had made, and 
exult in the prospect of the rich field of enjoyment and reprisal it opened 
to him.
It was not without great reluctance and misgiving that Mr Swiveller, next 
morning, his head racked by the fumes of the renowned Schiedam, repaired to 
the lodging of his friend Trent (which was in the roof of an old house in 
an old ghostly inn), and recounted by very slow degrees what had yesterday 
taken place between him and Quilp. Nor was it without great surprise and 
much speculation on Quilp's probable motives, nor without many bitter 
comments on Dick Swiveller's folly, that his friend received the tale.
"I don't defend myself, Fred, said the penitent Richard, "but the fellow 
had such a queer way with him and is such an artful dog, that first of all 
he set me upon thinking whether there was any harm in telling him, and 
while I was thinking, screwed it out of me. If you had seen him drink and 
smoke, as I did, you couldn't have kept anything from him. He's a 
Salamander, you know, that's what he is.
Without inquiring whether Salamanders were of necessity good confidential 
agents, or whether a fireproof man was as a matter of course trustworthy, 
Frederick Trent threw himself into a chair, and, burying his head in his 
hands, endeavoured to fathom the motives which had led Quilp to insinuate 
himself into Richard Swiveller's confidence; - for that the disclosure was 
of his seeking, and had not been spontaneously revealed by Dick, was 
sufficiently plain from Quilp's seeking his company and enticing him away.
The dwarf had twice encountered him when he was endeavouring to obtain 
intelligence of the fugitives. This, perhaps, as he had not shown any 
previous anxiety about them, was enough to awaken suspicion in the breast 
of a creature so jealous and distrustful by nature, setting aside any 
additional impulse to curiosity that he might have derived from Dick's 
incautious manner. But knowing the scheme they had planned, why should he 
offer to assist it? This was a question more difficult of solution; but as 
knaves generally overreach themselves by imputing their own designs to 
others, the idea immediately presented itself that some circumstances of 
irritation between Quilp and the old man, arising out of their secret 
transactions, and not unconnected perhaps with his sudden disappearance, 
now rendered the former desirous of revenging himself upon him by seeking 
to entrap the sole object of his love and anxiety into a connection of 
which he knew he had a dread and hatred. As Frederick Trent himself, 
utterly regardless of his sister, had this object at heart, only second to 
the hope of gain, it seemed to him the more likely to be Quilp's main 
principle of action. Once investing the dwarf with a design of his own in 
abetting them, which the attainment of their purpose would serve, it was 
easy to believe him sincere and hearty in the cause; and as there could be 
no doubt of his proving a powerful and useful auxiliary, Trent determined 
to accept his invitation and go to his house that night, and if what he 
said ad and did confirmed him in the impression he had formed, to let him 
share the labour of their plan, but not the profit.
Having revolved these things in his mind and arrived at this conclusion, he 
communicated to Mr Swiveller as much of his meditations as he thought 
proper (Dick would have been perfectly satisfied with less), and giving him 
the day to recover himself from his late salamandering, accompanied him at 
evening to Mr Quilp's house.
Mightily glad Mr Quilp was to see them, or mightily glad he seemed to be; 
and fearfully polite Mr Quilp was to Mrs Quilp and Mrs Jiniwin; and very 
sharp was the look he cast on his wife to observe how she was affected by 
the recognition of young Trent. Mrs Quilp was as innocent as her own mother 
of any emotion, painful or pleasant, which the sight of him awakened, but 
as her husband's glance made her timid and confused, and uncertain what to 
do or what was required of her, Mr Quilp did not fail to assign her 
embarrassment to the cause he had in his mind, and while he chuckled at his 
penetration was secretly exasperated by his jealousy.
Nothing of this appeared, however. On the contrary, Mr Quilp was all 
blandness and suavity, and presided over the case-bottle of rum with 
extraordinary open-heartedness.
"Why, let me see," said Quilp. "It must be a matter of nearly two years 
since we were first acquainted."
"Nearer three, I think," said Trent.
"Nearer three!" cried Quilp. "How fast time flies. Does it seem as long as 
that to you, Mrs Quilp?"
"Yes, I think it seems full three years, Quilp," was the unfortunate reply. 
"Oh indeed ma'am," thought Quilp, "you have been pining, have you? Very 
good ma'am."
"It seems to me but yesterday that you went out to Demerara in the Mary 
Anne," said Quilp; "but yesterday, I declare. Well, I like a little 
wildness. I was wild myself once."
Mr Quilp accompanied this admission with such an awful wink, indicative of 
old rovings and backslidings, that Mrs Jiniwin was indignant, and could not 
forbear from remarking under her breath that he might at least put off his 
confessions until his wife was absent: for which act of boldness and 
insubordination Mr Quilp first stared her out of countenance and then drank 
her health ceremoniously.
"I thought you'd come back directly, Fred. I always thought that," said 
Quilp setting down his glass. "And when the Mary Anne returned with you on 
board, instead of a letter to say what a contrite heart you had, and how 
happy you were in the situation that had been provided for you, I was 
amused - exceedingly amused. Ha ha ha!"
The young man smiled, but not as though the theme was the most agreeable 
one that could be selected for his entertainment; and for that reason Quilp 
pursued it.
"I always will say," he resumed, "that when a rich relation having two 
young people - sisters or brothers, or brother and sister - dependent on 
him, attaches himself exclusively to one, and casts off the other, he does 
wrong."
The young man made a movement of impatience, but Quilp went on as calmly as 
if he were discussing some abstract question in which nobody present had 
the slightest personal interest.
"It's very true," said Quilp, "that your grandfather urged repeated 
forgiveness, ingratitude, riot, and extravagance, and all that; but as I 
told him 'these are common faults.' 'But he's a scoundrel,' said he. 
'Granting that,' said I (for the sake of argument of course), 'a great many 
young noblemen and gentlemen are scoundrels too!' But he wouldn't be 
convinced."
"I wonder at that, Mr Quilp," said the young man sarcastically.
"Well, so did I at the time," returned Quilp, "but he was always obstinate. 
He was in a manner a friend of mine, but he was always obstinate and wrong-
headed. Little Nell is a nice girl, a charming girl, but you're her 
brother, Frederick. You're her brother after all; as you told him the last 
time you met, he can't alter that."
"He would if he could, confound him for that and all other kindnesses," 
said the young man impatiently. "But nothing can come of this subject now, 
and let us have done with it in the Devil's name."
"Agreed," returned Quilp, "agreed on my part, readily. Why have I alluded 
to it? Just to show you, Frederick, that I have always stood your friend. 
You little knew who was your friend and who your foe; now did you? You 
thought I was against you, and so there has been a coolness between us; but 
it was all on your side, entirely on your side. Let's shake hands again, 
Fred."
With his head sunk down between his shoulders, and a hideous grin 
overspreading his face, the dwarf stood up and stretched his short arm 
across the table. After a moment's hesitation, the young man stretched out 
his to meet it; Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip that for the moment 
stopped the current of the blood within them, and pressing his other hand 
upon his lip and frowning towards the unsuspicious Richard, released them 
and sat down.
This action was not lost upon Trent, who, knowing that Richard Swiveller 
was a mere tool in his hands and knew no more of his designs than he 
thought proper to communicate, saw that the dwarf perfectly understood 
their relative position and fully entered into the character of his friend. 
It is something to be appreciated, even in knavery. This silent homage to 
his superior abilities, no less than a sense of the power with which the 
dwarf's quick perception had already invested him, inclined the young man 
toward that ugly worthy, and determined him to profit by his aid.
It being now Mr Quilp's cue to change the subject with all convenient 
expedition, lest Richard Swiveller in his heedlessness should reveal 
anything which it was inexpedient for the women to know, he proposed a game 
at four-handed cribbage; and partners being cut for, Mrs Quilp fell to 
Frederick Trent, and Dick himself to Quilp. Mrs Jiniwin being very fond of 
cards was carefully excluded by her son-in-law from any participation in 
the game, and had assigned to her the duty of occasionally replenishing the 
glasses from the case-bottle; Mr Quilp from that moment keeping one eye 
constantly upon her, lest she should by any means procure a taste of the 
same, and thereby tantalising the wretched old lady (who was as much 
attached to the case-bottle as the cards) in a double degree and most 
ingenious manner.
But it was not to Mrs Jiniwin alone that Mr Quilp's attention was 
restricted, as several other matters required his constant vigilance. Among 
his various eccentric habits he had a humorous one of always cheating at 
cards, which rendered necessary on his part, not only a close observance of 
the game, and a sleight-of-hand in counting and scoring, but also involved 
the constant correction, by looks, and frowns, and kicks under the table of 
Richard Swiveller, who being bewildered by the rapidity with which his 
cards were told, and the rate at which the pegs travelled down the board, 
could not be prevented from sometimes expressing his surprise and 
incredulity. Mrs Quilp too was the partner of young Trent, and for every 
look that passed between them, and every word they spoke, and every card 
they played, the dwarf had eyes and ears; not occupied alone with what was 
passing above the table, but with signals that might be exchanging beneath 
it, which he laid all kinds of traps to detect; besides often treading on 
his wife's toes, to see whether she cried out or remained silent under the 
infliction, in which latter case it would have been quite clear that Trent 
had been treading on her toes before. Yet, in the midst of all these 
distractions, the one eye was upon the old lady always, and if she so much 
as stealthily advanced a teaspoon towards a neighbouring glass (which she 
often did), for the purpose of abstracting but one sup of its sweet 
contents, Quilp's hand would overset it in the very moment of her triumph, 
and Quilp's mocking voice implore her to regard her precious health. And in 
any one of these his many cares, from first to last, Quilp never flagged 
nor faltered.
At length, when they had played a great many rubbers and drawn pretty 
freely upon the case-bottle, Mr Quilp warned his lady to retire to rest, 
and that submissive wife complying, and being followed by her indignant 
mother, Mr Swiveller fell asleep. The dwarf beckoning his remaining 
companion to the other end of the room, held a short conference with him in 
whispers.
"It's as well not to say more than one can help before our worthy friend," 
said Quilp, making a grimace toward the slumbering Dick. "Is it a bargain 
between us Fred? Shall he marry little rosy Nell bye and bye?"
"You have some end of your own to answer of course," returned the other.
"Of course I have, dear Fred," said Quilp, grinning to think how little he 
suspected what the real end was. "It's retaliation perhaps; perhaps whim. I 
have influence, Fred, to help or oppose. Which way shall I use it? There 
are a pair of scales, and it goes into one."
"Throw it into mine then," said Trent.
"It's done Fred," rejoined Quilp, stretching out his clenched hand and 
opening it as if he had let some weight fall out. "It's in the scale from 
this time, and turns it Fred. Mind that."
"Where have they gone?" asked Trent.
Quilp shook his head, and said that point remained to be discovered, which 
it might be, easily. When it was, they would begin their preliminary 
advances. He would visit the old man, or even Richard Swiveller might visit 
him, and by affecting a deep concern in his behalf and imploring him to 
settle in some worthy home, lead to the child's remembering him with 
gratitude and favour. Once impressed to this extent, it would be easy, he 
said, to win her in a year or two, for she supposed the old man to be poor, 
as it was a part of his jealous policy (in common with many other misers) 
to feign to be so, to those about him.
"He has feigned it often enough to me, of late," said Trent.
"Oh! and to me too!" replied the dwarf. "Which is more extraordinary, as I 
know how rich he really is."
"I suppose you should," said Trent.
"I think I should indeed," rejoined the dwarf; and in that, at least, he 
spoke the truth.
After a few more whispered words, they returned to the table, and the young 
man rousing Richard Swiveller informed him that he was waiting to depart. 
This was welcome news to Dick, who started up directly. After a few words 
of confidence in the result of their project had been exchanged, they bade 
the grinning Quilp good night.
Quilp crept to the window as they passed in the street below, and listened. 
Trent was pronouncing an encomium upon his wife, and they were both 
wondering by what enchantment she had been brought to marry such a 
misshapen wretch as he. The dwarf after watching their retreating shadows 
with a wider grin than his face had yet displayed, stole softly in the dark 
to bed.
In this hatching of their scheme, neither Trent nor Quilp had had one 
thought about the happiness or misery of poor innocent Nell. It would have 
been strange if the careless profligate, who was the butt of both, had been 
harassed by any such consideration; for his high opinion of his own merits 
and deserts rendered the project rather a laudable one than otherwise; and 
if he had been visited by so unwonted a guest as reflection, he would - 
being a brute only in the gratification of his appetites - have soothed his 
conscience with the plea that he did not mean to beat or kill his wife, and 
would therefore, after all said and done, be a very tolerable, average 
husband.


Chapter 24

It was not until they were quite exhausted and could no longer maintain the 
pace at which they had fled from the race-ground, that the old man and the 
child ventured to stop, and sit down to rest upon the borders of a little 
wood. Here, though the course was hidden from their view, they could yet 
faintly distinguish the noise of distant shouts, the hum of voices, and the 
beating of drums. Climbing the eminence which lay between them and the spot 
they had left, the child could even discern the fluttering flags and white 
tops of booths; but no person was approaching towards them, and their 
resting-place was solitary and still.
Some time elapsed before she could reassure her trembling companion, or 
restore him to a state of moderate tranquility. His disordered imagination 
represented to him a crowd of persons stealing towards them beneath the 
cover of the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peeping from the boughs of 
every rustling tree. He was haunted by apprehensions of being led captive 
to some gloomy place where he would be chained and scourged, and worse than 
all, where Nell could never come to see him, save through iron bars and 
gratings in the wall. His terrors affected the child. Separation from her 
grandfather was the greatest evil she could dread; and feeling for the time 
as though, go where they would, they were to be hunted down, and could 
never be safe but in hiding, her heart failed her, and her courage drooped.
In one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which she had lately moved, 
this sinking of the spirit was not surprising. But, Nature often enshrines 
gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms - oftenest, God bless her, in 
female breasts - and when the child, casting her tearful eyes upon the old 
man, remembered how weak he was, and how destitute and helpless he would be 
if she failed him, her heart swelled within her, and animated her with new 
strength and fortitude.
"We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear grandfather," 
she said.
"Nothing to fear!" returned the old man. "Nothing to fear if they took me 
from thee! Nothing to fear if they parted us! Nobody is true to me. No, not 
one. Not even Nell!"
"Oh! do not say that," replied the child, "for if ever anybody was true at 
heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure you know I am."
"Then how," said the old man, looking fearfully round, "how can you bear to 
think that we are safe, when they are searching for me everywhere, and may 
come here, and steal upon us, even while we're talking?"
"Because I'm sure we have not been followed," said the child. "Judge for 
yourself dear grandfather; look round, and see how quiet and still it is. 
We are alone together, and may ramble where we like. Not safe! Could I feel 
easy - did I feel at ease - when any danger threatened you?"
"True, true," he answered, pressing her hand, but still looking anxiously 
about. "What noise was that?"
"A bird," said the child, "flying into the wood, and leading the way for us 
to follow. You remember that we said we would walk in woods and fields, and 
by the side of rivers, and how happy we would be - you remember that? But 
here, while the sun shines above our heads, and everything is bright and 
happy, we are sitting sadly down, and losing time. See what a pleasant 
path; and there's the bird - the same bird - now he flies to another tree, 
and stays to sing. Come!"
When they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led them 
through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny footsteps in the 
moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and gave it back as 
mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured the old man on, with many a 
backward look and merry beck, now pointing stealthily to some lone bird as 
it perched and twittered on a branch that strayed across their path, now 
stopping to listen to the songs that broke the happy silence, or watch the 
sun as it trembled through the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied 
trunks of stout old trees, opened long paths of light. As they passed 
onward, parting the boughs that clustered in their way, the serenity which 
the child had first assumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the man cast 
no longer fearful looks behind, but felt at ease, and cheerful, for the 
further they passed into the deep green shade, the more they felt that the 
tranquil mind of God was there, and shed its peace on them.
At length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought them to the 
end of the wood, and into a public road. Taking their way along it for a 
short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on either hand 
that they met together overhead, and arched the narrow way. A broken finger-
post announced that this led to a village three miles off; and thither they 
resolved to bend their steps.
The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have 
missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led downward in a 
steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths led; and the 
clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody hollow below.
It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on the 
green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and down, 
uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old man in the 
little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of approaching, 
for he was the schoolmaster, and had "School" written up over his window in 
black letters on a white board. He was a pale, simple-looking man, of a 
spare and meagre habit, and sat among his flowers and beehives, smoking his 
pipe, in the little porch before his door.
"Speak to him, dear," the old man whispered.
"I am almost afraid to disturb him," said the child timidly. "He does not 
seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way."
They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and still sat, 
thoughtful and silent, in the little porch. He had a kind face. In his 
plain old suit of black, he looked pale and meagre. They fancied, too, a 
lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that was because the other 
people formed a merry company upon the green, and he seemed the only 
solitary man in all the place.
They were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to address 
even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which seemed to denote 
that he was uneasy or distressed. As they stood hesitating at a little 
distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at a time like one in a 
brown study, then laid aside his pipe and took a few turns in his garden, 
then approached the gate and looked towards the green, then took up his 
pipe again with a sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before.
As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length took 
courage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to draw near, 
leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made in raising 
the wicket-gate, caught his attention. He looked at them kindly but seemed 
disappointed too, and slightly shook his head.
Nell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who sought a 
shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far as their 
means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as she spoke, laid 
aside his pipe, and rose up directly.
"If you could direct us anywhere, sir," said the child, "we should take it 
very kindly."
"You have been walking a long way," said the schoolmaster.
"A long way, sir," the child replied.
"You're a young traveller, my child," he said, laying his hand gently on 
her head. "Your grandchild, friend?"
"Aye, sir," cried the old man, "and the stay and comfort of my life."
"Come in," said the schoolmaster.
Without further preface he conducted them into his little schoolroom, which 
was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain 
under his roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him, he spread a 
coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives and platters; and bringing 
out some bread and cold meat and a jug of beer, besought them to eat and 
drink.
The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a couple 
of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk perched on 
four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few dog's-eared books upon a 
high shelf; and beside them a motley collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, 
fishing-lines, marbles, half eaten apples, and other confiscated property 
of idle urchins. Displayed on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, 
were the cane and ruler; and near them on a small shelf of its own, the 
dunce's cap, made of old newspapers and decorated with glaring wafers of 
the largest size. But, the great ornaments of the walls were certain moral 
sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well worked sums in simple 
addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same hand, which 
were plentifully pasted all round the room; for the double purpose, as it 
seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling 
a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.
"Yes," said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught 
by these latter specimens. "That's beautiful writing, my dear."
"Very, sir," replied the child modestly, "is it yours?"
"Mine!" he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, to have 
a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart. "I couldn't write like 
that nowadays. No. They're all done by one hand; a little hand it is, not 
so old as yours, but a very clever one."
As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been 
thrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket, and 
going up to the wall, carefully scraped it out. When he had finished he 
walked slowly backward from the writing admiring it as one might 
contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice 
and manner which touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its 
cause.
"A little hand indeed," said the poor schoolmaster. "Far beyond all his 
companions, in his learning and in his sports too, how did he ever come to 
be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should 
love me - " and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles 
to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.
"I hope there is nothing the matter, sir," said Nell anxiously.
"Not much my dear," returned the schoolmaster. "I hoped to have seen him on 
the green tonight. He was always foremost among them. But he'll be there to 
morrow."
"Has he been ill?" asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy.
"Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and 
so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of disorder; 
it's not a bad sign - not at all a bad sign."
The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The 
shadows of night were gathering and all was still.
"If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come to me, I know," he 
said, returning into the room. "He always came into the garden to say good 
night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favourable turn, and 
it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp and there's a heavy 
dew. It's much better he shouldn't come tonight."
The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the window shutter, and closed 
the door. But after he had done this, and sat silent a little time, he took 
down his hat, and said he would go and satisfy himself, if Nell would sit 
up till he returned. The child readily complied, and he went out.
She sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place very strange and 
lonely, for she had prevailed upon the old man to go to bed, and there was 
nothing to be heard but the ticking of an old clock, and the whistling of 
the wind among the trees. When he returned he took his seat in the chimney-
corner, but remained silent for a long time. At length he turned to her, 
and speaking very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night for a 
sick child.
"My favourite scholar!" said the poor schoolmaster, smoking a pipe he had 
forgotten to light, and looking mournfully round upon the walls. "It is a 
little hand to have done all that, and waste away with sickness. It is a 
very, very little hand!"


Chapter 25

After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in which it 
seemed the sexton had been for some years been a lodger, but which he had 
lately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child rose early 
in the morning, and descended to the room where she had supped last night. 
As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out, she bestirred 
herself to make it neat and comfortable, and had just finished its 
arrangement when the kind host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually did such 
offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom he had told her 
of. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.
"No," rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, "no better. 
They even say he is worse."
"I am very sorry for that, sir," said the child.
The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest manner, but 
yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily that anxious people 
often magnified an evil and thought it greater than it was; "for my part," 
he said, in his quiet, patient way, "I hope it's not so. I don't think he 
can be worse."
The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather coming 
downstairs they all three partook of it together. While the meal was in 
progress, their host remarked that the old man seemed much fatigued, and 
evidently stood in need of rest.

"If the journey you have before you is a long one," he said, "and don't 
press you for one day, you're very welcome to pass another night here. I 
should really be glad if you would, friend."
He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain whether to accept or 
decline his offer; and added,
"I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day. If you 
can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time, do so. 
If you must proceed upon your journey, I wish you well through it, and will 
walk a little way with you before school begins."
"What are we to do, Nell, said the old man, irresolutely, "say what we're 
to do, dear."
It required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that they had 
better accept the invitation and remain. She was happy to show her 
gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the performance of 
such household duties as his little cottage stood in need of. When these 
were done, she took some needlework from her basket, and sat herself down 
upon a stool beside the lattice, where the honeysuckle and woodbine 
entwined their tender stems, and stealing into the room filled it with 
their delicious breath. Her grandfather was basking in the sun outside, 
breathing the perfume of the flowers and idly watching the clouds as they 
floated on before the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order, took his 
seat behind his desk and made other preparations for school, the child was 
apprehensive that she might be in the way, and offered to withdraw to her 
little bedroom. But this he would not allow, and as he seemed pleased to 
have her there, she remained, busying herself with her work.
"Have you many scholars, sir?" she asked.
The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely filled the 
two forms.
"Are the others clever, sir?" asked the child, glancing at the trophies on 
the wall.
"Good boys," returned the schoolmaster, "good boys enough my dear, but 
they'll never do like that."
A small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door while he 
was speaking, and stopping there to make a rustic bow, came in and took his 
seat upon one of the forms. The white-headed boy then put an open book, 
astonishingly dog's-eared, upon his knees, and thrusting his hands into his 
pockets, began counting the marbles with which they were filled; displaying 
in the expression of his face a remarkable capacity of totally abstracting 
his mind from the spelling on which his eyes were fixed. Soon afterwards 
another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him a red-
headed lad, and after him two more with white-heads, and then one with a 
flaxen poll, and so on until the forms were occupied by a dozen boys or 
thereabouts, with heads of every colour but grey, and ranging in their ages 
from four years old to fourteen years or more; for the legs of the youngest 
were a long way from the floor when he sat upon the form, and the eldest 
was a heavy good-tempered foolish fellow, about half a head taller than the 
schoolmaster.
At the top of the first form - the post of honour in the school - was the 
vacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of pegs 
on which those who came in hats or caps were wont to hang them up, one was 
left empty. No boy attempted to violate the sanctity of seat or peg, but 
many a one looked from the empty spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered 
his idle neighbour behind his hand.
Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by heart, the 
whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl of school; 
and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, the very image of 
meekness and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his mind upon the duties 
of the day, and to forget his little friend. But the tedium of his office 
reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were 
rambling from his pupils - it was plain.
None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with 
impunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even under the 
master's eye, eating apples openly and without rebuke, pinching each other 
in sport or malice without the least reserve, and cutting their autographs 
in the very legs of his desk. The puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say 
his lesson out of book, looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten 
words, but drew closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast his eye upon 
the page; the wag of the little troop squinted and made grimaces (at the 
smallest boy of course), holding no book before his face, and his approving 
audience knew no constraint in their delight. If the master did chance to 
rouse himself and seem alive to what was going on, the noise subsided for a 
moment and no eyes met his but wore a studious and deeply humble look; but 
the instant he relapsed again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder 
than before.
Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how they 
looked at the open door and window, as if they half meditated rushing 
violently out, plunging into the woods, and being wild boys and savages 
from that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool river, and some 
shady bathing-place beneath willow trees with branches dipping in the 
water, kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who with his shirt-collar 
unbuttoned and flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning his flushed 
face with a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale, or a tittlebat, or a 
fly, or anything but a boy at school on that hot, broiling day! Heat! ask 
that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the door, gave him 
opportunities of gliding out into the garden and driving his companions to 
madness by dipping his face into the bucket of the well and then rolling on 
the grass - ask him if there were ever such a day as that, when even the 
bees were diving deep down into the cups of flowers and stopping there, as 
if they had made up their minds to retire from business and be 
manufacturers of honey no more. The day was made for laziness, and lying on 
one's back in green places, and staring at the sky till its brightness 
forced one to shut one's eyes and go to sleep; and was this a time to be 
poring over musty books in a dark room, slighted by the very sun itself? 
Monstrous!
Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but attentive still to all 
that passed, though sometimes rather timid of the boisterous boys. The 
lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one desk and that the 
master's, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured at his crooked copy, 
while the master walked about. This was a quieter time; for he would come 
and look over the writer's shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how 
such a letter was turned in such a copy on the wall, praise such an 
upstroke there, and bid him take it for his model. Then he would stop and 
tell them what the sick child had said last night, and how he had longed to 
be among them once again; and such was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and 
affectionate manner, that the boys seemed quite remorseful that they had 
worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, cutting 
no names, inflicting no pinches, and making no grimaces, for full two 
minutes afterwards.
"I think, boys," said the schoolmaster when the clock struck twelve, "that 
I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon."
At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy, raised a 
great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to speak, but could 
not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in token of his wish that 
they should be silent, they were considerate enough to leave off, as soon 
as the longest-winded among them were quite out of breath.
"You must promise me first," said the schoolmaster, "that you'll not be 
noisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be so - away out of 
the village I mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate and 
companion."
There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very silent one, for they were 
but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as any of 
them, called those about him to witness that he had only shouted in a 
whisper.
"Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars," said the schoolmaster, 
"what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me. Be as happy as you 
can, and don't be unmindful that you are blessed with health. Good bye 
all!"
"Thank'ee sir," and "good bye sir," were said a great many times in a 
variety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But there 
was the sun shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun only 
shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays; there were 
the trees waving to all free boys to climb and nestle among their leafy 
branches; the hay, entreating them to come and scatter it to the pure air; 
the green corn, gently beckoning towards wood and stream; the smooth 
ground, rendered smoother still by blending lights and shadows, inviting to 
runs and leaps, and long walks God knows whither. It was more than boy 
could bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole cluster took to their heels 
and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went.
"It's natural, thank Heaven!" said the poor schoolmaster looking after 
them. "I'm very glad they didn't mind me!"
It is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would have 
discovered, even without the fable which bears that moral; and in the 
course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils looked in to 
express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's proceeding. A few 
confined themselves to hints, such as politely inquiring what red-letter 
day or saints' day the almanack said it was; a few (these were the profound 
village politicians) argued that it was a slight to the throne and affront 
to church and state, and savoured of revolutionary principles, to grant a 
half-holiday upon any lighter occasion than the birthday of the Monarch; 
but the majority expressed their displeasure on private grounds and in 
plain terms, arguing that to put the pupils on this short allowance of 
learning was nothing but an act of downright robbery and fraud: and one old 
lady, finding that she could not influence or irritate the peaceable 
schoolmaster by talking to him, bounced out of his house and talked at him 
for half-an-hour outside his own window, to another old lady, saying that 
of course he would deduct this half-holiday from his weekly charge, or of 
course he would naturally expect to have an opposition started against him; 
there was no want of idle chaps in that neighbourhood (here the old lady 
raised her voice), and some chaps who were too idle even to be 
schoolmasters, might soon find that there were other chaps put over their 
heads, and so she would have them take care, and look pretty sharp about 
them. But all these taunts and vexations failed to elicit one word from the 
schoolmaster, who sat with the child by his side, - a little more dejected 
perhaps, but quite silent and uncomplaining.
Toward night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she 
could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame 
West's directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on 
the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her 
hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she 
might.
They stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it 
with his hand. It was opened with out loss of time. They entered a room 
where a little group of women were gathered about one, older than the rest, 
who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands and rocking 
herself to and fro.
"Oh dame!" said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, "is it so bad as 
this?"
"He's going fast," cried the old woman, "my grandson's dying. It's all 
along of you. You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so earnest on 
it. This is what his learning has brought him too. Oh dear, dear, dear, 
what can I do?"
"Do not say that I am in any fault," urged the gentle schoolmaster. "I am 
not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of mind, and don't mean 
what you say. I am sure you don't."
"I do," returned the old woman. "I mean it all. If he hadn't been poring 
over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and merry now, I 
know he would."
The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat some 
one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook their heads, and 
murmured to each other that they never thought there was much good in 
learning, and that this convinced them. Without saying a word in reply, or 
giving them a look of reproach, he followed the old woman who had summoned 
him (and who had now rejoined them) into another room, where his infant 
friend, half dressed lay stretched upon a bed.
He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls 
about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of 
Heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping 
over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung up, stroked his face 
with his hand, and threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that 
he was his dear kind friend.
"I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said the poor 
schoolmaster.
"Who is that?" said the boy, seeing Nell. "I am afraid to kiss her, lest I 
should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me."
The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. 
Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.
"You remember the garden, Harry," whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to 
rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, "and how pleasant 
it used to be in the evening time? You must make haste to visit it again, 
for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they 
used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, - won't you?"
The boy smiled faintly - so very, very faintly - and put his hand upon his 
friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice came from them; no, 
not a sound.
In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon the 
evening air came floating through the open window. "What's that?" said the 
sick child, opening his eyes.
"The boys at play upon the green."
He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his 
head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.
"Shall I do it?" said the schoolmaster.
"Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. "Tie it to the 
lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, and 
look this way."
He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, 
that lay with slate and book and other boyish property upon a table in the 
room. And then he laid him softly down once more, and asked if the little 
girl were there, for he could not see her.
She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the 
coverlet. The two old friends and companions - for such they were, though 
they were man and child - held each other in a long embrace, and then the 
little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.
The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold hand in 
his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and 
yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.


Chapter 26

Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the bedside 
and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and tears she was 
yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old man, for the dead boy 
had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative to mourn his 
premature decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone, gave 
free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was overcharged. But the sad 
scene she had witnessed, was not without its lesson of content and 
gratitude; of content with the lot which left her health and freedom; and 
gratitude that she was spared to the one relative and friend she loved, and 
to live and move in a beautiful world, when so many young creatures - as 
young and full of hope as she - were stricken down and gathered to their 
graves. How many of the mounds in that old churchyard where she had lately 
strayed, grew green above the graves of children! And though she thought as 
a child herself, and did not perhaps sufficiently consider to what a bright 
and happy existence those who die young are borne, and how in death they 
lose the pain of seeing others die around them, bearing to the tomb some 
strong affection of their hearts (which makes the old die many times in one 
long life), still she thought wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy moral 
from what she had seen that night, and to store it deep in her mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar; not ` and covered up, but mingling 
with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his cheerful rays into 
the room, awoke her; and now there remained but to take leave of the poor 
schoolmaster and wander forth once more.
By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the darkened 
room, the din of yesterday was going on again; a little sobered and 
softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at all. The schoolmaster 
rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out to him 
the money which the lady had given her at the races for her flowers: 
faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was, and blushing 
as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and stooping to kiss her 
cheek, turned back into his house.
They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again; the old 
man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the same.
"Good fortune and happiness go with you!" said the poor schoolmaster. "I am 
quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass this way again, you'll not 
forget the little village-school."
"We shall never forget it, sir," rejoined Nell; nor ever forget to be 
grateful to you for your kindness to us."
"I have heard such words from the lips of children very often," said the 
schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully, "but they were 
soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to me, the better friend 
for being young - but that's over - God bless you!"
They bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking slowly and 
often looking back, until they had left the village far behind, and even 
lost sight of the smoke among the trees. They trudged onward now, at a 
quicker pace, resolving to keep the main road, and go wherever it might 
lead them.
But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of two or three 
inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed, without stopping, 
and only one lonely roadside public-house where they had some bread and 
cheese, this highway had led them to nothing - late in the afternoon - and 
still lengthened out, far in the distance, the same dull, tedious, winding 
course, that they had been pursuing all day. As they had no resource, 
however, but to go forward, they still kept on, though at a much slower 
pace, being very weary and fatigued.
The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived at 
a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common. On the 
border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it from the 
cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which, by reason of 
its situation, they came so suddenly that they could not have avoided it if 
they would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon 
wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and window-
shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in which happily-
contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant. Neither was it a poor 
caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated horse, for a pair of horses 
in pretty good condition were released from the shafts and grazing on the 
frouzy grass. Neither was it a gypsy caravan, for at the open door (graced 
with a bright brass knocker) sat a christian lady, stout and comfortable to 
look upon, who wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that it was not 
an unprovided or destitute caravan was clear from this lady's occupation, 
which was the very pleasant and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea-
things, including a bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold 
knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; 
and there, as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat 
this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.
It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup (which, 
that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable kind, was a 
breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted to the sky in 
her enjoyment of the full flavour of the tea not unmingled possibly with 
just the slightest dash or gleam of something out of the suspicious bottle -
 but this is mere speculation and not distinct matter of history - it 
happened that being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the travellers 
when they first came up. It was not until she was in the act of setting 
down the cup, and drawing a long breath after the exertion of causing its 
contents to disappear, that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man and a 
young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of 
modest but hungry admiration.
"Hey?" cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her lap 
and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. "Yes, to be sure. - Who won 
the Helter-Skelter Plate, child!"
"Won what, ma'am?" asked Nell.
"The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child - the plate that was run for 
on the second day."
"On the second day, ma'am?"
"Second day! yes, second day," repeated the lady with an air of impatience. 
"Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when you're asked the 
question civilly?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Don't know!" repeated the lady of the caravan; "why, you were there. I saw 
you with my own eyes."
Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady might 
be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but what 
followed tended to reassure her.
"And very sorry I was," said the lady of the caravan, "to see you in 
company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people should 
scorn to look at."
"I was not there by choice," returned the child; "we didn't know our way, 
and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. Do you - 
do you know them, ma'am?"
"Know 'em, child!" cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek. "Know 
them! But you're young and inexperienced, and that's your excuse for asking 
sich a question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the caravan look as if 
it know'd 'em?"
"No, ma'am, no," said the child, fearing she had committed some grievous 
fault. "I beg your pardon."
It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much ruffled and 
discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child then explained that 
they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to the next 
town on that road, where they purposed to spend the night. As the 
countenance of the stout lady began to clear up, she ventured to inquire 
how far it was. The reply - which the stout lady did not come to, until she 
had thoroughly explained that she went to the races on the first day in a 
gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that her presence there had no 
connection with any matters of business or profit - was, that the town was 
eight miles off.
This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could scarcely 
repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her grandfather 
made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he leaned upon his staff, and 
vainly tried to pierce the dusty distance.
The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea equipage 
together preparatory to cleaning the table, but noting the child's anxious 
manner she hesitated and stopped. The child curtseyed, thanked her for her 
information, and giving her hand to the old man had already got some fifty 
yards or so, away, when the lady of the caravan called to her to return.
"Come nearer, nearer still" - said she, beckoning to her to ascend the 
steps. "Are you hungry, child?"
"Not very, but we are tired, and it's - it is a long way" -
"Well, hungry or not you had better have some tea," rejoined her new 
acquaintance. "I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?"
The grandfather humbly pulled of his hat and thanked her. The lady of the 
caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the drum proving an 
inconvenient table for two, they descended again and sat upon the grass, 
where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread and butter, the 
knuckle of him, and in short everything of which she had partaken herself, 
except the bottle, which she had already embraced an opportunity of 
slipping into her pocket.
"Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place" - said 
their friend, superintending the arrangements from above. "Now hand up the 
tea pot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and then 
both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare anything; 
that's all I ask of you."
They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been less 
freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all. But as this 
direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or uneasiness, they 
made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.
While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted on the 
earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large bonnet 
trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured tread and very 
stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of calm 
delight, and deriving particular gratification from the red panels and the 
brass knocker. When she had taken this gentle exercise for some time, she 
sat down upon the steps and called "George;" whereupon a man in a carter's 
frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this time as to see 
everything that passed without being seen himself, parted the twigs that 
concealed him, and appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting on his legs a 
baking-dish and a half-gallon stone bottle, and bearing in his right hand a 
knife, and in his left a fork.
"Yes, Missus," said George.
"How did you find the cold pie, George?"
"It warn't amiss, Mum."
"And the beer," said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of being 
more interested in this question than the last; "is it passable, George?"
"It's more flatterer than it might be," George returned, "but it an't so 
bad for all that."
To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting in 
quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and then smacked 
his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No doubt with the same 
amiable desire he immediately resumed his knife and fork, as a practical 
assurance that the beer had wrought no bad effect upon his appetite.
The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and then said,
"Have you nearly finished?"
"Wery nigh, Mum." And indeed, after scraping the dish all round with his 
knife, and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and after taking 
such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by degrees almost 
imperceptible to the sight, his head went further and further back until he 
lay nearly at his full length upon the ground, this gentlemen declared 
himself quite disengaged, and came forth from his retreat.
"I hope I haven't hurried you, George," said his mistress, who appeared to 
have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.
"If you have," returned the follower, wisely reserving himself for any 
favourable contingency that might occur, "we must make up for it next time, 
that's all."
"We are not a heavy load, George?"
"That's always what the ladies say," replied the man, looking a long way 
round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general against such monstrous 
propositions. "If you see a woman a driving, you'll always perceive that 
she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go fast enough for her. 
If cattle have got their proper load, you never can persuade a woman that 
they'll not bear something more. What is the cause of this here!"
"Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses, if we took 
them with us?" asked his mistress, offering no reply to the philosophical 
inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the old man, who were painfully preparing 
to resume their journey on foot.
"They'd make a difference in course," said George doggedly.
"Would they make much difference?" repeated the mistress. "They can't be 
very heavy."
"The weight o' the pair, Mum," said George, eyeing them with the look of a 
man who was calculating within half an ounce or so, "would be a trifle 
under that of Oliver Cromwell."
Nell was very much surprised that the man should be so accurately 
acquainted with the weight of one whom she had read of in books as having 
lived considerably before their time, but speedily forgot the subject in 
the joy of hearing that they were to go forward in the caravan, for which 
she thanked its lady with unaffected earnestness. She helped with great 
readiness and alacrity to put away the tea-things and other matters that 
were lying about, and, the horses being by that time harnessed, mounted 
into the vehicle, followed by her delighted grandfather. Their patroness 
then shut the door and sat herself down by her drum at an open window; and, 
the steps being struck by George and stowed under the carriage, away they 
went, with a great noise of flapping and creaking and straining; and the 
bright brass knocker, which nobody ever knocked at, knocking one perpetual 
double knock of its own accord as they jolted heavily along.


Chapter 27

When they had travelled slowly forward for some short distance, Nell 
ventured to steal a look round the caravan and observe it more closely. One 
half of it - that moiety in which the comfortable proprietress was then 
seated - was carpeted, and so partitioned off at the further end as to 
accomodate a sleeping-place, constructed after the fashion of a berth on 
board ship, which was shaded, like the little windows, with fair white 
curtains, and looked comfortable enough, though by what kind of gymnastic 
exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get into it, was an 
unfathomable mystery. The other half served for a kitchen, and was fitted 
up with a stove whose small chimney passed through the roof. It held also a 
closet or larder, several chests, a great pitcher of water, and a few 
cooking utensils and articles of crockery. These latter necessaries hung 
upon the walls, which, in that portion of the establishment devoted to the 
lady of the caravan, were ornamented with such gayer and lighter 
decorations as a triangle and a couple of well-thumbed tambourines.
The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the pride and poetry of 
the musical instruments, and little Nell and her grandfather sat at the 
other in all the humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the machine 
jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly. At first the two 
travellers spoke little, and only in whispers, but as they grew more 
familiar with the place they ventured to converse with greater freedom, and 
talked about the country through which they were passing, and the different 
objects that presented themselves, until the old man fell asleep; which the 
lady of the caravan observing, invited Nell to come and sit beside her.
"Well, child," she said, "how do you like this way of travelling?"
Nell replied that she thought it very pleasant indeed, to which the lady 
assented in the case of people who had their spirits. For herself, she 
said, she was troubled with a lowness in that respect which required a 
constant stimulant; though whether the aforesaid stimulant was derived from 
the suspicious bottle of which mention has been already made, or from other 
sources, she did not say.
"That's the happiness of you young people," she continued. "You don't know 
what it is to be low in your feelings. You always have your appetites too, 
and what a comfort that is."
Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with her own appetite very 
conveniently; and thought, moreover, that there was nothing either in the 
lady's personal appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to lead to the 
conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had at all failed 
her. She silently assented, however, as in duty bound, to what the lady had 
said, and waited until she should speak again.
Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the child for a long time 
in silence, and then getting up, brought out from a corner a large roll of 
canvas about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and spread open 
with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the caravan to the 
other.
"There, child," she said, "read that."
Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the 
inscription, "Jarley's Wax Work."
"Read it again," said the lady, complacently.
"Jarley's Wax Work," repeated Nell.
"That's me," said the lady. "I am Mrs Jarley."
Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reassure her and let her 
know, that, although she stood in the presence of the original Jarley, she 
must not allow herself to be utterly overwhelmed and borne down, the lady 
of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the inscription, "One 
hundred figures the full size of life," and then another scroll, on which 
was written; "The only stupendous collection of real waxwork in the world," 
and then several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as "Now exhibiting 
within" - "The genuine and only Jarley" - "Jarley's unrivalled collection" -
 "Jarley is the delight of the Nobility and Gentry" - "The Royal Family are 
the patrons of Jarley." When she had exhibited these leviathans of public 
announcement to the astonished child, she brought forth specimens of the 
lesser fry in the shape of hand-bills, some of which were couched in the 
form of parodies on popular melodies, as "Believe me if all Jarley's 
waxwork so rare" - "I saw thy show in youthful prime" - "Over the water to 
Jarley;" while, to consult all tastes, others were composed with a view to 
the lighter and more facetious spirits, as a parody on the favourite air of 
"If I had a donkey," beginning

If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go
To see Mrs Jarley's waxwork show,
Do you think I'd acknowledge him?
Oh no no!
Then run to Jarley's -

- besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues between 
the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of Canterbury and a 
dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all having the same moral, 
namely, that the reader must make haste to Jarley's, and that children and 
servants were admitted at half-price. When she had brought all these 
testimonials of her important position in society to bear upon her young 
companion, Mrs Jarley rolled them up, and having put them carefully away, 
sat down again, and looked at the child in triumph.
"Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more," said Mrs Jarley, 
"after this."
"I never saw any waxwork, ma'am," said Nell. "Is it funnier than Punch?"
"Funnier!" said Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice. "It is not funny at all."
"Oh!" said Nell, with all possible humility.
"It isn't funny at all," repeated Mrs Jarley. "It's calm and - what's that 
word again - critical? - no - classical, that's it - it's calm and 
classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings 
like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a constantly 
unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life, that if waxwork 
only spoke and walked about, you'd hardly know the difference. I won't go 
so far as to say, that, as it is, I've seen waxwork quite like life, but 
I've certainly seen some life that was exactly like waxwork."
"Is it here, ma'am?" asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this 
description.
"Is what here, child?"
"The waxwork, ma'am."
"Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of - how could such a 
collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one 
little cupboard and a few boxes? It's gone on in the other wans to the 
assembly-rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day after tomorrow. You 
are going to the same town, and you'll see it I dare say. It's natural to 
expect that you'll see it, and I've no doubt you will. I suppose you 
couldn't stop away if you was to try ever so much."
"I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am," said the child.
"Not there!" cried Mrs Jarley. "Then where will you be?"
"I - I - don't quite know. I am not certain."
"You don't mean to say that you're travelling about the country without 
knowing where you're going to?" said the lady of the caravan. "What curious 
people you are! What line are you in? You looked to me at the races, child, 
as if you were quite out of your element, and had got there by accident."
"We were there quite by accident," returned Nell, confused by this abrupt 
questioning. "We are poor people, ma'am, and are only wandering about. We 
have nothing to do; - I wish we had."
"You amaze me more and more," said Mrs Jarley, after remaining for some 
time as mute as one of her own figures. "Why, what do you call yourselves? 
Not beggars?"
"Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are," returned the child.
"Lord bless me," said the lady of the caravan. "I never heard of such a 
thing. Who'd have thought it!"
She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell feared she 
felt her having been induced to bestow her protection and conversation upon 
one so poor, to be an outrage upon her dignity that nothing could repair. 
This persuasion was rather confirmed than otherwise by the tone in which 
she at length broke silence and said,
"And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't wonder?"
"Yes, ma'am said the child, fearful of giving new offence by the 
confession.
"Well, and what a thing that is," returned Mrs Jarley. "I can't!"
Nell said "indeed" in a tone which might imply, either that she was 
reasonably surprised to find the genuine and only Jarley, who was the 
delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the peculiar pet of the Royal 
Family, destitute of these familiar arts; or that she presumed so great a 
lady could scarcely stand in need of such ordinary accomplishments. In 
whatever way Mrs Jarley received the response, it did not provoke her to 
further questioning, or tempt her into any more remarks at the time, for 
she relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained in that state so long 
that Nell withdrew to the other window and rejoined her grandfather, who 
was now awake.
At length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of meditation, and, 
summoning the driver to come under the window at which she was seated, held 
a long conversation with him in a low tone of voice, as if she were asking 
his advice on an important point, and discussing the pros and cons of some 
very weighty matter. This conference at length concluded, she drew in her 
head again, and beckoned Nell to approach.
"And the old gentleman too," said Mrs Jarley; "for I want to have a word 
with him. Do you want a good situation for your grand-daughter, master? If 
you do, I can put her in the way of getting one. What do you say?"
"I can't leave her," answered the old man. "We can't separate. What would 
become of me without her?"
"I should have thought you were old enough to take care of yourself, if you 
ever will be," retorted Mrs Jarley sharply.
"But he never will be," said the child in an earnest whisper. I fear he 
never will be again. Pray do not speak harshly to him. We are very thankful 
to you," she added aloud; "but neither of us could part from the other if 
all the wealth of the world were halved between us."
Mrs Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception of her proposal, and 
looked at the old man, who tenderly took Nell's hand and detained it in his 
own, as if she could have very well dispensed with his company or even his 
earthly existence. After an awkward pause, she thrust her head out of the 
window again, and had another conference with the driver upon some point on 
which they did not seem to agree quite so readily as on their former topic 
of discussion; but they concluded at last, and she addressed the 
grandfather again.
"If you're really disposed to employ yourself," said Mrs Jarley, "there 
would be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust the figures, 
and take the checks, and so forth. What I want your grand-daughter for, is 
to point 'em out to the company; they would be soon learnt, and she has a 
way with her that people wouldn't think unpleasant, though she does come 
after me; for I've been always accustomed to go round with visitors myself, 
which I should keep on doing now, only that my spirits make a little ease 
absolutely necessary. It's not a common offer, bear in mind," said the 
lady, rising into the tone and manner in which she was accustomed to 
address her audiences; "It's Jarley's waxwork, remember. The duty's very 
light and genteel, the company particular select, the exhibition takes 
place in assembly-rooms, town-halls, large rooms at inns or auction 
galleries. There is none of your open-air wagrancy at Jarley's, recollect; 
there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's, remember. Every expectation 
held out in the handbills is realised to the utmost, and the whole forms an 
effect of imposing brilliancy hitherto unrivalled in this kingdom. Remember 
that the price of admission is only sixpence, and that this is an 
opportunity which may never occur again!"
Descending from the sublime when she had reached this point, to the details 
of common life, Mrs Jarley remarked that with reference to salary she could 
pledge herself to no specific sum until she had sufficiently tested Nell's 
abilities, and narrowly watched her in the performance of her duties. But 
board and lodging, both for her and her grandfather, she bound herself to 
provide, and she furthermore passed her word that the board should always 
be good in quality, and in quantity plentiful.
Nell and her grandfather consulted together, and while they were so 
engaged, Mrs Jarley with her hands behind her walked up and down the 
caravan, as she had walked after tea on the dull earth, with uncommon 
dignity and self-esteem. Nor will this appear so slight a circumstance as 
to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered that the caravan was in 
uneasy motion all the time, and that none but a person of great natural 
stateliness and acquired grace could have forborne to stagger.
"Now, child," cried Mrs Jarley, coming to a halt as Nell turned towards 
her.
"We are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said Nell, "and thankfully accept 
your offer."
"And you'll never be sorry for it," returned Mrs Jarley. "I'm pretty sure 
of that. So as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper."
In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it too had been drinking 
strong beer and was drowsy, and came at last upon the paved streets of a 
town which were clear of passengers, and quiet, for it was by this time 
near midnight and the townspeople were all abed. As it was too late an hour 
to repair to the exhibition room, they turned aside into a piece of waste 
ground that lay just within the old town-gate, and drew up there for the 
night, near to another caravan, which, notwithstanding that it bore on the 
lawful panel the great name of Jarley, and was employed besides in 
conveying from place to place the waxwork which was its country's pride, 
was designated by a grovelling stamp-office as a "Common Stage Waggon" and 
numbered too - seven thousand odd hundred - as though its precious freight 
were mere flour or coals!
This ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited its burden at the 
place of exhibition, and lingered here until its services were again 
required) was assigned to the old man as his sleeping-place for the night; 
and within its wooden walls, Nell made him up the best bed she could, from 
the materials at hand. For herself, she was to sleep in Mrs Jarley's own 
travelling-carriage, as a signal mark of that lady's favour and confidence.
She had taken leave of her grandfather and was returning to the other 
waggon, when she was tempted by the pleasant coolness of the night to 
linger for a little while in the air. The moon was shining down upon the 
old gateway of the town, leaving the low archway very black and dark; and 
with a mingled sensation of curiosity and fear, she slowly approached the 
gate, and stood still to look up at it, wondering to see how dark, and 
grim, and old, and cold, it looked.
There was an empty niche from which some old statue had fallen or been 
carried away hundreds of years ago, and she was thinking what strange 
people it must have looked down upon when it stood there, and how many hard 
struggles might have taken place, and how many murders might have been 
done, upon that silent spot, when there suddenly emerged from the black 
shade of the arch, a man. The instant he appeared, she recognised him - Who 
could have failed to recognise, in that instant, the ugly misshapen Quilp!
The street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of the houses on one side 
of the way so deep, that he seemed to have risen out of the earth. But 
there he was. The child withdrew into a dark corner, and saw him pass close 
to her. He had a stick in his hand, and, when he had got clear of the 
shadow of the gateway, he leant upon it, looked back - directly, as it 
seemed, towards where she stood - and beckoned.
To her? oh no, thank God, not to her; for as she stood, in an extremity of 
fear, hesitating whether to scream for help, or come from her hiding-place 
and fly, before he should draw nearer, there issued slowly forth from the 
arch another figure - that of a boy - who carried on his back a trunk.
"Faster, sirrah!" said Quilp, looking up at the old gateway, and showing in 
the moonlight like some monstrous image that had come down from its niche 
and was casting a backward glance at its old house, "faster!"
"It's a dreadful heavy load, sir," the boy pleaded. "I've come on very 
fast, considering."
"You have come fast, considering!" retorted Quilp; "you creep, you dog, you 
crawl, you measure distance like a worm. There are the chimes now, half-
past twelve."
He stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy with a suddenness and 
ferocity that made him start, asked at what hour that London coach passed 
the corner of the road. The boy replied, at one.
"Come on then," said Quilp, "or I shall be too late. Faster - do you hear 
me? Faster."
The boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led onward, constantly 
turning back to threaten him, and urge him to greater haste. Nell did not 
dare to move until they were out of sight and hearing, and then hurried to 
where she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the very passing of the 
dwarf so near him must have filled him with alarm and terror. But he was 
sleeping soundly and she softly withdrew.
As she was making her way to her own bed, she determined to say nothing of 
this adventure, as upon whatever errand the dwarf had come (and she feared 
it must have been in search of them) it was clear by his inquiry about the 
London coach that he was on his way homeward, and as he had passed through 
that place, it was but reasonable to suppose that they were safer from his 
inquiries there, than they could be elsewhere. These reflections did not 
remove her own alarm, for she had been too much terrified to be easily 
composed, and felt as if she were hemmed in by a legion of Quilps, and the 
very air itself were filled with them.
The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patronised of Royalty had, 
by some process of self-abridgment known only to herself, got into her 
travelling bed, where she was snoring peacefully, while the large bonnet, 
carefully disposed upon the drum, was revealing its glories by the light of 
a dim lamp that swung from the roof. The child's bed was already made upon 
the floor, and it was a great comfort to her to hear the steps removed as 
soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy communication between 
persons outside and the brass knocker was by this means effectually 
prevented. Certain guttural sounds, too, which from time to time ascended 
through the floor of the caravan, and a rustling of straw in the same 
direction, apprised her that the driver was couched upon the ground 
beneath, and gave her an additional feeling of security.
Notwithstanding these protections, she could get none but broken sleep by 
fits and starts all night, for fear of Quilp, who throughout her uneasy 
dreams was somehow connected with the waxwork, or was waxwork himself, or 
was Mrs Jarley and waxwork too, or was himself, Mrs Jarley, waxwork, and a 
barrel organ all in one, and yet not exactly any of them either. At length, 
towards break of day, that deep sleep came upon her which succeeds to 
weariness and over-watching, and which has no consciousness but one of 
overpowering and irresistible enjoyment.


Chapter 28

Sleep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that, when she awoke, Mrs 
Jarley was already decorated with her large bonnet, and actively engaged in 
preparing breakfast. She received Nell's apology for being so late with 
perfect good-humour, and said that she should not have roused her if she 
had slept on until noon.
"Because it does you good," said the lady of the caravan, "when you're 
tired, to sleep as long as ever you can, and get the fatigue quite off, and 
that's another blessing of your time of life - you can sleep so very 
sound."
"Have you had a bad night, ma'am?" asked Nell.
"I seldom have anything else, child," replied Mrs Jarley, with the air of a 
martyr. "I sometimes wonder how I bear it."
Remembering the snores which had proceeded from that cleft in the caravan 
in which the proprietress of the waxwork passed the night, Nell rather 
thought she must have been dreaming of lying awake. However, she expressed 
herself very sorry to hear such a dismal account of her state of health, 
and shortly afterwards sat down with her grandfather and Mrs Jarley to 
breakfast. The meal finished, Nell assisted to wash the cups and saucers, 
and put them in their proper places, and these household duties performed, 
Mrs Jarley arrayed herself in an exceedingly bright shawl for the purpose 
of making a progress through the streets of the town.
"The wan will come on to bring the boxes," said Mrs Jarley, "and you had 
better come in it, child. I am obliged to walk, very much against my will; 
but the people expect it of me, and public characters can't be their own 
masters and mistresses in such matters as these. How do I look, child?"
Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs Jarley, after sticking a great 
many pins into various parts of her figure, and making several abortive 
attempts to obtain a full view of her own back, was at last satisfied with 
her appearance, and went forth majestically.
The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went jolting through the 
streets, Nell peeped from the window, curious to see in what kind of place 
they were, and yet fearful of encountering at every turn the dreaded face 
of Quilp. It was a pretty large town, with an open square which they were 
crawling slowly across and in the middle of which was the Town Hall with a 
clock-tower and a weathercock. There were houses of stone, houses of red 
brick, houses of yellow brick, houses of lath and plaster; and houses of 
wood, many of them very old, with withered faces carved upon the beams, and 
staring down into the street. These had very little winking windows, and 
low arched doors, and, in some of the narrower ways, quite overhung the 
pavement. The streets were very clean, very sunny, very empty, and very 
dull. A few idle men lounged about the two inns, and the empty market-
place, and the tradesmen's doors, and some old people were dozing in chairs 
outside an alms-house wall; but scarcely any passengers who seemed bent on 
going anywhere, or to have any object in view, went by; and if perchance 
some straggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot bright pavement for 
minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be going on but the clocks, and they 
had such drowsy faces, such heavy lazy hands, and such cracked voices, that 
they surely must have been too slow. The very dogs were all asleep, and the 
flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's shop, forgot their wings and 
briskness, and baked to death in dusty corners of the window.
Rumbling along with most unwonted noise the caravan stopped at last at the 
place of exhibition, where Nell dismounted amidst an admiring group of 
children, who evidently supposed her to be an important item of the 
curiosities, and were fully impressed with the belief that her grandfather 
was a cunning device in wax. The chests were taken out with all convenient 
despatch, and taken in to be unlocked by Mrs Jarley, who, attended by 
George and another man in velveteen shorts and a drab hat ornamented with 
turnpike tickets, were waiting to dispose their contents (consisting of red 
festoons and other ornamental devices in upholstery work) to the best 
advantage in the decoration of the room.
They all got to work without loss of time, and very busy they were. As the 
stupendous collection were yet concealed by cloths, lest the envious dust 
should injure their complexions, Nell bestirred herself to assist in the 
embellishment of the room, in which her grandfather also was of great 
service. The two men being well used to it, did a great deal in a short 
time; and Mrs Jarley served out the tin tacks from a linen pocket like a 
toll-collector's which she wore for the purpose, and encouraged her 
assistants to renewed exertion.
While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman with a hook nose and 
black hair, dressed in a military surtout very short and tight in the 
sleeves, and which had once been frogged and braided all over, but was now 
sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare - dressed too in ancient 
grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a pair of pumps in the winter 
of their existence - looked in at the door, and smiled affably. Mrs 
Jarley's back being then towards him, the military gentleman shook his 
forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to apprise her of his 
presence, and stealing up close behind her, tapped her on the neck, and 
cried playfully "Boh!"
"What, Mr Slum!" cried the lady of the waxwork. "Lor! who'd have thought of 
seeing you here!"
"'Pon my soul and honour," said Mr Slum, "that's a good remark. 'Pon my 
soul and honour that's a wise remark. Who would have thought it! George, my 
faithful feller, how are you?"
George received this advance with a surly indifference, observing that he 
was well enough for the matter of that, and hammering lustily all the time.
"I came here," said the military gentleman, turning to Mrs Jarley, - "'pon 
my soul and honour I hardly know what I came here for. It would puzzle me 
to tell you, it would by Gad. I wanted a little inspiration, a little 
freshening up, a little change of ideas, and - 'Pon my soul and honour," 
said the military gentleman, checking himself and looking round the room, 
"what a devilish classical thing this is! By Gad, it's quite Minervian!"
"It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished," observed Mrs Jarley.
"Well enough!" said Mr Slum. "Will you believe me when I say it's the 
delight of my life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I've exercised 
my pen upon this charming theme? By the way - any orders? Is there any 
little thing I can do for you?"
"It comes so very expensive, sir," replied Mrs Jarley, "and I really don't 
think it does much good."
"Hush! No, no!" returned Mr Slum, elevating his hand. "No fibs. I'll not 
hear it. Don't say it don't do good. Don't say it. I know better!"
"I don't think it does," said Mrs Jarley.
"Ha, ha!" cried Mr Slum, "you're giving way, you're coming down. Ask the 
perfumers, ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask the old lottery-
office keepers - ask any man among 'em what my poetry has done for him, and 
mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum. If he's an honest man, he 
raises his eyes to heaven, and blesses the name of Slum - mark that! You 
are acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs Jarley?"
"Yes, surely."
"Then upon my soul and honour, ma'am, you'll find in a certain angle of 
that dreary pile, called Poet's Corner, a few smaller names than Slum," 
retorted that gentleman, tapping himself expressively on the forehead to 
imply that there was some slight quantity of brains behind it. "I've got a 
little trifle here, now," said Mr Slum, taking off his hat which was full 
of scraps of paper, "a little trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the 
moment, which I should say was exactly the thing you wanted to set this 
place on fire with. It's an acrostic - the name at this moment is Warren, 
but the idea's a convertible one, and a positive inspiration for Jarley. 
Have the acrostic."
"I suppose it's very dear," said Mrs Jarley.
"Five shillings," returned Mr Slum, using his pencil as a toothpick. 
"Cheaper than any prose."
"I couldn't give more than three," said Mrs Jarley.
" - And six," retorted Slum. "Come. Three-and-six."
Mrs Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuating manner, and Mr Slum 
entered the order in a small notebook as a three-and-sixpenny one. Mr Slum 
then withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most affectionate leave 
of his patroness, and promising to return, as soon as he possibly could, 
with a fair copy for the printer.
As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted the preparations, 
they were now far advanced, and were completed shortly after his departure. 
When the festoons were all put up as tastily as they might be, the 
stupendous collection was uncovered, and there were displayed, on a raised 
platform some two feet from the floor, running round the room and parted 
from the rude public by a crimson rope breast high, divers sprightly 
effigies of celebrated characters, singly and in groups, clad in glittering 
dresses of various climes and times, and standing more or less unsteadily 
upon their legs, with their eyes very wide open, and their nostrils very 
much inflated, and the muscles of their legs and arms very strongly 
developed, and all their countenances expressing great surprise. All the 
gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted and very blue about the beards; and all 
the ladies were miraculous figures; and all the ladies and all the 
gentlemen were looking intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary 
earnestness at nothing.
When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight, Mrs 
Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child, 
and, sitting herself down in an armchair in the centre, formally invested 
Nell with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out the 
characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty.
"That," said Mrs Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a figure at 
the beginning of the platform, "is an unfortunate Maid of Honor, in the 
time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence 
of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is trickling from her 
finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the period, with which she is at 
work."
All this, Nell repeated twice or thrice; pointing to the finger and the 
needle at the right times: and then passed on to the next.
"That, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs Jarley, "is Jasper Packlemerton of 
atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and destroyed 
them all, by tickling the soles of their feet when they were sleeping in 
the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being brought to the scaffold 
and asked if he was sorry for what he had done, he replied yes, he was 
sorry for having let 'em off so easy, and hoped all Christian husbands 
would pardon him the offence. Let this be a warning to all young ladies to 
be particular in the character of the gentlemen of their choice. Observe 
that his fingures are curled as if in the act of tickling, and that his 
face is represented with a wink, as he appeared when committing his 
barbarous murders."
When Nell knew all about Mr Packlemerton, and could say it without 
faltering, Mrs Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin man, 
the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred 
and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who poisoned fourteen 
families with pickled walnuts, and other historical characters and 
interesting but misguided individuals. And so well did Nell profit by her 
instructions, and so apt was she to remember them, that by the time they 
had been shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in full possession 
of the history of the whole establishment, and perfectly competent to the 
enlightenment of visitors.
Mrs Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy result, and 
carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the remaining arrangements 
within doors, by virtue of which the passage had been already converted 
into a grove of green baize hung with the inscription she had already seen 
(Mr Slum's production), and a highly ornamented table placed at the upper 
end for Mrs Jarley herself, at which she was to preside and take the money, 
in company with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr Grimaldi as clown, 
Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and 
Mr Pitt holding in his hand a correct model of the bill for the imposition 
of the window duty. The preparations without doors had not been neglected 
either; a nun of great personal attractions was telling her beads on the 
little portico over the door; and a brigand with the blackest possible head 
of hair, and the clearest possible complexion, was at that moment going 
round the town in a cart, consulting the miniature of a lady.
It now only remained that Mr Slum's composition should be judiciously 
distributed; that the pathetic effusions should find their way to all 
private houses and tradespeople: and that the parody commencing "If I 
know'd a donkey," should be confined to the taverns, and circulated only 
among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits of the place. When this had 
been done, and Mrs Jarley had waited upon the boarding-schools in person, 
with a handbill composed expressly for them, in which it was distinctly 
proved that waxwork refined the mind, cultivated the taste, and enlarged 
the sphere of the human understanding, that indefatigable lady sat down to 
dinner, and drank out of the suspicious bottle to a flourishing campaign.


Chapter 29

Unquestionably Mrs Jarley had an inventive genius. In the midst of the 
various devices for attracting visitors to the exhibition, little Nell was 
not forgotten. The light cart in which the Brigand usually made his 
perambulations being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, and the 
Brigand placed therein, contemplating the miniature of his beloved as 
usual, Nell was accommodated with a seat beside him, decorated with 
artificial flowers, and in this state and ceremony rode slowly through the 
town every morning, dispersing handbills from a basket, to the sound of 
drum and trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled with her gentle and 
timid bearing, produced quite a sensation in the little country place. The 
Brigand, heretofore a source of exclusive interest in the streets, became a 
mere secondary consideration, and to be important only as a part of the 
show of which she was the chief attraction. Grown-up folks began to be 
interested in the bright-eyed girl, and some score of little boys fell 
desperately in love, and constantly left inclosures of nuts and apples, 
directed in small text, at the waxwork door.
This desirable impression was not lost on Mrs Jarley, who, lest Nell should 
become too cheap, soon sent the Brigand out alone again, and kept her in 
the exhibition room, where she described the figures every half-hour to the 
great satisfaction of admiring audiences. And these audiences were of a 
very superior description, including a great many young ladies' boarding-
schools, whose favour Mrs Jarley had been at great pains to conciliate, by 
altering the face and costume of Mr Grimaldi as clown to represent Mr 
Lindley Murray as he appeared when engaged in the composition of his 
English Grammar, and turning a murderess of great renown into Mrs Hannah 
More - both of which likenesses were admitted by Miss Monflathers, who was 
at the head of the Boarding and Day Establishment in the town, and who 
condescended to take a Private View with eight chosen young ladies, to be 
quite startling from their extreme correctness. Mr Pitt in a nightcap and 
bedgown, and without his boots, represented the poet Cowper with perfect 
exactness; and Mary Queen of Scots in a dark wig, white shirt-collar, and 
male attire, was such a complete image of Lord Byron that the young ladies 
quite screamed when they saw it. Miss Monflathers, however, rebuked this 
enthusiasm, and took occasion to reprove Mrs Jarley for not keeping her 
collection more select: observing that His Lordship had held certain 
opinions quite incompatible with waxwork honours, and adding something 
about a Dean and Chapter, which Mrs Jarley did not understand.
Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell found in the lady of 
the caravan a very kind and considerate person, who had not only a peculiar 
relish for being comfortable herself, but for making everybody about her 
comfortable also; which latter taste, it may be remarked, is, even in 
persons who live in much finer places than caravans, a far more rare and 
uncommon one than the first, and is not by any means its necessary 
consequence. As her popularity procured her various little fees from the 
visitors on which her patroness never demanded any toll, and as her 
grandfather too was well-treated and useful, she had no cause of anxiety in 
connection with the waxwork, beyond that which sprung from her recollection 
of Quilp, and her fears that he might return and one day suddenly encounter 
them.
Quilp indeed was a perpetual nightmare to the child, who was constantly 
haunted by a vision of his ugly face and stunted figure. She slept, for 
their better security, in the room where the waxwork figures were, and she 
never retired to this place at night, but she tortured herself - and could 
not help it - with imagining a resemblance, in some one or other of their 
death-like faces, to the dwarf, and this fancy would sometimes so gain upon 
her that she would almost believe he had removed the figure and stood 
within the clothes. Then there were so many of them with their great glassy 
eyes - and, as they stood one behind the other all about her bed, they 
looked so like living creatures, and yet so unlike in their grim stillness 
and silence, that she had a kind of terror of them for their own sakes, and 
would often lie watching their dusky figures until she was obliged to rise 
and light a candle, or go and sit at the open window and feel a 
companionship in the bright stars. At these times, she would recall the old 
house and the window at which she used to sit alone; and then she would 
think of poor Kit all his kindness, until the tears came into her eyes, and 
and she would weep and smile together.
Often and anxiously at this silent hour, her thoughts reverted to her 
grandfather, and she would wonder how much he remembered of their former 
life, and whether he was ever really mindful of the change in their 
condition and of their late helplessness and destitution. When they were 
wandering about, she seldom thought of this, but now she cold not help 
considering what would become of them if he fell sick, or her own strength 
were to fail her. He was very patient and willing, happy to execute any 
little task, and glad to be of use; but he was in the same listless state, 
with no prospect of improvement - a mere child - a poor, thoughtless, 
vacant creature - a harmless fond old man, susceptible of tender love and 
regard for her, and of pleasant and painful impressions, but alive to 
nothing more. It made her very sad to know that this was so - so sad to see 
it that sometimes when he sat idly by, smiling and nodding to her when she 
looked round, or when he caressed some little child and carried it to and 
fro, as he was fond of doing by the hour together, perplexed by its simple 
questions, yet patient under his own infirmity, and seeming almost 
conscious of it too, and humbled even before the mind of an infant - so sad 
it made her to see him thus, that she would burst into tears, and, 
withdrawing into some secret place, fall down upon her knees, and pray that 
he might be restored.
But, the bitterness of her grief was not in beholding him in this 
condition, when he was at least content and tranquil, nor in her solitary 
meditations on his altered state, though these were trials for a young 
heart. Cause for deeper and heavier sorrow was yet to come.
One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and her grandfather went out 
to walk. They had been rather closely confined for some days, and the 
weather being warm, they strolled a long distance. Clear of the town, they 
took a footpath which struck through some pleasant fields, judging that it 
would terminate in the road they quitted and enable them to return that 
way. It made, however, a much wider circuit than they had supposed, and 
thus they were tempted onward until sunset, when they reached the track of 
which they were in search, and stopped to rest.
It had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky was dark and 
lowering, save where the glory of the departing sun piled up masses of gold 
and burning fire, decaying embers of which gleamed here and there through 
the black veil, and shone redly down upon the earth. The wind began to moan 
in hollow murmurs, as the sun went down carrying glad day elsewhere; and a 
train of dull clouds coming up against it, menaced thunder and lightning. 
Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as the storm clouds came 
sailing onward, others supplied the void they left behind and spread over 
all the sky. Then was heard the low rumbling of distant thunder, then the 
lightning quivered, and then the darkness of an hour seemed to have 
gathered in an instant.
Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the old man and the 
child hurried along the high road, hoping to find some house in which they 
could seek a refuge from the storm, which had now burst forth in earnest, 
and every moment increased in violence. Drenched with the pelting rain, 
confused by the deafening thunder, and bewildered by the glare of the 
forked lightning, they would have passed a solitary house without being 
aware of its vicinity, had not a man, who was standing at the door, called 
lustily to them to enter.
"Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any rate, if you make so 
little of the chance of being struck blind," he said, retreating from the 
door and shading his eyes with his hands as the jagged lightning came 
again. "What were you going past for, eh?" he added as he closed the door 
and led the way along a passage to a room behind.
"We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard you calling," Nell replied.
"No wonder," said the man, "with this lightning in one's eyes, by-the-by. 
You had better stand by the fire here, and dry yourselves a bit. You can 
call for what you like if you want anything. If you don't want anything, 
you're not obliged to give an order. Don't be afraid of that. This is a 
public-house, that's all. The Valiant Soldier is pretty well known 
hereabouts."
"Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, sir?" asked Nell.
"I thought everybody knew that," replied the landlord. "Where have you come 
from, if you don't know the Valiant Soldier as well as the church 
catechism? This is the Valiant Soldier by James Groves, - Jem Groves - 
honest Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral character, and has a 
good dry skittle-ground. If any man has got anything to say again Jem 
Groves, let him say it to Jem Groves, and Jem Groves can accommodate him 
with a customer on any terms from four pound a side to forty."
With these words, the speaker tapped himself on the waistcoat, to intimate 
that he was the Jem Groves so highly eulogised; sparred scientifically at a 
counterfeit Jem Groves, who was sparring at society in general from a black 
frame over the chimney-piece; and, applying a half-emptied glass of spirits 
and water to his lips, drank Jem Groves's health.
The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn across the room, for a 
barrier against the heat of the fire. It seemed as if somebody on the other 
side of this screen had been insinuating doubts of Mr Groves's prowess, and 
had thereby given rise to these egotistical expressions, for Mr Groves 
wound up his defiance by giving a loud knock upon it with his knuckles, and 
pausing for a reply from the other side.
"There an't many men," said Mr Groves, no answer being returned, "who would 
ventur' to cross Jem Groves under his own roof. There's only one man, I 
know, that has nerve enough for that, and that man's not a hundred mile 
from here neither. But he's worth a dozen men, and I let him say of me 
whatever he likes in consequence, - he knows that."
In return for this complimentary address, a very gruff hoarse voice bade Mr 
Groves "hold his nise and light a candle." And the same voice remarked that 
the same gentleman "needn't waste his breath in brag, for most people knew 
pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of."
"Nell, they're - they're playing cards," whispered the old man, suddenly 
interested. "Don't you hear them?"
"Look sharp with that candle," said the voice; "it's as much as I can do to 
see the pips on the cards as it is; and get this shutter closed as quick as 
you can, will you? Your beer will be the worse for tonight's thunder I 
expect - Game! Seven-and-sixpence to me, old Isaac. Hand over."
"Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them?" whispered the old man again, with 
increased earnestness, as the money chinked upon the table.
"I haven't seen such a storm as this," said a sharp cracked voice of most 
disagreeable quality, when a tremendous peal of thunder had died away, 
"since the night when old Luke Withers won thirteen times running, on the 
red. We all said he had the Devil's luck and his own, and as it was the 
kind of night for the Devil to be out and busy, I suppose he was looking 
over his shoulder, if any body could have seen him."
"Ah!" returned the gruff voice, "for all old Luke's winning through thick 
and thin of late years, I remember the time when he was the unluckiest and 
unfortunatest of men. He never took a dice-box in his hand, or hold a card 
but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out completely."
"Do you hear what he says?" whispered the old man. "Do you hear that, 
Nell?"
The child saw with astonishment and alarm that his whole appearance had 
undergone a complete change. His face was flushed and eager, his eyes were 
strained, his teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the hand he 
laid upon her arm trembled so violently that she shook beneath his grasp.
"Bear witness," he muttered, looking upward, "that I always said it, that I 
knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was the truth, and that it must be so! What 
money have we, Nell? Come! I saw you with money yesterday. What money have 
we? Give it to me."
"No, no, let me keep it, grandfather," said the frightened child. "Let us 
go away from here. Do not mind the rain. Pray let us go."
"Give it to me, I say," returned the old man fiercely. "Hush, hush, don't 
cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it. It's for thy good. I 
have wronged thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet, I will indeed. Where is 
the money?"
"Do not take it," said the child. "Pray do not take it, dear. For both our 
sakes let me keep it, or let me throw it away - better let me throw it 
away, than you take it now. Let us go; do let us go."
"Give me the money," returned the old man, "I must have it. There - there - 
that's my dear Nell. I'll right thee one day, child, I'll right thee, never 
fear!"
She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it with the same rapid 
impatience which had characterised his speech, and hastily made his way to 
the other side of the screen. It was impossible to restrain him, and the 
trembling child followed close behind.
The landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was engaged in drawing 
the curtain of the window. The speakers whom they had heard were two men, 
who had a pack of cards and some silver money between them, while upon the 
screen itself the games they had played were scored in chalk. The man with 
the rough voice was a burly fellow of middle age, with large black 
whiskers, broad cheeks, a coarse wide mouth, and bull neck, which was 
pretty freely displayed as his shirt collar was only confined by a loose 
red neckerchief. He wore his hat, which was of a brownish-white, and had 
beside him a thick knotted stick. The other man, whom his companion had 
called Isaac, was of a more slender figure - stooping, and high in the 
shoulders - with a very ill-favoured face, and a most sinister and 
villanous squint.
"Now old gentleman," said Isaac, looking round. "Do you know either of us? 
This side of the screen is private, sir."
"No offence, I hope," returned the old man.
"But by G -, sir, there is offence," said the other, interrupting him, 
"when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen who are particularly 
engaged."
"I had no intention to offend," said the old man, looking anxiously at the 
cards. "I thought that - "
"But you had no right to think, sir," retorted the other. "What the devil 
has a man at your time of life to do with thinking?"
"Now bully boy," said the stout man raising his eyes from his cards for the 
first time, "can't you let him speak?"
The landlord who had apparently resolved to remain neutral until he knew 
which side of the question the stout man would espouse, chimed in at this 
place with "Ah, to be sure, can't you let him speak, Isaac List?"
"Can't I let him speak," sneered Isaac in reply, mimicking as nearly as he 
could in his shrill voice, the tones of the landlord. "Yes, I can let him 
speak, Jemmy Groves."
"Well then, do it, will you?" said the landlord.
Mr List's squint assumed a portentous character, which seemed to threaten a 
prolongation of this controversy, when his companion who had been looking 
sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to it.
"Who knows," said he, with a cunning look, "but the gentleman may have 
civilly meant to ask if he might have the honour to take a hand with us!"
"I did mean it," cried the old man. "That is what I mean. That is what I 
want now!"
"I thought so," returned the same man. "Then who knows but the gentleman, 
anticipating our objection to play for love, civilly desired to play for 
money?"
The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his eager hand, and then 
throwing it down upon the table, and gathering up the cards as a miser 
would clutch at gold.
"Oh! That indeed - " said Isaac; "if that's what the gentleman meant, I beg 
the gentleman's pardon. Is this the gentleman's little purse? A very pretty 
little purse. Rather a light purse," added Isaac, throwing it into the air 
and catching it dexterously, "but enough to amuse a gentleman for half an 
hour or so."
"We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in Groves," said the stout 
man. "Come, Jemmy."
The landlord who conducted himself like one who was well used to such 
little parties, approached the table and took his seat. The child, in a 
perfect agony, drew her grandfather aside, and implored him, even then, to 
come away.
"Come; and we may be so happy," said the child.
"We will be happy," replied the old man, hastily. "Let me go, Nell. The 
means of happiness are on the cards and in the dice. We must rise from 
little winnings to great. There's little to be won here; but great will 
come in time. I shall but win back my own, and it's all for thee, my 
darling."
"God help us!" cried the child. "Oh! what hard fortune brought us here!"
"Hush!" rejoined the old man, laying his hand upon her mouth, "Fortune will 
not bear chiding. We must not reproach her, or she shuns us; I have found 
that out."
"Now, mister," said the stout man. "If you're not coming yourself, give us 
the cards, will you?"
"I am coming," cried the old man. "Sit thee down, Nell, sit thee down and 
look on. Be of good heart, it's all for thee - all - every penny. I don't 
tell them, no, no, or else they wouldn't play, dreading the chance that 
such a cause must give me. Look at them. See what they are and what thou 
art. Who doubts that we must win!"
"The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't coming," said Isaac, 
making as though he would rise from the table. "I'm sorry the gentleman's 
daunted - nothing venture, nothing have - but the gentleman knows best."
"Why I am ready. You have all been slow but me," said the old man. "I 
wonder who's more anxious to begin than I."
As he spoke he drew a chair to the table; and the other three closing round 
it at the same time, the game commenced.
The child sat by, and watched its progress with a troubled mind. Regardless 
of the run of luck, and mindful only of the desperate passion which had its 
hold upon her grandfather, losses and gains were to her alike.
Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by a defeat, there he sat so 
wild and restless so feverishly and intensely anxious, so terribly eager, 
so ravenous for the paltry stakes, that she could have almost better borne 
to see him dead. And yet she was the innocent cause of all this torture, 
and he, gambling with such a savage thirst for gain as the most insatiable 
gambler never felt, had not one selfish thought!
On the contrary, the other three - knaves and gamesters by their trade - 
while intent upon their game, were yet as cool and quiet as if every virtue 
had been centred in their breasts. Sometimes one would look up to smile to 
another, or to snuff the feeble candle, or to glance at the lightning as it 
shot through the open window and fluttering curtain, or to listen to some 
louder peal of thunder than the rest, with a kind of momentary impatience, 
as if it put him out; but there they sat, with a calm indifference to 
everything but their cards, perfect philosophers in appearance, and with no 
greater show of passion or excitement than if they had been made of stone.
The storm had raged for full three hours; the lightning had grown fainter 
and less frequent; the thunder, from seeming to roll and break above their 
heads, had gradually died away into a deep hoarse distance; and still the 
game went on, and still the anxious child was quite forgotten.


Chapter 30

At length the play came to an end, and Mr Isaac List rose the only winner. 
Mat and the landlord bore their losses with professional fortitude. Isaac 
pocketed his gains with the air of a man who had quite made up his mind to 
win, all along, and was neither surprised nor pleased.
Nell's little purse was exhausted; but although it lay empty by his side, 
and the other players had now risen from the table, the old man sat poring 
over the cards, dealing them as they had been dealt before, and turning up 
the different hands to see what each man would have held if they had still 
been playing. He was quite absorbed in this occupation, when the child drew 
near and laid her hand upon his shoulder, telling him it was near midnight.
"See the curse of poverty, Nell," he said, pointing to the packs he had 
spread out upon the table. "If I could have gone on a little longer, only a 
little longer, the luck would have turned on my side. Yes, it's as plain as 
the marks upon the cards. See here - and there - and here again."
"Put them away," urged the child. "Try to forget them."
"Try to forget them!" he rejoined, raising his haggard face to hers, and 
regarding her with an incredulous stare. "To forget them! How are we ever 
to grow rich if I forget them?"
The child could only shake her head.
"No, no, Nell," said the old man, patting her cheek; "they must not be 
forgotten. We must make amends for this as soon as we can. Patience - 
patience, and we'll right thee yet, I promise thee. Lose today, win 
tomorrow. And nothing can be won without anxiety and care - nothing. Come, 
I am ready."
"Do you know what the time is?" said Mr Groves, who was smoking with his 
friends. "Past twelve o'clock - "
" - And a rainy night," added the stout man.
"The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves. Good beds. Cheap entertainment for 
man and beast," said Mr Groves, quoting his signboard. "Half-past twelve 
o'clock."
"It's very late," said the uneasy child. "I wish we had gone before. What 
will they think of us! It will be two o'clock by the time we get back. What 
would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?"
"Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer one shilling; total, two 
shillings and sixpence," replied the Valiant Soldier.
Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewn in her dress; and when she came 
to consider the lateness of the hour, and the somnolent habits of Mrs 
Jarley, and to imagine the state of consternation in which they would 
certainly throw that good lady by knocking her up in the middle of the 
night - and when she reflected, on the other hand, that if they remained 
where they were, and rose early in the morning, they might get back before 
she awoke, and could plead the violence of the storm by which they had been 
overtaken, as a good apology for their absence - she decided, after a great 
deal of hesitation, to remain. She therefore took her grandfather aside, 
and telling him that she had still enough left to defray the cost of their 
lodging, proposed that they should stay there for the night.
"If I had had but that money before - If I had only known of it a few 
minutes ago!" muttered the old man.
"We will decide to stop here if you please," said Nell, turning hastily to 
the landlord.
"I think that's prudent," returned Mr Groves. "You shall have your suppers 
directly."
Accordingly, when Mr Groves had smoked his pipe out, knocked out the ashes, 
and placed it carefully in a corner of the fireplace, with the bowl 
downwards, he brought in the bread and cheese, and beer, with many high 
encomiums upon their excellence, and bade his guests fall to, and make 
themselves at home. Nell and her grandfather ate sparingly, for both were 
occupied with their own reflections; the other gentlemen, for whose 
constitutions beer was too weak and tame a liquid, consoled themselves with 
spirits and tobacco.
As they would leave the house very early in the morning, the child was 
anxious to pay for their entertainment before they retired to bed. But as 
she felt the necessity of concealing her little hoard from her grandfather, 
and had to change the piece of gold, she took it secretly from its place of 
concealment, and embraced an opportunity of following the landlord when he 
went out of the room, and tendered it to him in the little bar.
"Will you give me the change here, if you please?" said the child.
Mr James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked at the money, and rung 
it, and looked at the child, and at the money again, as though he had a 
mind to inquire how she came by it. The coin being genuine, however, and 
changed at his house, he probably felt, like a wise landlord, that it was 
no business of his. At any rate, he counted out the change, and gave it 
her. The child was returning to the room where they had passed the evening, 
when she fancied she saw a figure just gliding in at the door. There was 
nothing but a long dark passage between this door and the place where she 
had changed the money, and, being very certain that no person had passed in 
or out while she stood there, the thought struck her that she had been 
watched.
But by whom? When she re-entered the room, she found its inmates exactly as 
she had left them. The stout fellow lay upon two chairs, resting his head 
on his hand, and the squinting man reposed in a similar attitude on the 
opposite side of the table. Between them sat her grandfather, looking 
intently at the winner with a kind of hungry admiration, and hanging upon 
his words as if he were some superior being. She was puzzled for a moment, 
and looked round to see if anyone else were there. No. Then she asked her 
grandfather in a whisper whether anybody had left the room while she was 
absent. "No," he said, "nobody."
It must have been her fancy then; and yet it was strange, that, without 
anything in her previous thoughts to lead to it, she should have imagined 
this figure so very distinctly. She was still wondering and thinking of it, 
when a girl came to light her to bed.
The old man took leave of the company at the same time, and they went 
upstairs together. It was a great rambling house, with dull corridors and 
wide staircases which the flaring candles seemed to make more gloomy. She 
left her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her guide to another, 
which was at the end of a passage, and approached by some half-dozen crazy 
steps. This was prepared for her. The girl lingered a little while to talk, 
and tell her grievances. She had not a good place, she said; the wages were 
low, and the work was hard. She was going to leave it in a fortnight; the 
child couldn't recommend her to another, she supposed? Indeed she was 
afraid another would be difficult to get after living there, for the house 
had a very indifferent character; there was far too much card-playing, and 
such like. She was very much mistaken if some of the people who came there 
oftenest were quite as honest as they might be, but she wouldn't have it 
known that she had said so, for the world. Then there were some rambling 
allusions to a rejected sweetheart, who had threatened to go a soldiering - 
a final promise of knocking at the door early in the morning - and "Good 
night."
The child did not feel comfortable when she was left alone. She could not 
help thinking of the figure stealing through the passage downstairs; and 
what the girl had said did not tend to reassure her. The men were very ill-
looking. They might get their living by robbing and murdering travellers. 
Who could tell?
Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of them for a little 
while, there came the anxiety to which the adventures of the night gave 
rise. Here was the old passion awakened again in her grandfather's breast, 
and to what further distraction it might tempt him Heaven only knew. What 
fears their absence might have occasioned already! Persons might be seeking 
for them even then. Would they be forgiven in the morning, or turned adrift 
again! Oh! why had they stopped in that strange place? It would have been 
better, under any circumstances, to have gone on!
At last, sleep gradually stole upon her - a broken, fitful sleep, troubled 
by dreams of falling from high towers, and waking with a start and in great 
terror. A deeper slumber followed this - and then - What! That figure in 
the room!
A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up the blind to admit the light when 
it should dawn, and there, between the foot of the bed and the dark 
casement, it crouched and slunk along, groping its way with noiseless 
hands, and stealing round the bed. She had no voice to cry for help, no 
power to move, but lay still, watching it.
On it came - on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's head. The breath so 
near her pillow, that she shrunk back into it, lest those wandering hands 
should light upon her face. Back again it stole to the window - then turned 
its head towards her.
The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter darkness of the room, but 
she saw the turning of the head, and felt and knew how the eyes looked and 
the ears listened. There it remained, motionless as she. At length, still 
keeping the face towards her, it busied its hands in something, and she 
heard the chink of money.
Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before, and replacing the 
garments it had taken from the bedside, dropped upon its hands and knees, 
and crawled away. How slowly it seemed to move, now that she could hear but 
not see it, creeping along the floor! It reached the door at last, and 
stood upon its feet. The steps creaked beneath its noiseless tread, and it 
was gone.
The first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror of being by 
herself in that room - to have somebody by - not to be alone - and then her 
power of speech would be restored. With no consciousness of having moved, 
she gained the door.
There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom of the steps.
She could not pass it; she might have done so, perhaps, in the darkness, 
without being seized, but her blood curdled at the thought. The figure 
stood quite still, and so did she; not boldly, but of necessity; for going 
back into the room was hardly less terrible than going on.
The rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down in plashing streams 
from the thatched roof. Some summer insect, with no escape into the air, 
flew blindly to and fro, beating its body against the walls and ceiling, 
and filling the silent place with murmurs. The figure moved again. The 
child involuntarily did the same. Once in her grandfather's room, she would 
be safe.
It crept along the passage until it came to the very door she longed so 
ardently to reach. The child, in the agony of being so near, had almost 
darted forward with the design of bursting into the room and closing it 
behind her, when the figure stopped again.
The idea flashed suddenly upon her - what if it entered there, and had a 
design upon the old man's life! She turned faint and sick. It did. It went 
in. There was a light inside. The figure was now within the chamber, and 
she, still dumb - quite dumb, and almost senseless - stood looking on.
The door was partly open. Not knowing what she meant to do, but meaning to 
preserve him or be killed herself, she staggered forward and looked in.
What sight was that which met her view!
The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and empty. And at a table sat 
the old man himself; the only living creature there; his white face pinched 
and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally bright - 
counting the money of which his hands had robbed her.


Chapter 31

With steps more faltering and unsteady than those with which she had 
approached the room, the child withdrew from the door, and groped her way 
back to her own chamber. The terror she had lately felt was nothing 
compared with that which now oppressed her. No strange robber, no 
treacherous host conniving at the plunder of his guests, or stealing to 
their beds to kill them in their sleep, no nightly prowler, however 
terrible and cruel, could have awakened in her bosom half the dread which 
the recognition of her silent visitor inspired. The grey-headed old man 
gliding like a ghost into her room and acting the thief while he supposed 
her fast asleep, then bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the 
ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was worse - immeasurably worse, and 
far more dreadful, for the moment, to reflect upon - than anything her 
wildest fancy could have suggested. If he should return - there was no lock 
or bolt upon the door, and if, distrustful of having left some money yet 
behind, he should come back to seek for more - a vague awe and horror 
surrounded the idea of his slinking in again with stealthy tread, and 
turning his face toward the empty bed, while she shrank down close at his 
feet to avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable. She sat and 
listened. Hark! A footstep on the stairs, and now the door was slowly 
opening. It was but imagination, yet imagination had all the terrors of 
reality; nay, it was worse, for the reality would have come and gone, and 
there an end, but in imagination it was always coming, and never went away.
The feeling which beset the child was one of dim uncertain horror. She had 
no fear of the dear old grandfather, in whose love for her this disease of 
the brain had been engendered; but the man she had seen that night, wrapt 
in the game of chance, lurking in her room, and counting the money by the 
glimmering light, seemed like another creature in his shape, a monstrous 
distortion of his image, a something to recoil from, and be the more afraid 
of, because it bore a likeness to him, and kept close about her as he did. 
She could scarcely connect her own affectionate companion, save by his 
loss, with this old man, so like yet so unlike him. She had wept to see him 
dull and quiet. How much greater cause she had for weeping now!
The child sat watching and thinking of these things, until the phantom in 
her mind so increased in gloom and terror, that she felt it would be a 
relief to hear the old man's voice, or, if he were asleep, even to see him, 
and banish some of the fears that clustered round his image. She stole down 
the stairs and passage again. The door was still ajar as she had left it, 
and the candle burning as before.
She had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if he were waking, 
that she was uneasy and could not rest, and had come to see if his were 
still alight. Looking into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his bed, 
and so took courage to enter.
Fast asleep - no passion in the face, no avarice, no anxiety, no wild 
desire; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace. This was not the gambler, or 
the shadow in her room; this was not even the worn and jaded man whose face 
had so often met her own in the grey morning light; this was her dear old 
friend, her harmless fellow traveller, her good, kind grandfather.
She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering features, but she had a 
deep and weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears.
"God bless him!" said the child, stooping softly to kiss his placid cheek. 
"I see too well now, that they would indeed part us if they found us out, 
and shut him up from the light of the sun and sky. He has only me to help 
him. God bless us both!"
Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come, and gaining 
her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of that long, long, 
miserable night.
At last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she fell asleep. She was 
quickly roused by the girl who had shown her up to bed; and, as soon as she 
was dressed, prepared to go down to her grandfather. But first she searched 
her pocket and found that her money was all gone - not a sixpence remained.
The old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were on their road. The 
child thought he rather avoided her eye, and appeared to expect that she 
would tell him of her loss. She felt she must do that, or he might suspect 
the truth.
"Grandfather," she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked about a 
mile in silence, "do you think they are honest people at the house yonder?"
"Why?" returned the old man trembling. "Do I think them honest - yes, they 
played honestly."
"I'll tell you why I ask," rejoined Nell. "I lost some money last night - 
out of my bedroom I am sure. Unless it was taken by somebody in jest - only 
in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily if I could 
but know it - "
"Who would take money in jest?" returned the old man, in a hurried manner. 
"Those who take money, take it to keep. Don't talk of jest."
"Then it was stolen out of my room, dear," said the child, whose last hope 
was destroyed by the manner of this reply.
"But is there no more, Nell?" said the old man; "no more anywhere? Was it 
all taken - every farthing of it - was there nothing left?"
"Nothing," replied the child.
"We must get more," said the old man, "we must earn it, Nell, hoard it up, 
scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this loss. Tell nobody 
of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don't ask how; - we may regain it, and 
a great deal more; - but tell nobody, or trouble may come of it. And so 
they took it out of thy room, when thou wert asleep!" he added in a 
compassionate tone, very different from the secret, cunning way in which he 
had spoken until now, "Poor Nell, poor little Nell!"
The child hung down her head and wept. The sympathising tone in which he 
spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that. It was not the lightest 
part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her.
"Not a word about it to any one but me," said the old man, "no, not even to 
me," he added hastily, "for it can do no good. All the losses that ever 
were are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should they be, when 
we will win them back?"
"Let them go," said the child looking up. "Let them go, once and for ever, 
and I will never shed another tear if every penny had been a thousand 
pounds."
"Well, well," returned the old man, checking himself as some impetuous 
answer rose to his lips, "she knows no better. I should be thankful for 
it."
"But listen to me," said the child earnestly, "will you listen to me?"
"Aye, aye, I'll listen," returned the old man, still without looking at 
her; "a pretty voice. It has always a sweet sound to me. It always had when 
it was her mother's, poor child."
"Let me persuade you, then - oh, do let me persuade you," said the child, 
"to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no fortune but the fortune 
we pursue together."
"We pursue this aim together," retorted her grandfather, still looking away 
and seeming to confer with himself. "Whose image sanctifies the game?"
"Have we been worse off," resumed the child, "since you forgot these cares, 
and we have been travelling on together? Have we not been much better and 
happier without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in that happy 
house, when they were on your mind?"
"She speaks the truth," murmured the old man in the same tone as before. 
"It must not turn me, but it is the truth - no doubt it is."
"Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we turned 
our backs upon it for the last time," said Nell, "only remember what we 
have been since we have been free of all those miseries - what peaceful 
days and quiet nights we have had - what pleasant times we have known - 
what happiness we have enjoyed. If we have been tired or hungry, we have 
been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful 
things we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And why was this 
blessed change?"
He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no more 
just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, still 
motioning her to silence, and walked on, looking far before him, and 
sometimes stopping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground, as if 
he were painfully trying to collect his disordered thoughts. Once she saw 
tears in his eyes. When he had gone on thus for some time, he took her hand 
in his as he was accustomed to do, with nothing of the violence or 
animation of his late manner; and so, by degrees so fine that the child 
could not trace them, settled down into his usual quiet way, and suffered 
her to lead him where she would.
When they presented themselves in the midst of the stupendous collection, 
they found, as Nell had anticipated, that Mrs Jarley was not yet out of 
bed, and that, although she had suffered some uneasiness on their account 
overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past eleven o'clock, she 
had retired in the persuasion, that, being overtaken by storm at some 
distance from home, they had sought the nearest shelter, and would not 
return before morning. Nell immediately applied herself with great 
assiduity to the decoration and preparation of the room, and had the 
satisfaction of completing her task, and dressing herself neatly, before 
the beloved of the Royal Family came down to breakfast.
"We haven't had," said Mrs Jarley when the meal was over, "more than eight 
of Miss Monflathers's young ladies all the time we've been here, and 
there's twenty-six of 'em, as I was told by the cook when I asked her a 
question or two and put her on the free-list. We must try 'em with a parcel 
of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear, and see what effect that has 
upon 'em."
The proposed expedition being one of paramount importance, Mrs Jarley 
adjusted Nell's bonnet with her own hands, and declaring that she certainly 
did look very pretty, and reflected credit on the establishment, dismissed 
her with many commendations, and certain needful directions as to the 
turnings on the right which she was to take, and the turnings on the left 
which she was to avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding 
out Miss Monflathers's Boarding and Day Establishment, which was a large 
house, with a high wall, and a large garden-gate with a large brass plate, 
and a small grating through which Miss Monflathers's parlourmaid inspected 
all visitors before admitting them; for nothing in the shape of a man - no, 
not even a milkman - was suffered, without special licence to pass that 
gate. Even the tax-gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a broad-
brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating. More obdurate than 
gate of adamant or brass, this gate of Miss Monflathers's frowned on all 
mankind. The very butcher respected it as a gate of mystery, and left off 
whistling when he rang the bell.
As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges with a 
creaking noise, and, forth from the solemn grove beyond, came a long file 
of young ladies, two and two, all with open books in their hands, and some 
with parasols likewise. And last of the goodly procession came Miss 
Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk, and supported by two 
smiling teachers, each mortally envious of the other, and devoted unto Miss 
Monflathers.
Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell stood with downcast 
eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until Miss Monflathers, 
bringing up the rear, approached her, when she curtseyed and presented her 
little packet; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers commanded that the line 
should halt.
"You're the waxwork child, are you not?" said Miss Monflathers.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies had 
collected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes were fixed.
"And don't you think you must be a very wicked little child," said Miss 
Monflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no opportunity of 
impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of the young ladies, "to be a 
waxwork child at all?"
Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not knowing what 
to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than before.
"Don't you know," said Miss Monflathers, "that it's very naughty and 
unfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and benignantly 
transmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused from their dormant 
state through the medium of cultivation?"
The two teachers murmured their respectful approval of this home-thrust, 
and looked at Nell as though they would have said that there indeed Miss 
Monflathers had hit her very hard. Then they smiled and glanced at Miss 
Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they exchanged looks which 
plainly said that each considered herself smiler in ordinary to Miss 
Monflathers, and regarded the other as having no right to smile and that 
her so doing was an act of presumption and impertinence.
"Don't you feel how naughty it is of you," resumed Miss Monflathers, "to be 
a waxwork child, when you might have the proud consciousness of assisting, 
to the extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of your country; of 
improving your mind by the constant contemplation of the steam-engine; and 
of earning a comfortable and independent subsistence of from two-and-
ninepence to three shillings per week? Don't you know that the harder you 
are at work, the happier you are?"
"'How doth the little - '" murmured one of the teachers, in quotation from 
Dr Watts.
"Eh?" said Miss Monflathers, turning smartly round. "Who said that?"
Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated the rival who had, 
whom Miss Monflathers frowningly requested to hold her peace; by that means 
throwing the informing teacher into raptures of joy.
"The little busy bee," said Miss Monflathers, drawing herself up, "is 
applicable only to genteel children.

'In books, or work, or healthful play'

is quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means painting on 
velvet, fancy needle work, or embroidery. In such cases as these," pointing 
to Nell, with her parasol, "and in the case of all poor people's children, 
we should read it thus:

'In work, work, work. In work alway
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for ev'ry day
Some good account at last.'"

A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two teachers, but from all 
the pupils, who were equally astonished to hear Miss Monflathers 
improvising after this brilliant style; for although she had been long 
known as a politician, she had never appeared before as an original poet. 
Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell was crying, and all eyes 
were again turned towards her.
There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her handkerchief to 
brush them away, she happened to let it fall. Before she could stoop to 
pick it up, one young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who had been 
standing a little apart from the others, as though she had no recognised 
place among them, sprang forward and put it in her hand. She was gliding 
timidly away again, when she was arrested by the governess.
"It was Miss Edwards who did that, I know," said Miss Monflathers 
predictively. "Now I am sure that was Miss Edwards."
It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss Edwards, and Miss 
Edwards herself admitted that it was.
"Is it not," said Miss Monflathers, putting down her parasol to take a 
severer view of the offender, "a most remarkable thing, Miss Edwards, that 
you have an attachment to the lower classes which always draws you to their 
sides; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing that all I say and 
do will not wean you from propensities which your original station in life 
have unhappily rendered habitual to you, you extremely vulgar-minded girl?"
"I really intended no harm, ma'am," said a sweet voice. "It was a momentary 
impulse, indeed."
"An impulse!" repeated Miss Monflathers scornfully. "I wonder that you 
presume to speak of impulses to me" - both the teachers assented - "I am 
astonished" - both the teachers were astonished - "I suppose it is an 
impulse which induces you to take the part of every grovelling and debased 
person that comes in your way" - both the teachers supposed so too.
"But I would have you know, Miss Edwards," resumed the governess in a tone 
of increased severity, "that you cannot be permitted - if it be only for 
the sake of preserving a proper example and decorum in this establishment - 
that you cannot be permitted, and that you shall not be permitted, to fly 
in the face of your superiors in this exceedingly gross manner. If you have 
no reason to feel a becoming pride before waxwork children, there are young 
ladies here who have, and you must either defer to those young ladies or 
leave the establishment, Miss Edwards."
This young lady, being motherless and poor, was apprenticed at the school - 
taught for nothing - teaching others what she learnt, for nothing - boarded 
for nothing - lodged for nothing - and set down and rated as something 
immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers in the house. The 
servant-maids felt her inferiority, for they were better treated; free to 
come and go, and regarded in their stations with much more respect. The 
teachers were infinitely superior, for they had paid to go to school in 
their time, and were paid now. The pupils cared little for a companion who 
had no grand stories to tell about home; no friends to come with post-
horses, and be received in all humility, with cake and wine, by the 
governess; no deferential servant to attend and bear her home for the 
holidays; nothing genteel to talk about, and nothing to display. But why 
was Miss Monflathers always vexed and irritated with the poor apprentice - 
how did that come to pass?
Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap, and the brightest glory 
of Miss Monflathers's school, was a baronet's daughter - the real live 
daughter of a real live baronet - who, by some extraordinary reversal of 
the Laws of Nature, was not only plain in features but dull in intellect, 
while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit, and a handsome face and 
figure. It seems incredible. Here was Miss Edwards, who only paid a small 
premium which had been spent long ago, every day outshining and excelling 
the baronet's daughter, who learned all the extras (or was taught them all) 
and whose half yearly bill came to double that of any other young lady's in 
the school, making no account of the honour and reputation of her pupilage. 
Therefore, and because she was a dependant, Miss Monflathers had a great 
dislike to Miss Edwards, and was spiteful to her and aggravated by her, 
and, when she had compassion on little Nell, verbally fell upon and 
maltreated her as we have already seen.
"You will not take the air today, Miss Edwards," said Miss Monflathers. 
"Have the goodness to retire to your own room, and not to leave it without 
permission."
The poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was suddenly, in nautical 
phrase, "brought to" by a subdued shriek from Miss Monflathers.
"She has passed me without any salute!" cried the governess, raising her 
eyes to the sky. "She has actually passed me without the slightest 
acknowledgment of my presence!"
The young lady turned and curtsied. Nell could see that she raised her dark 
eyes to the face of her superior, and that their expression, and that of 
her whole attitude for the instant, was one of mute but most touching 
appeal against this ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers only tossed her head 
in reply, and the great gate closed upon a bursting heart.
"As for you, you wicked child," said Miss Monflathers, turning to Nell, 
"tell your mistress that if she presumes to take the liberty of sending to 
me any more, I will write to the legislative authorities and have her put 
in the stocks, or compelled to do penance in a white sheet; and you may 
depend upon it that you shall certainly experience the treadmill if you 
dare to come here again. Now ladies, on."
The procession filed off, two and two, with the books and parasols, and 
Miss Monflathers, calling the baronet's daughter to walk with her and 
smooth her ruffled feelings, discarded the two teachers - who by this time 
had exchanged their smiles for looks of sympathy, and left them to bring up 
the rear, and hate each other a little more for being obliged to walk 
together.


Chapter 32

Mrs Jarley's wrath on first learning that she had been threatened with the 
indignity of Stocks and Penance, passed all description. The genuine and 
only Jarley exposed to public scorn, jeered by children, and flouted by 
beadles! The delight of the Nobility and Gentry shorn of a bonnet which a 
Lady Mayoress might have sighed to wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as a 
spectacle of mortification and humility! And Miss Monflathers, the 
audacious creature who presumed, even in the dimmest and remotest distance 
of her imagination, to conjure up the degrading picture, "I am a'most 
inclined," said Mrs Jarley, bursting with the fullness of her anger and the 
weakness of her means of revenge, "to turn atheist when I think of it!"
But instead of adopting this course of retaliation, Mrs Jarley, on second 
thoughts, brought out the suspicious bottle, and ordering glasses to be set 
forth upon her favourite drum, and sinking into a chair behind it, called 
her satellites about her, and to them several times recounted, word for 
word, the affronts she had received. This done, she begged them in a kind 
of deep despair to drink; then laughed, then cried, then took a little sip 
herself, then laughed and cried again, and took a little more; and so, by 
degrees, the worthy lady went on, increasing in smiles and decreasing in 
tears, until at last she could not laugh enough at Miss Monflathers, who, 
from being an object of dire vexation, became one of sheer ridicule and 
absurdity.
"For which of us is best off, I wonder," quoth Mrs Jarley, "she or me! It's 
only talking, when all is said and done, and if she talks of me in the 
stocks, why I can talk of her in the stocks, which is a good deal funnier 
if we come to that. Lord, what does it matter, after all!"
Having arrived at this comfortable frame of mind (to which she had been 
greatly assisted by certain short interjectional remarks of the philosophic 
George), Mrs Jarley consoled Nell with many kind words, and requested as a 
personal favour that whenever she thought of Miss Monflathers, she would do 
nothing else but laugh at her, all the days of her life.
So ended Mrs Jarley's wrath, which subsided long before the going down of 
the sun. Nell's anxieties, however, were of a deeper kind, and the checks 
they imposed upon her cheerfulness were not so easily removed.
That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole away, and did not 
come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was, and fatigued 
in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes, until he returned 
- penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still hotly bent upon his 
infatuation.
"Get me money," he said wildly, as they parted for the night. "I must have 
money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with gallant interest one day, but 
all the money that comes into thy hands, must be mine - not for myself, but 
to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee!"
What could the child do, with the knowledge she had, but give him every 
penny that came into her hands, lest he should be tempted on to rob their 
benefactress? If she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be 
treated as a madman; if she did not supply him with money, he would supply 
himself; supplying him, she fed the fire that burnt him up, and put him 
perhaps beyond recovery. Distracted by these thoughts, borne down by the 
weight of the sorrow which she dared not tell, tortured by a crowd of 
apprehensions whenever the old man was absent, and dreading alike his stay 
and his return, the colour forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her 
heart was oppressed and heavy. All her old sorrows had come back upon her, 
augmented by new fears and doubts; by day they were ever present to her 
mind; by night they hovered round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams.
It was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she should often 
revert to that sweet young lady of whom she had only caught a hasty glance, 
but whose sympathy, expressed in one slight brief action, dwelt in her 
memory like the kindnesses of years. She would often think, if she had such 
a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs, how much lighter her heart 
would be - that if she were but free to hear that voice, she would be 
happier. Then she would wish that she were something better, that she were 
not quite so poor and humble, that she dared address her without fearing a 
repulse; and then feel that there was an immeasurable distance between 
them, and have no hope that the young lady thought of her any more.
It was now holiday-time at the schools, and the young ladies had gone home, 
and Miss Monflathers was reported to be flourishing in London, and damaging 
the hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but nobody said anything about Miss 
Edwards, whether she had gone home or whether she had any home to go to, 
whether she was still at the school, or anything about her. But one 
evening, as Nell was returning from a lonely walk, she happened to pass the 
inn where the stagecoaches stopped, just as one drove up, and there was the 
beautiful girl she so well remembered, pressing forward to embrace a young 
child whom they were helping down from the roof.
Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger than Nell, whom 
she had not seen (so the story went afterwards) for five years, and to 
bring whom to that place on a short visit, she had been saving her poor 
means all that time. Nell felt as if her heart would break when she saw 
them meet. They went a little apart from the knot of people who had 
congregated about the coach, and fell upon each other's neck, and sobbed, 
and wept with joy. Their plain and simple dress, the distance which the 
child had come alone, their agitation and delight, and the tears they shed, 
would have told their history by themselves.
They became a little more composed in a short time, and went away, not so 
much hand in hand as clinging to each other. "Are you sure you're happy, 
sister?" said the child as they passed where Nell was standing. "Quite 
happy now;" she answered. "But always?" said the child. "Ah, sister, why do 
you turn away your face?"
Nell could not help following at a little distance. They went to the house 
of an old nurse, where the elder sister had engaged a bedroom for the 
child. "I shall come to you early every morning," she said, "and we can be 
together all the day." - "Why not at night-time too? Dear sister, would 
they be angry with you for that?"
Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with tears like those of 
the two sisters? Why did she bear a grateful heart because they had met, 
and feel it pain to think that they would shortly part? Let us not believe 
that any selfish reference - unconscious though it might have been - to her 
own trials awoke this sympathy, but thank God that the innocent joys of 
others can strongly move us, and that we, even in our fallen nature, have 
one source of pure emotion which must be prized in Heaven!
By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by evening's gentle light, 
the child, with a respect for the short and happy intercourse of these two 
sisters which forbade her to approach and say a thankful word, although she 
yearned to do so, followed them at a distance in their walks and rambles, 
stopping when they stopped, sitting on the grass when they sat down, rising 
when they went on, and feeling it a companionship and delight to be so near 
them. Their evening walk was by a river's side. Here, every night, the 
child was too, unseen by them, unthought of, unregarded; but feeling as if 
they were her friends, as if they had confidences and trusts together, as 
if her load were lightened and less hard to bear; as if they mingled their 
sorrows, and found mutual consolation. It was a weak fancy perhaps, the 
childish fancy of a young and lonely creature; but, night after night, and 
still the sisters loitered in the same place, and still the child followed 
with a mild and softened heart.
She was much startled, on returning home one night, to find that Mrs Jarley 
had commanded an announcement to be prepared, to the effect that the 
stupendous collection would only remain in its present quarters one day 
longer; in fulfilment of which threat (for all announcements connected with 
public amusements are well known to be irrevocable and most exact), the 
stupendous collection shut up next day.
"Are we going from this place directly, ma'am?" said Nell.
"Look here, child," returned Mrs Jarley. "That'll inform you." And so 
saying, Mrs Jarley produced another announcement, wherein it was stated, 
that, in consequence of numerous inquiries at the waxwork door, and in 
consequence of crowds having been disappointed in obtaining admission, the 
Exhibition would be continued for one week longer, and would reopen next 
day.
"For now that the schools are gone, and the regular sightseers exhausted," 
said Mrs Jarley, "we come to the General Public, and they want 
stimulating."
Upon the following day at noon, Mrs Jarley established herself behind the 
highly-ornamented table, attended by the distinguished effigies before 
mentioned, and ordered the doors to be thrown open for the readmission of a 
discerning and enlightened public. But the first day's operations were by 
no means of a successful character, inasmuch as the general public, though 
they manifested a lively interest in Mrs Jarley personally, and such of her 
waxen satellites as were to be seen for nothing, were not affected by any 
impulses moving them to the payment of sixpence a head. Thus, 
notwithstanding that a great many people continued to stare at the entry 
and the figures therein displayed: and remained there with great 
perseverance, by the hour at a time, to hear the barrel-organ played and to 
read the bills; and notwithstanding that they were kind enough to recommend 
their friends to patronise the exhibition in the like manner, until the 
doorway was regularly blockaded by half the population of the town, who, 
when they went off duty, were relieved by the other half; it was not found 
that the treasury was any the richer, or that the prospects of the 
Establishment were at all encouraging.
In this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs Jarley made 
extraordinary efforts to stimulate the popular taste, and whet the popular 
curiosity. Certain machinery in the body of the nun on the leads over the 
door was cleaned up and put in motion, so that the figure shook its head 
paralytically all day long, to the great admiration of a drunken, but very 
Protestant, barber over the way, who looked upon the said paralytic motion 
as typical of the degrading effect wrought upon the human mind by the 
ceremonies of the Romish Church, and discoursed upon that theme with great 
eloquence and morality. The two carters constantly passed in and out of the 
exhibition-room, under various disguises, protesting aloud that the sight 
was better worth the money than anything they had beheld in all their 
lives, and urging the bystanders, with tears in their eyes, not to neglect 
such a brilliant gratification. Mrs Jarley sat in the pay-place, chinking 
silver moneys from noon till night, and solemnly calling upon the crowd to 
take notice that the price of admission was only sixpence, and that the 
departure of the whole collection, on a short tour among the Crowned Heads 
of Europe, was positively fixed for that day week.
"So be in time, be in time, be in time," said Mrs Jarley, at the close of 
every such address. "Remember that this is Jarley's stupendous collection 
of upwards of one Hundred Figures, and that it is the only collection in 
the world; all others being impostures and deceptions. Be in time, be in 
time, be in time!"


Chapter 33

As the course of this tale requires that we should become acquainted, 
somewhere hereabouts, with a few particulars connected with the domestic 
economy of Mr Sampson Brass, and as a more convenient place than the 
present is not likely to occur for that purpose, the historian takes the 
friendly reader by the hand, and springing with him into the air, and 
cleaving the same at a greater rate than ever Don Cleophas Leandro Perez 
Zambullo and his familiar travelled through that pleasant region in 
company, alights with him upon the pavement of Bevis Marks.
The intrepid aeronauts alight before a small dark house, once the residence 
of Mr Sampson Brass.
In the parlour window of this little habitation, which is so close upon the 
footway that the passenger who takes the wall brushes the dim glass with 
his coat-sleeve - much to its improvement, for it is very dirty - in this 
parlour window in the days of its occupation by Sampson Brass, there hung, 
all awry and slack, and discoloured by the sun, a curtain of faded green, 
so threadbare from long service as by no means to intercept the view of the 
little dark room, but rather to afford a favourable medium through which to 
observe it accurately. There was not much to look at. A rickety table, with 
spare bundles of papers, yellow and ragged from long carriage in the 
pocket, ostentatiously displayed upon its top; a couple of stools set face 
to face on opposite sides of this crazy piece of furniture; a treacherous 
old chair by the fireplace, whose withered arms had hugged full many a 
client and helped to squeeze him dry; a secondhand wig box, used as a 
depository for blank writs and declarations and other small forms of law, 
once the sole contents of the head which belonged to the wig which belonged 
to the box, as they were now of the box itself; two or three common books 
of practice; a jar of ink, a pounce box, a stunted hearth broom, a carpet 
trodden to shreds but still clinging with the tightness of desperation to 
its tacks - these, with the yellow wainscoat of the walls, the smoke-
discoloured ceiling, the dust and cobwebs, were among the most prominent 
decorations of the office of Mr Sampson Brass.
But this was mere still-life, of no greater importance than the plate, 
"Brass, Solicitor," upon the door, and the bill, "First floor to let to a 
single gentleman," which was tied to the knocker. The office commonly held 
two examples of animated nature, more to the purpose of this history, and 
in whom it has a stronger interest and more particular concern.
Of these, one was Mr Brass himself, who has already appeared in these 
pages. The other was his clerk, assistant, housekeeper, secretary, 
confidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill of cost increaser, Miss 
Brass - a kind of amazon at common law, of whom it may be desirable to 
offer a brief description.
Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-five or thereabouts, of a 
gaunt and bony figure, and a resolute bearing, which if it repressed the 
softer emotions of love, and kept admirers at a distance, certainly 
inspired a feeling akin to awe in the breasts of those male strangers who 
had the happiness to approach her. In face she bore a striking resemblance 
to her brother Sampson - so exact, indeed, was the likeness between them, 
that had it consorted with Miss Brass's maiden modesty and gentle womanhood 
to have assumed her brother's clothes in a frolic and sat down beside him, 
it would have been difficult for the oldest friend of the family to 
determine which was Sampson and which Sally, especially as the lady carried 
upon her upper lip certain reddish demonstrations, which, if the 
imagination had been assisted by her attire, might have been mistaken for a 
beard. These were, however, in all probability, nothing more than eyelashes 
in a wrong place, as the eyes of Miss Brass were quite free from any such 
natural impertinancies. In complexion Miss Brass was sallow, rather a dirty 
sallow, so to speak - but this hue was agreeably relieved by the healthy 
glow which mantled in the extreme tip of her laughing nose. Her voice was 
exceedingly impressive - deep and rich in quality, and, once heard, not 
easily forgotten. Her usual dress was a green gown, in colour not unlike 
the curtain of the office window, made tight to the figure, and terminating 
at the throat, where it was fastened behind by a peculiarly large and 
massive button. Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity and plainness are the 
soul of elegance, Miss Brass wore no collar or kerchief except upon her 
head, which was invariably ornamented with a brown gauze scarf, like the 
wing of the fabled vampire, and which, twisted into any form that happened 
to suggest itself, formed an easy and graceful head-dress.
Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind, she was of a strong and vigorous 
turn, having from her earliest youth devoted herself with uncommon ardour 
to the study of the law; not wasting her speculations upon its eagle 
flights, which are rare, but tracing it attentively through all the 
slippery and eel-like crawlings in which it commonly pursues its way. Nor 
had she, like many persons of great intellect, confined herself to theory, 
or stopped short where practical usefulness begins; inasmuch as she could 
ingross, fair copy, fill up by printed forms with perfect accuracy, and in 
short transact any ordinary duty of the office down to pouncing a skin of 
parchment or mending a pen. It is difficult to understand how, possessed of 
these combined attractions, she should remain Miss Brass: but whether she 
had steeled her heart against mankind, or whether those who might have 
wooed and won her were deterred by fears that, being learned in the law, 
she might have too near her fingers' ends those particular statutes which 
regulate what are familiarly termed actions for breach, certain it is that 
she was still in a state of celibacy, and still in daily occupation of her 
old stool opposite to that of her brother Sampson. And equally certain it 
is, by the way, that between these two stools a great many people had come 
to the ground.
One morning Mr Sampson Brass sat upon his stool copying some legal process, 
and viciously digging his pen deep into the paper, as if he were writing 
upon the very heart of the party against whom it was directed; and Miss 
Sally Brass sat upon her stool making a new pen preparatory to drawing out 
a little bill, which was her favourite occupation; and so they sat in 
silence for a long time, until Miss Brass broke silence.
"Have you nearly done, Sammy?" said Miss Brass; for in her mild and 
feminine lips, Sampson became Sammy, and all things were softened down.
"No," returned her brother. "It would have been all done though if you had 
helped at the right time."
"Oh yes, indeed," cried Miss Sally; "you want my help, don't you? - you, 
too, that are going to keep a clerk!"
"Am I going to keep a clerk for my own pleasure, or because of my own wish, 
you provoking rascal!" said Mr Brass, putting his pen in his mouth, and 
grinning spitefully at his sister. "What do you taunt me about going to 
keep a clerk for?"
It may be observed in this place, lest the fact of Mr Brass calling a lady, 
a rascal, should occasion any wonderment or surprise, that he was so 
habituated to having her near him in a man's capacity, that he had 
gradually accustomed himself to talk to her as though she were really a 
man. And this feeling was so perfectly reciprocal, that not only did Mr 
Brass often call Miss Brass a rascal, or even put an adjective before the 
rascal, but Miss Brass looked upon it as quite a matter of course, and was 
as little moved as any other lady would be by being called an angel.
"What do you taunt me, after three hours' talk last night, with going to 
keep a clerk for?" repeated Mr Brass, grinning again with the pen in his 
mouth, like some nobleman's or gentleman's crest. "Is it my fault?"
"All I know is," said Miss Sally, smiling drily, for she delighted in 
nothing so much as irritating her brother, "that if every one of your 
clients is to force us to keep a clerk, whether we want to or not, you had 
better leave off business, strike yourself off the roll, and get taken in 
execution as soon as you can."
"Have we got any other client like him?" said Brass. "Have we got another 
client like him, now - will you answer me that?"
"Do you mean in the face!" said his sister.
"Do I mean in the face!" sneered Sampson Brass, reaching over to take up 
the bill-book, and fluttering its leaves rapidly. "Look here - Daniel 
Quilp, Esquire - Daniel Quilp, Esquire - Daniel Quilp, Esquire - all 
through. Whether should I take a clerk that he recommends, and says, 'this 
is the man for you,' or lose all this - eh?"
Miss Sally deigned to make no reply, but smiled again, and went on with her 
work.
"But I know what it is," resumed Brass after a short silence. "You're 
afraid you won't have as long a finger in the business as you've been used 
to have. Do you think I don't see through that?"
"The business wouldn't go on very long, I except, without me," returned his 
sister composedly. "Don't you be a fool and provoke me, Sammy, but mind 
what you're doing, and do it."
Sampson Brass, who was at heart in great fear of his sister, sulkily bent 
over his writing again, and listened as she said:
"If I determined that the clerk ought not to come, of course he wouldn't be 
allowed to come. You know that well enough, so don't talk nonsense."
Mr Brass received this observation with increased meekness, merely 
remarking, under his breath, that he didn't like that kind of joking, and 
that Miss Sally would be "a much better fellow" if she forebore to 
aggravate him. To this compliment Miss Sally replied, that she had a relish 
for the amusement, and had no intention to forego its gratification. Mr 
Brass not caring, as it seemed, to pursue the subject any further, they 
both plied their pens at a great pace, and there the discussion ended.
While they were thus employed, the window was suddenly darkened, as by some 
person standing close against it. As Mr Brass and Miss Sally looked up to 
ascertain the cause, the top sash was nimbly lowered from without, and 
Quilp thrust in his head.
"Hallo!" he said, standing on tiptoe on the windowsill, and looking down 
into the room. "Is there anybody at home? Is there any of the Devil's ware 
here? Is Brass at a premium, eh?"
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the lawyer in an affected ecstacy. "Oh, very good, 
sir! Oh, very good indeed! Quite eccentric! Dear me, what humour he has!"
"Is that my Sally?" croaked the dwarf, ogling the fair Miss Brass. "Is it 
Justice with the bandage off her eyes, and without the sword and scales? Is 
it the Strong Arm of the Law? Is it the Virgin of Bevis?"
"What an amazing flow of spirits!" cried Brass. "Upon my word, it's quite 
extraordinary!"
"Open the door," said Quilp. "I've got him here. Such a clerk for you, 
Brass, such a prize, such an ace of trumps. Be quick and open the door, or, 
if there's another lawyer near and he should happen to look out of window, 
he'll snap him up before your eyes, he will."
It is probable that the loss of the phoenix of clerks, even to a rival 
practitioner, would not have broken Mr Brass's heart; but, pretending great 
alacrity, he rose from his seat, and going to the door, returned, 
introducing his client, who led by the hand no less a person than Mr 
Richard Swiveller.
"There she is," said Quilp, stopping short at the door and wrinkling up his 
eyebrows as he looked toward Miss Sally; "there is the woman I ought to 
have married - there is the beautiful Sarah - there is the female who has 
all the charms of her sex and none of their weaknesses. Oh Sally, Sally!"
To this amorous address Miss Brass briefly responded "Bother!"
"Hard-hearted as the metal from which she takes her name," said Quilp, "Why 
don't she change it - melt down the brass, and take another name?"
"Hold your nonsense, Mr Quilp, do," returned Miss Sally, with a grim smile. 
"I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself before a strange young man?"
"The strange young man," said Quilp, handing Dick Swiveller forward, "is 
too susceptible himself, not to understand me well. This is Mr Swiveller, 
my intimate friend - a gentleman of good family and great expectations, but 
who, having rather involved himself by youthful indiscretion, is content 
for a time to fill the humble station of a clerk - humble, but here most 
enviable. What a delicious atmosphere!"
If Mr Quilp spoke figuratively, and meant to imply that the air breathed by 
Miss Sally Brass was sweetened and rarefied by that dainty creature, he had 
doubtless good reason for what he said. But if he spoke of the delights of 
the atmosphere of Mr Brass's office in a literal sense, he had certainly a 
peculiar taste, as it was of a close and earthy kind, and besides being 
frequently impregnated with strong whiffs of the secondhand wearing apparel 
exposed for sale in Duke's Place and Hounsditch, had a decided flavour of 
rats and mice, and a taint of mouldiness. Perhaps some doubts of its pure 
delight presented themselves to Mr Swiveller, as he gave vent to one or two 
short abrupt sniffs, and looked incredulously at the grinning dwarf.
"Mr Swiveller," said Quilp, "being pretty well accustomed to the 
agricultural pursuits of sowing wild oats, Miss Sally, prudently considers 
that half a loaf is better than no bread. To be out of harm's way he 
prudently thinks is something too, and therefore he accepts your brother's 
offer. Brass, Mr Swiveller is yours."
"I am very glad, sir," said Mr Brass, "very glad indeed. Mr Swiveller, sir, 
is fortunate to have your friendship. You may be very proud, sir, to have 
the friendship of Mr Quilp."
Dick murmured something about never wanting a friend or a bottle to give 
him, and also gasped forth his favourite allusion to the wing of friendship 
and its never moulting a feather; but his faculties appeared to be absorbed 
in the contemplation of Miss Sally Brass, at whom he stared with blank and 
rueful looks, which delighted the watchful dwarf beyond measure. As to the 
divine Miss Sally herself, she rubbed her hands as men of business do, and 
took a few turns up and down the office with her pen behind her ear.
"I suppose," said the dwarf, turning briskly to his legal friend, "that Mr 
Swiveller enters upon his duties at once? It's Monday morning."
"At once, if you please, sir, by all means," returned Brass.
"Miss Sally will teach him law, the delightful study of the law," said 
Quilp; "she'll be his guide, his friend, his companion, his Blackstone, his 
Coke upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer's Best Companion.'
"He is exceedingly eloquent," said Brass, like a man abstracted, and 
looking at the roofs of the opposite houses, with his hands in his pockets: 
"he has an extraordinary flow of language. Beautiful, really."
"With Miss Sally," Quilp went on, "and the beautiful fictions of the law, 
his days will pass like minutes. Those charming creations of the poet, John 
Doe and Richard Roe, when they first dawn upon him, will open a new world 
for the enlargement of his mind and the improvement of his heart."
"Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Beau-ti-ful indeed!" cried Brass. "It's a treat 
to hear him!"
"Where will Mr Swiveller sit?" said Quilp, looking round.
"Why, we'll buy another stool, sir," returned Brass. "We hadn't any 
thoughts of having a gentleman with us, sir, until you were kind enough to 
suggest it, and our accommodation's not extensive. We'll look about for a 
secondhand stool, sir. In the meantime, if Mr Swiveller will take my seat, 
and try his hand at a fair copy of this ejectment, as I shall be out pretty 
well all the morning - "
"Walk with me," said Quilp. "I have a word or two to say to you on points 
of business. Can you spare the time?"
"Can I spare the time to walk wit you, sir? You're joking, sir, you're 
joking with me," replied the lawyer, putting on his hat. "I'm ready, sir, 
quite ready. My time must be fully occupied indeed, sir, not to leave me 
time to walk with you. It's not everybody, sir, who has an opportunity of 
improving himself by the conversation of Mr Quilp."
The dwarf glanced sarcastically at his brazen friend, and with a short dry 
cough, turned upon his heel to bid adieu to Miss Sally. After a very 
gallant parting on his side, and a very cool and gentlemanly sort of one on 
hers, he nodded to Dick Swiveller, and withdrew with the attorney.
Dick stood at the desk in a state of utter stupefaction, staring with all 
his might at the beauteous Sally, as if she had been some curious animal 
whose like had never lived. When the dwarf got into the street, he mounted 
again upon the window-sill, and looked into the office for a moment with a 
grinning face, as a man might peep into a cage. Dick glanced upward at him, 
but without any token of recognition; and long after he had disappeared, 
still stood gazing upon Miss Sally Brass, seeing or thinking of nothing 
else, and rooted to the spot.
Miss Brass being by this time deep in the bill of costs, took no notice 
whatever of Dick, but went scratching on, with a noisy pen, scoring down 
the figures with evident delight, and working like a steam-engine. There 
stood Dick, gazing now at the green gown, now at the brown head-dress, now 
at the face, and now at the rapid pen, in a state of stupid perplexity, 
wondering how he got into the company of that strange monster, and whether 
it was a dream and he would ever wake. At last he heaved a deep sigh, and 
began slowly pulling off his coat.
Mr Swiveller pulled off his coat, and folded it up with great elaboration, 
staring at Miss Sally all the time; then put on a blue jacket with a double 
row of gilt buttons, which he had originally ordered for aquatic 
expeditions, but had brought with him that morning for office purposes; and 
still keeping his eye upon her, suffered himself to drop down silently upon 
Mr Brass's stool. Then he underwent a relapse, and becoming powerless 
again, rested his chin upon his hand, and opened his eyes so wide, that it 
appeared quite out of the question that he could ever close them any more.
When he had looked so long that he could see nothing, Dick took his eyes 
off the fair object of his amazement, turned over the leaves of the draft 
he was to copy, dipped his pen into the inkstand, and at last, and by slow 
approaches, began to write. But he had not written half-a-dozen words when, 
reaching over to the inkstand to take a fresh dip, he happened to raise his 
eyes. There was the intolerable brown head-dress - there was the green gown 
- there, in short, was Miss Sally Brass, arrayed in all her charms, and 
more tremendous than ever.
This happened so often, that Mr Swiveller by degrees began to feel strange 
influences creeping over him - horrible desires to annihilate this Sally 
Brass - mysterious promptings to knock her head-dress off and try how she 
looked without it. There was a very large ruler on the table - a large, 
black, shining ruler. Mr Swiveller took it up and began to rub his nose 
with it.
From rubbing his nose with the ruler, to poising it in his hand and giving 
it an occasional flourish after the tomahawk manner, the transition was 
easy and natural. In some of these flourishes it went close to Miss Sally's 
head; the ragged edges of the head-dress fluttered with the wind it raised; 
advance it but an inch, and that great brown knot was on the ground: yet 
still the unconscious maiden worked away, and never raised her eyes.
Well, this was a great relief. It was a good thing to write doggedly and 
obstinately until he was desperate, and then snatch up the ruler and whirl 
it about the brown head-dress with the consciousness that he could have it 
off if he liked. It was a good thing to draw it back, and rub his nose very 
hard with it, if he thought Miss Sally was going to look up, and to 
recompense himself with more hardy flourishes when he found she was still 
absorbed. By these means Mr Swiveller calmed the agitation of his feelings, 
until his applications to the ruler became less fierce and frequent, and he 
could even write as many as half-a-dozen consecutive lines without having 
recourse to it, - which was a great victory.


Chapter 35

Mr Brass on returning home received the report of his clerk with much 
complacency and satisfaction, and was particular in inquiring after the ten-
pound note, which, proving on examination to be a good and lawful note of 
the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, increased his good-humour 
considerably. Indeed he so overflowed with liberality and condescension, 
that, in the fullness of his heart, he invited Mr Swiveller to partake of a 
bowl of punch with him at that remote and indefinite period which is 
currently denominated "one of these days," and paid him many handsome 
compliments on the uncommon aptitude for business which his conduct on the 
first day of his devotion to it had so plainly evinced.
It was a maxim with Mr Brass that the habit of paying compliments kept a 
man's tongue oiled without any expense; and, as that useful member ought 
never to grow rusty or creak in turning on its hinges in the case of a 
practitioner of the law, in whom it should be always glib and easy, he lost 
few opportunities of improving himself by the utterance of handsome 
speeches and eulogistic expressions. And this had passed into such a habit 
with him, that, if he could not be correctly said to have his tongue at his 
fingers' ends, he might certainly be said to have it anywhere but in his 
face: which being, as we have already seen, of a harsh and repulsive 
character, was not oiled so easily, but frowned above all the smooth 
speeches - one of nature's beacons, warning off those who navigated the 
shoals and breakers of the World, or of that dangerous strait the Law, and 
admonishing them to seek less treacherous harbours and try their fortune 
elsewhere.
While Mr Brass by turns overwhelmed his clerk with compliments, and 
inspected the ten-pound note, Miss Sally showed little emotion and that of 
no pleasurable kind, for as the tendency of her legal practice had been to 
fix her thoughts on small gains and gripings, and to whet and sharpen her 
natural wisdom, she was not a little disappointed that the single gentleman 
had obtained the lodgings at such an easy rate, arguing that when he was 
seen to have set his mind upon them, he should have been at the least 
charged double or treble the usual terms, and that, in exact proportion as 
he pressed forward, Mr Swiveller should have hung back. But neither the 
good opinion of Mr Brass, nor the dissatisfaction of Miss Sally, wrought 
any impression upon that young gentleman, who, throwing the responsibility 
of this and all other acts and deeds thereafter to be done by him, upon his 
unlucky destiny, was quite resigned and comfortable: fully prepared for the 
worst, and philosophically indifferent to the best.
"Good-morning, Mr Richard," said Brass, on the second day of Mr Swiveller's 
clerkship. "Sally found you a secondhand stool, sir, yesterday evening, in 
Whitechapel. She's a rare fellow at a bargain, I can tell you, Mr Richard. 
You'll find that a first-rate stool, sir, take my word for it."
"It's rather a crazy one to look at," said Dick.
"You'll find it a most amazing stool to sit down upon, you may depend," 
returned Mr Brass. "It was bought in the open street just opposite the 
hospital, and as it has been standing there a month or two, it has got 
rather dusty and a little brown from being in the sun, that's all."
"I hope it hasn't got any fevers or anything of that sort in it," said 
Dick, sitting himself down discontentedly, between Mr Sampson and the 
chaste Sally. "One of the legs is longer than the others."
"Then we get a bit of timber in, sir," retorted Brass. "Ha, ha, ha! We get 
a bit of timber in, sir, and that's another advantage of my sister's going 
to market for us. Miss Brass, Mr Richard is the - "
"Will you keep quiet?" interrupted the fair subject of these remarks, 
looking up from her papers. "How am I to work if you keep on chattering?"
"What an uncertain chap you are!" returned the lawyer. "Sometimes you're 
all for a chat. At another time you're all for work. A man never knows what 
humour he'll find you in."
"I'm in a working humour now," said Miss Sally, "so don't disturb me if you 
please. And don't take him," Miss Sally pointed with the feather of her pen 
to Richard, "off his business. He won't do more than he can help, I dare 
say."
Mr Brass had evidently a strong inclination to make an angry reply, but was 
deterred by prudent or timid considerations, as he only muttered something 
about aggravation and a vagabond; not associating the terms with any 
individual, but mentioning them as connected with some abstract ideas which 
happened to occur to him. They went on writing for a long time in silence 
after this - in such a dull silence that Mr Swiveller (who required 
excitement) had several times fallen asleep, and written divers strange 
words in an unknown character with his eyes shut, when Miss Sally at length 
broke in upon the monotony of the office by pulling out the little tin box, 
taking a noisy pinch of snuff, and then expressing her opinion that Mr 
Richard Swiveller had "done it."
"Done what, ma'am?" said Richard.
"Do you know," returned Miss Brass, "that the lodger isn't up yet - that 
nothing has been seen or heard of him since he went to bed yesterday 
afternoon?"
"Well, ma'am," said Dick, "I suppose he may sleep his ten pound out, in 
peace and quietness, if he likes."
"Ah! I begin to think he'll never wake," observed Miss Sally.
"It's a very remarkable circumstance," said Brass, laying down his pen; 
"really, very remarkable. Mr Richard, you'll remember, if this gentleman 
should be found to have hung himself to the bed-post, or any unpleasant 
accident of that kind should happen - you'll remember, Mr Richard, that 
this ten-pound note was given to you in part payment of two years' rent? 
You'll bear that in mind, Mr Richard; you had better make a note of it, 
sir, in case you should ever be called upon to give evidence."
Mr Swiveller took a large sheet of foolscap, and with a countenance of 
profound gravity, began to make a very small note in one corner.
"We can never be too cautious," said Mr Brass. "There is a deal of 
wickedness going about the world, a deal of wickedness. Did the gentleman 
happen to say, sir - but never mind that at present, sir; finish that 
little memorandum first."
Dick did so, and handed it to Mr Brass, who had dismounted from his stool, 
and was walking up and down the office.
"Oh, this is the memorandum, is it?" said Brass, running his eye over the 
document. "Very good. Now, Mr Richard, did the gentleman say anything 
else?"
"No."
"Are you sure, Mr Richard," said Brass, solemnly, that the gentleman said 
nothing else?"
"Devil a word, sir," replied Dick.
"Think again, sir," said Brass; "it's my duty, sir, in the position in 
which I stand, and as an honourable member of the legal profession - the 
first profession in this country, sir, or in any other country, or in any 
of the planets that shine above us at night and are supposed to be 
inhabited - it's my duty, sir, as an honourable member of that profession, 
not to put to you a leading question in a matter of this delicacy and 
importance. Did the gentleman, sir, who took the first floor of you 
yesterday afternoon, and who brought with him a box of property - a box of 
property - say anything more than is set down in this memorandum?"
"Come, don't be a fool," said Miss Sally.
Dick looked at her, then at Brass, and then at Miss Sally again, and still 
said "No."
"Pooh, pooh! Deuce take it, Mr Richard, how dull you are!" cried Brass, 
relaxing into a smile. "Did he say anything about his property? - there!"
"That's the way to put it," said Miss Sally, nodding to her brother.
"Did he say, for instance," added Brass, in a kind of comfortable, cozy 
tone - "I don't assert that he did say so, mind; I only ask you to refresh 
your memory - did he say, for instance, that he was a stranger in London - 
that it was not his humour or within his ability to give any references - 
that he felt we had a right to require them - and that, in case anything 
should happen to him, at any time, he particularly desired that whatever 
property he had upon the premises should be considered mine, as some slight 
recompense for the trouble and annoyance I should sustain - and were you, 
in short," added Brass, still more comfortably and cozily than before, 
"were you induced to accept him on my behalf, as a tenant, upon those 
conditions?"
"Certainly not," replied Dick.
"Why, then, Mr Richard," said Brass, darting at him a supercilious and 
reproachful look, "it's my opinion that you've mistaken your calling, and 
will never make a lawyer."
"Not if you live a thousand years," added Miss Sally. Whereupon the brother 
and sister took each a noisy pinch of snuff from the little tin box, and 
fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness.
Nothing further passed up to Mr Swiveller's dinnertime, which was at three 
o'clock, and seemed about three weeks in coming. At the first stroke of the 
hour, the new clerk disappeared. At the last stroke of five he reappeared, 
and the office, as if by magic, became fragrant with the smell of gin and 
water and lemon peel.
"Mr Richard," said Brass, "this man's not up yet. Nothing will wake him, 
sir. What's to be done?"
"I should let him have his sleep out," returned Dick.
"Sleep out!" cried Brass; "why he has been asleep now, six-and-twenty 
hours. We have been moving chests of drawers over his head, we have knocked 
double knocks at the street-door, we have made the servant-girl fall 
downstairs several times, (she's a light weight, and it don't hurt her 
much,) but nothing wakes him."
"Perhaps a ladder," suggested Dick, and getting in at the first-floor 
window - "
"But then there's a door between: besides, the neighbourhood would be up in 
arms," said Brass.
"What do you say to getting on the roof of the house through the trap-door, 
and dropping down the chimney?" suggested Dick.
"That would be an excellent plan," said Brass, "if anybody would be - " and 
here he looked very hard at Mr Swiveller - "would be kind, and friendly, 
and generous enough, to undertake it. I dare say it would not be anything 
like as disagreeable as one supposes."
Dick had made the suggestion, thinking that the duty might possibly fall 
within Miss Sally's department. As he said nothing further, and declined 
taking the hint, Mr Brass was fain to propose that they should go upstairs 
together, and make a last effort to awaken the sleeper by some less violent 
means, which, if they failed on this last trial, must positively be 
succeeded by stronger measures. Mr Swiveller, assenting, armed himself with 
his stool and the large ruler, and repaired with his employer to the scene 
of action, where Miss Brass was already ringing a hand-bell with all her 
might, and yet without producing the smallest effect upon their mysterious 
lodger.
"There are his boots, Mr Richard!" said Brass.
"Very obstinate-looking articles they are too," quoth Richard Swiveller. 
And truly, they were as sturdy and bluff a pair of boots as one would wish 
to see; as firmly planted on the ground as if their owner's legs and feet 
had been in them; and seeming, with their broad soles and blunt toes, to 
hold possession of their place by main force.
"I can't see anything but the curtain of the bed," said Brass, applying his 
eye to the keyhole of the door. "Is he a strong man, Mr Richard?"
"Very," answered Dick.
"It would be an extremely unpleasant circumstance if he was to bounce out 
suddenly," said Brass. "Keep the stairs clear. I should be more than a 
match for him, of course, but I'm the master of the house, and the laws of 
hospitality must be respected. - Hallo there! Hallo, hallo!"
While Mr Brass, with his eye curiously twisted into the keyhole, uttered 
these sounds as a means of attracting the lodger's attention, and while 
Miss Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr Swiveller put his stool close against 
the wall by the side of the door, and mounting on the top and standing bolt 
upright, so that if the lodger did make a rush, he would most probably pass 
him on its onward fury, began a violent battery with the ruler upon the 
upper panels of the door. Captivated with his own ingenuity, and confident 
in the strength of his position, which he had taken up after the method of 
those hardy individuals who open the pit and gallery doors of theatres on 
crowded nights, Mr Swiveller rained down such a shower of blows, that the 
noise of the bell was drowned; and the small servant, who lingered on the 
stairs below, ready to fly at a moment's notice, was obliged to hold her 
ears lest she should be rendered deaf for life.
Suddenly the door was unlocked on the inside, and flung violently open. The 
small servant fled to the coal-cellar; Miss Sally dived into her own 
bedroom; Mr Brass, who was not remarkable for personal courage, ran into 
the next street, and finding that nobody followed him, armed with a poker 
or other offensive weapon, put his hands in his pockets, walked very slowly 
all at once, and whistled.
Meanwhile, Mr Swiveller, on the top of the stool, drew himself into as flat 
a shape as possible against the wall, and looked, not unconcernedly, down 
upon the single gentleman, who appeared at the door growling and cursing in 
a very awful manner, and with the boots in his hands, seemed to have an 
intention of hurling them downstairs on speculation. This idea, however, he 
abandoned. He was turning into his room again, still growling vengefully, 
when his eyes met those of the watchful Richard.
"Have you been making that horrible noise?" said the single gentleman.
"I have been helping, sir," returned Dick, keeping his eye upon him, and 
waving the ruler gently in his right hand, as an indication of what the 
single gentleman had to expect if he attempted any violence.
"How dare you then," said the lodger, "Eh?"
To this, Dick made no other reply than by inquiring whether the lodger held 
it to be consistent with the conduct and character of a gentleman to go to 
sleep for six-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and whether the peace of an 
amiable and virtuous family was to weight as nothing in the balance.
"Is my peace nothing?" said the single gentleman.
"Is their peace nothing, sir?" returned Dick. "I don't wish to hold out any 
threats, sir - indeed the law does not allow of threats, for to threaten is 
an indictable offence - but if ever you do that again, take care you're not 
sat upon by the coroner and buried in a cross road before you wake. We have 
been distracted with fears that you were dead, sir," said Dick, gently 
sliding to the ground, "and the short and the long of it is, that we cannot 
allow single gentlemen to come into this establishment and sleep like 
double gentlemen without paying extra for it."
"Indeed!" cried the lodger.
"Yes, sir, indeed," returned Dick, yielding to his destiny and saying 
whatever came uppermost; "an equal quantity of slumber was never got out of 
one bed and bedstead, and if you're going to sleep in that way, you must 
pay for a double-bedded room."
Instead of being thrown into a greater passion by these remarks, the lodger 
lapsed into a broad grin, and looked at Mr Swiveller with twinkling eyes. 
He was a brown-faced sunburnt man, and appeared browner and more sunburnt 
from having a white nightcap on. As it was clear that he was a choleric 
fellow in some respects, Mr Swiveller was relieved to find him in such good 
humour, and to encourage him in it, smiled himself.
The lodger, in the testiness of being so rudely roused, had pushed his 
nightcap very much on one side of his bald head. This gave a him rakish 
eccentric air, which, now that he had leisure to observe it, charmed Mr 
Swiveller exceedingly; therefore, by way of propitiation, he expressed his 
hope that the gentleman was going to get up, and further, that he would 
never do so any more.
"Come here, you impudent rascal!" was the lodger's answer as he re-entered 
his room.
Mr Swiveller followed him in, leaving the stool outside, but reserving the 
ruler in case of a surprise. He rather congratulated himself on his 
prudence when the single gentleman, without notice or explanation of any 
kind, double-locked the door.
"Can you drink anything?" was his next inquiry.
Mr Swiveller replied that he had very recently been assuaging the pangs of 
thirst, but that he was still open to "a modest quencher," if the materials 
were at hand. Without another word spoken on either side, the lodger took 
from his great trunk, a kind of temple, shining as of polished silver, and 
placed it carefully on the table.
Greatly interested in his proceedings, Mr Swiveller observed him closely. 
Into one little chamber of this temple, he dropped an egg; into another, 
some coffee; into a third a compact piece of raw steak from a neat tin 
case; into a fourth, he poured some water. Then, with the aid of a 
phosphorus-box and some matches, he procured a light and applied it to a 
spirit-lamp which had a place of its own below the temple; then, he shut 
down the lids of all the little chambers; then he opened them; and then, by 
some wonderful and unseen agency, the steak was done, the egg was boiled, 
the coffee was accurately prepared, and his breakfast was ready.
"Hot water - " said the lodger, handing it to Mr Swiveller with as much 
coolness as if he had a kitchen fire before him - "extraordinary rum - 
sugar - and a travelling glass. Mix for yourself. And make haste."
Dick complied, his eyes wandering all the time from the temple on the 
table, which seemed to do everything, to the great trunk which seemed to 
hold everything. The lodger took his breakfast like a man who was used to 
work these miracles, and thought nothing of them.
"The man of the house is a lawyer, is he not?" said the lodger.
Dick nodded. The rum was amazing.
"The woman of the house - what's she?"
"A dragon," said Dick.
The single gentleman, perhaps because he had met with such things in his 
travels, or perhaps because he was a single gentleman, evinced no surprise, 
but merely inquired "Wife or Sister?"
"Sister," said Dick. - "So much the better," said the single gentleman, "he 
can get rid of her when he likes."
"I want to do as I like, young man," he added after a short silence: "to go 
to bed when I like, get up when I like, come in when I like, go out when I 
like, - to be asked no questions and be surrounded by no spies. In this 
last respect, servants are the devil. There's only one here."
"And a very little one," said Dick.
"And a very little one," repeated the lodger. "Well, the place will suit 
me, will it?"
"Yes," said Dick.
"Sharks, I suppose?" said the lodger.
Dick nodded assent, and drained his glass.
"Let them know my humour," said the single gentleman, rising. "If they 
disturb me, they lose a good tenant. If they know me to be that, they know 
enough. If they try to know more, it's a notice to quit. It's better to 
understand these things at once. Good day."
"I beg your pardon," said Dick, halting in his passage to the door, which 
the lodger prepared to open. "When he who adores thee has left but the name 
- "
"What do you mean?"
" - But the name," said Dick - "has left but the name - in case of letters 
or parcels - "
"I never have any," returned the lodger.
"Or in case anybody should call."
"Nobody ever calls on me."
"If any mistake should arise from not having the name, don't say it was my 
fault, sir," added Dick, still lingering - "Oh blame not the bard - "
"I'll blame nobody," said the lodger, with such irascibility that in a 
moment Dick found himself on the staircase, and the locked door between 
them.
Mr Brass and Miss Sally were lurking hard by, having been, indeed, only 
routed from the keyhole by Mr Swiveller's abrupt exit. As their utmost 
exertions had not enabled them to overhear a word of the interview, 
however, in consequence of a quarrel for precedence, which, though limited 
of necessity to pushes and pinches and such quiet pantomime, had lasted the 
whole time, they hurried him down to the office to hear his account of the 
conversation.
This Mr Swiveller gave them - faithfully as regarded the wishes and 
character of the single gentleman, and poetically as concerned the great 
trunk, of which he gave a description more remarkable for brilliancy of 
imagination than a strict adherence to truth: declaring with many 
asseverations, that it contained a specimen of every kind of rich food and 
wine, known in these times, and in particular that it was of a self-acting 
kind and served up whatever was required, as he supposed by clockwork. He 
also gave them to understand that the cooking apparatus roasted a fine 
piece of sirloin of beef, weighing about six pounds avoirdupois, in two 
minutes and a quarter, as he had himself witnessed, and proved by his sense 
of taste; and further, that, however the effect was produced, he had 
distinctly seen water boil and bubble up when the single gentleman winked; 
from which facts he (Mr Swiveller) was led to infer that the lodger was 
some great conjuror or chemist, or both, whose residence under that roof 
could not fail at some future day to shed a great credit and distinction on 
the name of Brass, and add a new interest to the history of Bevis Marks.
There was one point which Mr Swiveller deemed it unnecessary to enlarge 
upon, and that was the fact of the modest quencher, which by reason of its 
intrinsic strength and its coming close upon the heels of the temperate 
beverage he had discussed at dinner, awakened a slight degree of fever, and 
rendered necessary two or three other modest quenchers at the public-house 
in the course of the evening.


Chapter 36

As the single gentleman after some weeks' occupation of his lodgings, still 
declined to correspond, by word or gesture, either with Mr Brass or his 
sister Sally, but invariably chose Richard Swiveller as his channel of 
communication; and as he proved himself in all respects a highly desirable 
inmate, paying for everything beforehand, giving very little trouble, 
making no noise, and keeping early hours; Mr Richard imperceptibly rose to 
an important position in the family, as one who had influence over this 
mysterious lodger, and could negotiate with him, for good or evil, when 
nobody else durst approach his person.
If the truth must be told, even Mr Swiveller's approaches to the single 
gentleman were of a very distant kind, and met with small encouragement; 
but, as he never returned from a monosyllabic conference with the unknown, 
without quoting such expressions as "Swiveller, I know I can rely upon 
you," - "I have no hesitation in saying, Swiveller, that I entertain a 
regard for you," - "Swiveller, you are my friend, and will stand by me I am 
sure," with many other short speeches of the same familiar and confiding 
kind, purporting to have been addressed by the single gentleman to himself, 
and to form the staple of their ordinary discourse, neither Mr Brass nor 
Miss Sally for a moment questioned the extent of his influence, but 
accorded to him their fullest and most unqualified belief.
But quite apart from, and independent of, this source of popularity, Mr 
Swiveller had another, which promised to be equally enduring, and to 
lighten his position considerably.
He found favour in the eyes of Miss Sally Brass. Let not the light scorners 
of female fascination erect their ears to listen to a new tale of love 
which shall serve them for a jest; for Miss Brass, however accurately 
formed to be beloved, was not of the loving kind. That amiable virgin, 
having clung to the skirts of the Law from her earliest youth; having 
sustained herself by their aid, as it were, in her first running alone, and 
maintained a firm grasp upon them ever since; had passed her life in a kind 
of legal childhood. She had been remarkable, when a tender prattler, for an 
uncommon talent in counterfeiting the walk and manner of a bailiff: in 
which character she had learned to tap her little playfellows on the 
shoulder, and to carry them off to imaginary spunging-houses, with a 
correctness of imitation which was the surprise and delight of all who 
witnessed her performances, and which was only to be exceeded by her 
exquisite manner of putting an execution into her doll's house, and taking 
an exact inventory of the chairs and tables. These artless sports had 
naturally soothed and cheered the decline of her widowed father: a most 
exemplary gentleman, (called "Old Foxey" by his friends from his extreme 
sagacity,) who encouraged them to the utmost, and whose chief regret on 
finding that he drew near to Houndsditch churchyard, was, that his daughter 
could not take out an attorney's certificate and hold a place upon the 
roll. Filled with this affectionate and touching sorrow he had solemnly 
confided her to his son Sampson as an invaluable auxiliary; and from the 
old gentleman's decease to the period of which we treat, Miss Sally Brass 
had been the prop and pillar of his business.
It is obvious that, having devoted herself from infancy to this one pursuit 
and study, Miss Brass could know but little of the world, otherwise than in 
connection with the law; and that from a lady gifted with such high tastes, 
proficiency in those gentler and softer arts in which women usually excel, 
was scarcely to be looked for. Miss Sally's accomplishments were all of a 
masculine and strictly legal kind. They began with the practice of an 
attorney and they ended with it. She was in a state of lawful innocence, so 
to speak. The law had been her nurse. And, as bandy-legs or such physical 
deformities in children are held to be the consequence of bad nursing, so, 
if in a mind so beautiful any moral twist or bandiness could be found, Miss 
Sally Brass's nurse was alone to blame.
It was on this lady, then, that Mr Swiveller burst in full freshness as 
something new and hitherto undreamed of, lighting up the office with scraps 
of song and merriment, conjuring with inkstands and boxes of wafers, 
catching three oranges in one hand, balancing stools upon his chin and 
penknives on his nose, and constantly performing a hundred other feats with 
equal ingenuity; for with such unbendings did Richard, in Mr Brass's 
absence, relieve the tedium of his confinement. These social qualities, 
which Miss Sally first discovered by accident, gradually made such an 
impression upon her, that she would entreat Mr Swiveller to relax as though 
she were not by, which Mr Swiveller, nothing loth, would readily consent to 
do. By these means a friendship sprung up between them. Mr Swiveller 
gradually came to look upon her as her brother Sampson did, and as he would 
have looked upon any other clerk. He imparted to her the mystery of going 
the odd man or plain Newmarket for fruit, ginger-beer, baked potatoes, or 
even a modest quencher, of which Miss Brass did not scruple to partake. He 
would often persuade her to undertake his share of writing in addition to 
her own; nay, he would sometimes reward her with a hearty slap on the back, 
and protest that she was a devilish good fellow, a jolly dog, and so forth; 
all of which compliments Miss Sally would receive in entire good part and 
with perfect satisfaction.
One circumstance troubled Mr Swiveller's mind very much, and that was that 
the small servant always remained somewhere in the bowels of the earth 
under Bevis Marks, and never came to the surface unless the single 
gentleman rang his bell, when she would answer it and immediately disappear 
again. She never went out or came into the office, or had a clean face, or 
took off the coarse apron, or looked out of any one of the windows, or 
stood at the street-door for a breath of air, or had any rest or enjoyment 
whatever. Nobody ever came to see her, nobody spoke of her, nobody cared 
about her. Mr Brass had said once, that he believed she was a "love-child," 
(which means anything but a child of love,) and that was all the 
information Richard Swiveller could obtain.
"It's of no use asking the dragon," thought Dick one day, as he sat 
contemplating the features of Miss Sally Brass. "I suspect if I asked any 
questions on that head, our alliance would be at an end. I wonder whether 
she is a dragon by the bye, or something in the mermaid way. She has rather 
a scaly appearance. But mermaids are fond of looking at themselves in the 
glass, which she can't be. And they have a habit of combing their hair, 
which she hasn't. No, she's a dragon."
"Where are you going, old fellow," said Dick aloud, as Miss Sally wiped her 
pen as usual on the green dress, and uprose from her seat.
"To dinner," answered the dragon.
"To dinner," thought Dick, "that's another circumstance. I don't believe 
that small servant ever has anything to eat."
"Sammy won't be home," said Miss Brass. "Stop till I come back. I shan't be 
long."
Dick nodded, and followed Miss Brass - with his eyes to the door, and with 
his ears to a little back parlour, where she and her brother took their 
meals.
"Now," said Dick, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, "I'd 
give something - if I had it - to know how they use that child, and where 
they keep her. My mother must have been a very inquisitive woman; I have no 
doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation somewhere. My feelings I 
smother, but thou hast been the cause of this anguish my - upon my word," 
said Mr Swiveller, checking himself and falling thoughtfully into the 
client's chair, "I should like to know how they use her!"
After running on, in this way, for some time, Mr Swiveller softly opened 
the office door, with the intention of darting across the street for a 
glass of the mild porter. At that moment he caught a parting glimpse of the 
brown head-dress of Miss Brass flitting down the kitchen stairs. "And by 
Jove!" thought Dick, "she's going to feed the small servant. Now or never!"
First peeping over the handrail and allowing the headdress to disappear in 
the darkness below, he groped his way down, and arrived at the door of a 
back kitchen immediately after Miss Brass had entered the same, bearing in 
her hand a cold leg of mutton. It was a very dark miserable place, very 
low, and very damp: the walls disfigured by a thousand rents and blotches. 
The water was trickling out of a leaky butt, and a most wretched cat was 
lapping up the drops with the sickly eagerness of starvation. The grate, 
which was a wide one, was wound and screwed up tight, so as to hold no more 
than a little thin sandwich of fire. Everything was locked up; the coal-
cellar, the candle-box, the salt-box, the meat-safe, were all padlocked. 
There was nothing that a beetle could have lunched upon. The pinched and 
meagre aspect of the place would have killed a chameleon: he would have 
known, at the first mouthful, that the air was not eatable, and must have 
given up the ghost in despair.
The small servant stood with humility in presence of Miss Sally, and hung 
her head.
"Are you there?" said Miss Sally.
"Yes, ma'am," was the answer in a weak voice.
"Go further away from the leg of mutton or you'll be picking it, I know," 
said Miss Sally.
The girl withdrew into a corner, while Miss Brass took a key from her 
pocket, and opening the safe, brought from it a dreary waste of cold 
potatoes, looking as eatable as Stonehenge. This she placed before the 
small servant, ordering her to sit down before it, and then, taking up a 
great carving-knife, made a mighty show of sharpening it upon the carving-
fork.
"Do you see this?" said Miss Brass, slicing off about two square inches of 
cold mutton, after all this preparation, and holding it out on the point of 
the fork.
The small servant looked hard enough at it with her hungry eyes to see 
every shred of it, small as it was, and answered, "yes."
"Then don't you ever go and say," retorted Miss Sally, "that you hadn't 
meat here. There, eat it up."
This was soon done. "Now, do you want any more?" said Miss Sally.
The hungry creature answered with a faint "No." They were evidently going 
through an established form.
"You've been helped once to meat," said Miss Brass; summing up the facts; 
"you have had as much as you can eat, you're asked if you want any more, 
and you answer 'no!' Then don't you ever go and say you were allowanced, 
mind that."
With those words, Miss Sally put the meat away and locked the safe, and 
then drawing near to the small servant, overlooked her while she finished 
the potatoes.
It was plain that some extraordinary grudge was working in Miss Brass's 
gentle breast, and that it was this which impelled her, without the 
smallest present cause, to rap the child with the blade of the knife, now 
on her hand, now on her head, and now on her back, as if she found it quite 
impossible to stand so close to her without administering a few slight 
knocks. But Mr Swiveller was not a little surprised to see his fellow 
clerk, after walking slowly backwards towards the door, as if she were 
trying to withdraw herself from the room but could not accomplish it, dart 
suddenly forward, and falling on the small servant give her some hard blows 
with her clenched hand. The victim cried, but in a subdued manner as if she 
feared to raise her voice, and Miss Sally, comforting herself with a pinch 
of snuff, ascended the stairs, just as Richard had safely reached the 
office.


Chapter 37

The single gentleman among his other peculiarities - and he had a very 
plentiful stock, of which he every day furnished some new specimen - took a 
most extraordinary and remarkable interest in the exhibition of Punch. If 
the sound of a Punch's voice, at ever so remote a distance, reached Bevis 
Marks, the single gentleman, though in bed and asleep, would start up, and 
hurrying on his clothes, make for the spot with all speed, and presently 
return at the head of a long procession of idlers, having in the midst the 
theatre and its proprietors. Straightway, the stage would be set up in 
front of Mr Brass's house; the single gentleman would establish himself at 
the first floor window; and the entertainment would proceed, with all its 
exciting accompaniments of fife and drum and shout, to the excessive 
consternation of all sober votaries of business in that silent 
thoroughfare. It might have been expected that when the play was done, both 
players and audience would have dispersed; but the epilogue was as bad as 
the play, for no sooner was the Devil dead, than the manager of the puppets 
and his partner were summoned by the single gentleman to his chamber, where 
they were regaled with strong waters from his private store, and where they 
held with him long conversations, the purport of which no human being could 
fathom. But the secret of these discussions was of little importance. It 
was sufficient to know that while they were proceeding, the concourse 
without still lingered round the house; that boys beat upon the drum with 
their fists, and imitated Punch with their tender voices; that the office-
window was rendered opaque by flattened noses: and the keyhole of the 
street door luminous with eyes; that every time the single gentleman or 
either of his guests was seen at the upper window, or so much as the end of 
one of their noses was visible, there was a great shout of execration from 
the excluded mob, who remained howling and yelling, and refusing 
consolation, until the exhibitors were delivered up to them to be attended 
elsewhere. It was sufficient, in short, to know that Bevis Marks was 
revolutionised by these popular movements, and that peace and quietness 
fled from its precincts.
Nobody was rendered more indignant by these proceedings than Mr Sampson 
Brass, who, as he could by no means afford to lose so profitable an inmate, 
deemed it prudent to pocket his lodger's affront along with his cash, and 
to annoy the audiences who clustered round his door by such imperfect means 
of retaliation as were open to him, and which were confined to the 
trickling down of foul water on their heads from unseen watering pots, 
pelting them with fragments of tile and mortar from the roof of the house, 
and bribing the drivers of hackney cabriolets to come suddenly round the 
corner and dash in among them precipitately. It may, at first sight, be 
matter of surprise to the thoughtless few that Mr Brass, being a 
professional gentleman, should not have legally indicted some party or 
parties, active in the promotion of the nuisance; but they will be good to 
remember, that as Doctors seldom take their own prescriptions, and Divines 
do not always practice what they preach, so, lawyers are shy of meddling 
with the Law on their own account: knowing it to be an edged tool of 
uncertain application, very expensive in the working, and rather remarkable 
for its properties of close shaving, than for its always shaving the right 
person.
"Come," said Mr Brass one afternoon, "this is two days without a Punch. I'm 
in hopes he has run through 'em all at last."
"Why are you in hopes?" returned Miss Sally. "What harm do they do?"
"Here's a pretty sort of a fellow!" cried Brass, laying down his pen in 
despair. "Now here's an aggravating animal!"
"Well, what harm do they do?" retorted Sally.
"What harm!" cried Brass. "Is it no harm to have a constant hallooing and 
hooting under one's very nose, distracting one from business, and making 
one grind one's teeth with vexation? Is it no harm to be blinded and choked 
up, and have the king's highway stopped with a set of screamers and roarers 
whose throats must be made of - of - "
"Brass," suggested Mr Swiveller.
"Ah! of brass," said the lawyer, glancing at his clerk, to assure himself 
that he had suggested the word in good faith, and without any sinister 
intention. "Is that no harm!"
The lawyer stopped short in his invective, and listening for a moment, and 
recognising the well-known voice, rested his head upon his hand, raised his 
eyes to the ceiling, and muttered faintly.
"There's another!"
Up went the single gentleman's window directly.
"There's another," repeated Brass; "and if I could get a break and four 
blood horses to cut into the Marks when the crowd is at its thickest, I'd 
give eighteen-pence and never grudge it!"
The distant squeak was heard again. The single gentleman's door burst open. 
He ran violently down the stairs, out into the street, and so past the 
window, without any hat, towards the quarter whence the sound proceeded - 
bent, no doubt, upon securing the strangers' services directly.
"I wish I only knew who his friends were," muttered Sampson, filling his 
pocket with papers; "if they'd just get up a pretty little Commission de 
lunatico at the Gray's Inn Coffee House, and give me the job, I'd be 
content to have the lodgings empty for one while, at all events."
With which words, and knocking his hat over his eyes as if for the purpose 
of shutting out even a glimpse of the dreadful visitation, Mr Brass rushed 
from the house and hurried away.
As Mr Swiveller was decidedly favourable to these performances, upon the 
ground that looking at a Punch, or indeed looking at anything out of 
window, was better than working; and as he had been, for this reason, at 
some pains to awaken in his fellow clerk a sense of their beauties and 
manifold deserts; both he and Miss Sally rose as with one accord and took 
up their positions at the window: upon the sill whereof, as in a post of 
honour, sundry young ladies and gentlemen who were employed in the dry 
nurture of babies, and who made a point of being present, with their young 
charges, on such occasions, had already established themselves as 
comfortably as the circumstances would allow.
The glass being dim, Mr Swiveller, agreeably to a friendly custom which he 
had established between them, hitched off the brown head-dress from Miss 
Sally's head, and dusted it carefully therewith. By the time he had handed 
it back, and its beautiful wearer had put it on again (which she did with 
perfect composure and indifference), the lodger returned with the show and 
showmen at his heels, and a strong addition to the body of spectators. The 
exhibitor disappeared with all speed behind the drapery; and his partner, 
stationing himself by the side of the Theatre, surveyed the audience with a 
remarkable expression of melancholy, which became more remarkable still 
when he breathed a hornpipe tune into that sweet musical instrument which 
is popularly termed a mouth-organ, without at all changing the mournful 
expression of the upper part of his face, though his mouth and chin were, 
of necessity, in lively spasms.
The drama proceeded to its close, and held the spectators enchained in the 
customary manner. The sensation which kindles in large assemblies, when 
they are relieved from a state of breathless suspense and are again free to 
speak and move, was yet rife, when the lodger, as usual, summoned the men 
upstairs.
"Both of you," he called from the window; for only the actual exhibitor - a 
little fat man - prepared to obey the summons. "I want to talk to you. Come 
both of you!"
"Come, Tommy," said the little man.
"I an't a talker," replied the other. "Tell him so. What should I go and 
talk for?"
"Don't you see the gentlemen's got a bottle and glass up there?" returned 
the little man.
"And couldn't you have said so, at first?" retorted the other with sudden 
alacrity. "Now, what are you waiting for? Are you going to keep the 
gentleman expecting us all day? haven't you no manners?"
With this remonstrance, the melancholy man, who was no other than Mr Thomas 
Codlin, pushed past his friend and brother in the craft. Mr Harris, 
otherwise Short or Trotters, and hurried before him to the single 
gentleman's apartment.
"Now my men," said the single gentleman; "you have done very well. What 
will you take? Tell that little man behind to shut the door.
"Shut the door, can't you?" said Mr Codlin, turning gruffly to his friend. 
"You might have knowed that the gentleman wanted the door shut, without 
being told, I think."
Mr Short obeyed, observing under his breath that his friend seemed 
unusually "cranky," and expressing a hope that there was no dairy in the 
neighbourhood, or his temper would certainly spoil its contents.
The gentleman pointed to a couple of chairs, and intimated by an emphatic 
nod of his head that he expected them to be seated. Messrs. Codlin and 
Short, after looking at each other with considerable doubt and indecision, 
at length sat down - each on the extreme edge of the chair pointed out to 
him - and held their hats very tight, while the single gentleman filled a 
couple of glasses from a bottle on the table beside him, and presented them 
in due form.
"You're pretty well browned by the sun both of you," said their 
entertainer. "Have you been travelling?"
Mr Short replied in the affirmative with a nod and a smile. Mr Codlin added 
a corroborative nod and a short groan, as if he still felt the weight of 
the Temple on his shoulders.
"To fairs, markets, races, and so forth, I suppose?" pursued the single 
gentleman.
"Yes sir," returned Short, "pretty nigh all over the West of England."
"I have talked to men of your craft from North, East, and South," returned 
their host, in rather a hasty manner "but I never lighted on any from the 
West before."
"It's our reg'lar summer circuit is the West, master," said Short; "that's 
where it is. We takes the East of London in the spring and winter, and the 
West of England in the summer time. Many's the hard day's walking in rain 
and mud, and with never a penny earned, we've had down in the west."
"Let me fill your glass again."
"Much obleeged to you sir, I think I will," said Mr Codlin, suddenly 
thrusting in his own and turning Short's aside. "I'm the sufferer, sir, in 
all the travelling, and in all the staying at home. In town or country, wet 
or dry, hot or cold, Tom Codlin suffers. But Tom Codlin isn't to complain 
for all that. Oh, no! Short may complain, but if Codlin grumbles by so much 
as a word - oh dear, down with him, down with him directly. It isn't his 
place to grumble. That's quite out of the question."
"Codlin an't without his usefulness," observed Short with an arch look, 
"but he don't always keep his eyes open. He falls asleep sometimes, you 
know. Remember them last races, Tommy"
"Will you ever leave off aggravating a man?" said Codlin. "It's very like I 
was asleep when five-and-tenpence was collected in one round, isn't it? I 
was attending to my business, and couldn't have my eyes in twenty places at 
once, like a peacock, no more than you could. If I an't a match for an old 
man and a young child, you an't neither, so don't throw that out against 
me, for the cap fits your head quite as correct as it fits mine."
"You may as well drop the subject, Tom," said Short. "It isn't particular 
agreeable to the gentleman, I dare say."
"Then you shouldn't have brought it up, returned Mr Codlin; "and I ask the 
gentleman's pardon on your account, as a giddy chap that likes to hear 
himself talk, and don't much care what he talks about, so that he does 
talk."
Their entertainer had sat perfectly quiet in the beginning of this dispute, 
looking first at one man and then at the other, as if he were lying in wait 
for an opportunity of putting some further question, or reverting to that 
from which the discourse had strayed. But, from the point where Mr Codlin 
was charged with sleepiness, he had shown an increasing interest in the 
discussion: which now attained a very high pitch.
"You are the two men I want," he said, "the two men I have been looking 
for, and searching after! Where are that old man and that child you speak 
of?"
"Sir!" said Short, hesitating and looking towards his friend.
"The old man and his grandchild who travelled with you - where are they? It 
will be worth your while to speak out, I assure you; much better worth your 
while than you believe. They left you, you say, - at those races, as I 
understand. They have been traced to that place, and there lost sight of. 
Have you no clue, can you suggest no clue, to their recovery?"
"Did I always say, Thomas," cried Short, turning with a look of amazement 
to his friend, "that there was sure to be an inquiry after them two 
travellers?"
"You said!" returned Mr Codlin. "Did I always say that that 'ere blessed 
child was the most interesting I ever see? Did I always say I loved her, 
and doated on her? Pretty creetur, I think I hear her now. 'Codlin's my 
friend,' she says with a tear of gratitude a trickling down her little eye; 
'Codlin's my friend,' she says - 'not Short. Short's very well,' she says; 
'I've no quarrel with Short; he means kind, I dare say; but Codlin,' she 
says, 'has the feelings for my money, though he mayn't look it.'"
Repeating these words with great emotion Mr Codlin rubbed the bridge of his 
nose with his coat-sleeve, and shaking his head mournfully from side to 
side, left the single gentleman to infer that, from the moment when he lost 
sight of his dear young charge, his peace of mind and happiness had fled.
"Good Heaven!" said the single gentleman, pacing up and down the room, 
"have I found these men at last, only to discover that they can give me no 
information or assistance! It would have been better to have lived on, in 
hope, from day to day, and never to have lighted on them, than to have my 
expectations scattered thus."
"Stay a minute," said Short. "A man of the name of Jerry - you know Jerry, 
Thomas?"
"Oh, don't talk to me of Jerrys," replied Mr Codlin. "How can I care a 
pinch of snuff for Jerrys, when I think of that 'ere darling child? 
'Codlin's my friend,' she says, 'dear, good, kind Codlin, as is always a 
devising pleasures for me! I don't object to Short,' she says, 'but I 
cotton to Codlin.' Once," said that gentleman reflectively, "she called me 
Father Codlin. I thought I should have bust!"
"A man of the name of Jerry, sir," said Short, turning from his selfish 
colleague to their new acquaintance, "wot keeps a company of dancing-dogs, 
told me, in a accidental sort of a way, that he had seen the old gentleman 
in connection with a travelling waxwork, unbeknown to him. As they'd give 
us the slip, and nothing had come of it, and this was down in the country 
that he'd been seen, I took no measures about it, and asked no questions - 
But I can, if you like."
"Is this man in town?" said the impatient single gentleman. "Speak faster."
"No he isn't, but he will be tomorrow, for he lodges in our house," replied 
Mr Short rapidly.
"Then bring him here," said the single gentleman. "Here's a sovereign a-
piece. If I can find these people through your means, it is but a prelude 
to twenty more. Return to me tomorrow, and keep your own counsel on this 
subject - though I need hardly tell you that, for you'll do so for your own 
sakes. Now, give me your address, and leave me."
The address was given, the two men departed, the crowd went with them, and 
the single gentleman for two mortal hours walked in uncommon agitation up 
and down his room, over the wondering heads of Mr Swiveller and Miss Sally 
Brass.


Chapter 38

Kit - for it happens at this juncture, not only that we have breathing time 
to follow his fortunes, but that the necessities of these adventures so 
adapt themselves to our ease and inclination as to call upon us 
imperatively to pursue the track we most desire to take - Kit, while the 
matters treated of in the last fifteen chapters were yet in progress, was, 
as the reader may suppose, gradually familiarising himself more and more 
with Mr and Mrs Garland, Mr Abel, the pony, and Barbara, and gradually 
coming to consider them one and all as his particular private friends, and 
Abel Cottage, Finchley, as his own proper home.
Stay - the words are written, and may go, but if they convey any notion 
that Kit, in the plentiful board and comfortable lodging of his new abode, 
began to think slightingly of the poor fare and furniture of his old 
dwelling, they do their office badly and commit injustice. Who so mindful 
of those he left at home - albeit they were but a mother and two young 
babies - as Kit? What boastful father in the fulness of his heart ever 
related such wonders of his infant prodigy as Kit never wearied of telling 
Barbara in the evening time, concerning little Jacob? Was there ever such a 
mother as Kit's mother, on her son's showing; or was there ever such 
comfort in poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family, if any correct 
judgment might be arrived at, from his own glowing account!
And let me linger in this place, for an instant, to remark that if ever 
household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in 
the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home may be 
forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth are 
of the truer metal and bear the stamp of Heaven. The man of high descent 
may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself: as 
trophies of his birth and power; his associations with them are 
associations of pride and wealth and triumph; the poor man's attachment to 
the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may tomorrow 
occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His 
household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, gold, or 
precious stone; he has no property but in the affections of his own heart; 
and when they endear bare floors and walls, despite of rags and toil and 
scanty fare, that man has his love of home from God, and his rude hut 
becomes a solemn place.
Oh! if those who rule the destinies of nations would but remember this - if 
they would but think how hard it is for the very poor to have engendered in 
their hearts, that love of home from which all domestic virtues spring, 
when they live in dense and squalid masses where social decency is lost, or 
rather never found, - if they would but turn aside from the wide 
thoroughfares and great houses, and strive to improve the wretched 
dwellings in byways where only Poverty may walk, many low roofs would point 
more truly to the sky, than the loftiest steeple that new rears proudly up 
from the midst of guilt, and crime, and horrible disease, to mock them by 
its contrast. In hollow voices from Workhouse, Hospital, and Jail, this 
truth is preached from day to day, and has been proclaimed for years. It is 
no light matter - no outcry from the working vulgar - no mere question of 
the people's health and comforts that may be whistled down on Wednesday 
nights. In love of home the love of country has its rise; and who are the 
truer patriots, or the better in time of need - those who venerate the 
land, owning its wood, and stream, and earth, and all that they produce? or 
those who love their country, boasting not a foot of ground in all its wide 
domain!
Kit knew nothing about such questions, but he knew that his old home was a 
very poor place, and that his new one was very unlike it, and yet he was 
constantly looking back with grateful satisfaction and affectionate 
anxiety, and often indited square-folded letters to his mother, inclosing a 
shilling or eighteen-pence or such other small remittance, which Mr Abel's 
liberality enabled him to make. Sometimes, being in the neighbourhood, he 
had leisure to call upon her, and then, great was the joy and pride of 
Kit's mother, and extremely noisy the satisfaction of little Jacob and the 
baby, and cordial the congratulations of the whole court, who listened with 
admiring ears to the accounts of Abel Cottage, and could never be told too 
much of its wonders and magnificence.
Although Kit was in the very highest favour with the old lady and 
gentleman, and Mr Abel, and Barbara, it is certain that no member of the 
family evinced such a remarkable partiality for him, as the self-willed 
pony, who, from being the most obstinate and opinionated pony on the face 
of the earth, was, in his hands, the meekest and most tractable of animals. 
It is true that in exact proportion as he became manageable by Kit he 
become utterly ungovernable by anybody else, (as if he had determined to 
keep him in the family at all risks and hazards,) and that, even under the 
guidance of his favourite, he would sometimes perform a great variety of 
strange freaks and capers, to the extreme discomposure of the old lady's 
nerves; but as Kit always represented that this was only his fun, or a way 
he had of showing his attachment to his employers, Mrs Garland gradually 
suffered herself to be persuaded into the belief, in which she at last 
became so strongly confirmed, that if, in one of these ebullitions, he had 
overturned the chaise, she would have been quite satisfied that he did it 
with the very best intentions.
Besides becoming in a short time a perfect marvel in all stable matters, 
Kit soon made himself a very tolerable gardener, a handy fellow within 
doors, and an indispensable attendant on Mr Abel, who every day gave him 
some new proof of his confidence and approbation. Mr Witherden, the notary, 
too, regarded him with a friendly eye; and even Mr Chuckster would 
sometimes condescend to give him a slight nod, or to honour him with that 
particular form of recognition which is called "taking a sight," or to 
favour him with some other salute combining pleasantry with patronage.
One morning Kit drove Mr Abel to the Notary's office, as he sometimes did, 
and having set him down at the house, was about to drive off to a livery 
stable hard by, when this same Mr Chuckster emerged from the office-door, 
and cried "Woa-a-a-a-a-a!" - dwelling upon the note a long time, for the 
purpose of striking terror into the pony's heart, and asserting the 
supremacy of man over the inferior animals.
"Pull up, Snobby," cried Mr Chuckster, addressing himself to Kit. "You're 
wanted inside here."
"Has Mr Abel forgotten anything, I wonder?" said Kit as he dismounted.
"Ask no questions, Snobby," returned Mr Chuckster, "but go and see. Woa-a-a 
then, will you? If that pony was mine, I'd break him."
"You must be very gentle with him, if you please," said Kit, "or you'll 
find him troublesome. You'd better not keep on pulling his ears, please. I 
know he won't like it."
To this remonstrance Mr Chuckster deigned no other answer, than addressing 
Kit with a lofty and distant air as "young feller," and requesting him to 
cut, and come again with all speed. The "young feller," complying, Mr 
Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and tried to look as if he were not 
minding the pony, but happened to be lounging there by accident.
Kit scraped his shoes very carefully, (for he had not yet lost his 
reverence for the bundles of papers and the tin boxes,) and tapped at the 
office-door, which was quickly opened by the Notary himself.
"Oh! come in, Christopher," said Mr Witherden.
"Is that the lad?" asked an elderly gentleman, but of a stout, bluff figure 
- who was in the room.
"That's the lad," said Mr Witherden. "He fell in with my client, Mr 
Garland, sir, at this very door. I have reason to think he is a good lad, 
sir, and that you may believe what he says. Let me introduce Mr Abel 
Garland, sir - his young master; my articled pupil, sir, and most 
particular friend: - my most particular friend, sir," repeated the Notary, 
drawing out his silk handkerchief and flourishing it about his face.
"Your servant, sir," said the stranger gentleman.
"Yours, sir, I'm sure," replied Mr Abel mildly. "You were wishing to speak 
to Christopher, sir?"
"Yes, I was. Have I your permission?"
"By all means."
"My business is no secret; or I should rather say it need be no secret 
here," said the stranger, observing that Mr Abel and the Notary were 
preparing to retire. "It relates to a dealer in curiosities with whom he 
lived and in whom I am earnestly and warmly interested. I have been a 
stranger to this country, gentleman, for very many years, and if I am 
deficient in form and ceremony, I hope you will forgive me."
"No forgiveness is necessary, sir; - none whatever," replied the Notary. 
And so said Mr Abel.
"I have been making inquiries in the neighbourhood in which his old master 
lived," said the stranger, "and I learn that he was served by this lad. I 
have found out his mother's house, and have been directed by her to this 
place as the nearest in which I should be likely to find him That's the 
cause of my presenting myself here this morning."
"I am very glad of any cause, sir," said the Notary, "which procures me the 
honour of this visit."
"Sir," retorted the stranger, "you speak like a mere man of the world, and 
I think you something better. Therefore, pray do not sink your real 
character in paying unmeaning compliments to me."
"Hem!" coughed the Notary. "You're a plain speaker, sir."
"And a plain dealer," returned the stranger. "It may be my long absence and 
inexperience that lead me to the conclusion; but if plain speakers are 
scarce in this part of the world, I fancy plain dealers are still scarcer. 
If my speaking should offend you, sir, my dealing, I hope, will make 
amends."
Mr Witherden seemed a little disconcerted by the elderly gentleman's mode 
of conducting the dialogue; and as for Kit, he looked at him in open-
mouthed astonishment: wondering what kind of language he would address to 
him, if he talked in that free and easy way to a Notary. It was with no 
harshness, however, though with something of constitutional irritability 
and haste, that he turned to Kit and said:
"If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing these inquiries with any other 
view than that of serving and reclaiming those I am in search of, you do me 
a very great wrong, and deceive yourself. Don't be deceived, I beg of you, 
but rely upon my assurance. The fact is, gentlemen," he added, turning 
again to the Notary and his pupil, "that I am in a very painful and wholly 
unexpected position. I came to this city with a darling object at my heart, 
expecting to find no obstacle or difficulty in the way of its attainment. I 
find myself suddenly checked and stopped short, in the execution of my 
design, by a mystery which I cannot penetrate. Every effort I have made to 
penetrate it, has only served to render it darker and more obscure; and I 
am afraid to stir openly in the matter, lest those whom I anxiously pursue, 
should fly still farther from me. I assure you that if you could give me 
any assistance, you would not be sorry to do so, if you knew how greatly I 
stand in need of it, and what a load it would relieve me from."
There was a simplicity in this confidence which occasioned it to find a 
quick response in the breast of the good-natured Notary, who replied, in 
the same spirit, that the stranger had not mistaken his desire, and that if 
he could be of service to him, he would most readily.
Kit was then put under examination and closely questioned by the unknown 
gentleman touching his old master and the child, their lonely way of life, 
their retired habits, and strict seclusion. The nightly absence of the old 
man, the solitary existence of the child at those times, his illness and 
recovery, Quilp's possession of the house, and their sudden disappearance, 
were all the subjects of much questioning and answer. Finally, Kit informed 
the gentleman that the premises were now to let, and that a board upon the 
door referred all inquirers to Mr Sampson Brass, Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, 
from whom he might perhaps learn some further particulars.
"Not by inquiry," said the gentleman, shaking his head. "I live there."
"Live at Brass's the attorneys!" cried Mr Witherden in some surprise: 
having professional knowledge of the gentleman in question.
"Aye," was the reply. "I entered on his lodgings t'other day, chiefly 
because I had seen this very board. It matters little to me where I live, 
and I had a desperate hope that some intelligence might be cast in my way 
there, which would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at Brass's - more 
shame for me, I suppose?"
"That's a mere matter of opinion," said the Notary, shrugging his 
shoulders. "He is looked up as rather a doubtful character."
"Doubtful?" echoed the other. "I am glad to hear there's any doubt about 
it. I supposed that had been thoroughly settled, long ago. But will you let 
me speak a word or two with you in private?"
Mr Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentleman's private closet, 
and remained there, in close conversation, for some quarter of an hour, 
when they returned into the outer office. The stranger had left his hat in 
Mr Witherden's room, and seemed to have established himself in this short 
interval on quite a friendly footing.
"I'll not detain you any longer now," he said, putting a crown into Kit's 
hand, and looking towards the Notary. "You shall hear from me again. Not a 
word of this, you know, except to your master and mistress."
"Mother, sir, would be glad to know - " said Kit, faltering.
"Glad to know what?"
"Anything - so that it was no harm - about Miss Nell."
"Would she? Well then, you may tell her if she can keep a secret. But mind, 
not a word of this to anybody else. Don't forget that. Be particular."
"I'll take care, sir," said Kit. "Thankee, sir, and good morning.
Now, it happened that the gentleman, in his anxiety to impress upon Kit 
that he was not to tell anybody what had passed between them, followed him 
out to the door to repeat his caution, and it further happened that at that 
moment the eyes of Mr Richard Swiveller were turned in that direction, and 
beheld his mysterious friend and Kit together.
It was quite an accident, and the way in which it came about was this. Mr 
Chuckster, being a gentleman of a cultivated taste and refined spirit, was 
one of that Lodge of Glorious Apollos whereof Mr Swiveller was Perpetual 
Grand. Mr Swiveller passing through the street in the execution of some 
Brazen errand, and beholding one of his Glorious Brotherhood intently 
gazing on a pony, crossed over to give him that fraternal greeting with 
which Perpetual Grands are, by the very constitution of their office, bound 
to cheer and encourage their disciples. He had scarcely bestowed upon him 
his blessing, and followed it with a general remark touching the present 
state and prospects of the weather, when, lifting up his eyes, he beheld 
the single gentleman of Bevis Marks in earnest conversation with 
Christopher Nubbles.
"Hallo," said Dick, "who is that?"
"He called to see my Governor this morning," replied Mr Chuckster; "beyond 
that, I don't know him from Adam."
"At least you know his name?" said Dick.
To which Mr Chuckster replied with an elevation of speech becoming a 
Glorious Apollo, that he was "everlastingly blessed" if he did.
"All I know my dear feller," said Mr Chuckster, running his fingers through 
his hair, "is, that he is the cause of my having stood here twenty minutes, 
for which I hate him with a mortal and undying hatred, and would pursue him 
to the confines of eternity if I could afford the time."
While they were thus discoursing, the subject of their conversation (who 
had not appeared to recognise Mr Richard Swiveller) re-entered the house, 
and Kit came down the steps and joined them; to whom Mr Swiveller again 
propounded his inquiry with no better success.
"He is a very nice gentleman, sir," said Kit, "and that's all I know about 
him."
Mr Chuckster waxed wroth at this answer, and without applying the remark to 
any particular case, mentioned, as a general truth, that it was expedient 
to break the heads of Snobs, and to tweak their noses. Without expressed 
his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr Swiveller after a few moments of 
abstraction inquired which way Kit was driving, and, being informed, 
declared it was his way, and that he would trespass on him for a lift. Kit 
would gladly have declined the proffered honour, but as Mr Swiveller was 
already established in the seat beside him, he had no means of doing so, 
otherwise than by a forcible ejectment, and therefore drove briskly off - 
so briskly indeed, as to cut short the leave-taking between Mr Chuckster 
and his Grand Master, and to occasion the former gentleman some 
inconvenience from having his corns squeezed by the impatient pony.
As Whisker was tired of standing, and Mr Swiveller was kind enough to 
stimulate him by shrill whistles, and various sporting cries, they rattled 
off at too sharp a pace to admit of much conversation; especially as the 
pony, incensed by Mr Swiveller's admonitions, took a particular fancy for 
the lamp-posts and cartwheels, and evinced a strong desire to run on the 
pavement and rasp himself against the brick walls. It was not, therefore, 
until they had arrived at the stable, and the chaise had been extricated 
from a very small doorway, into which the pony dragged it under the 
impression that he could take it along with him into his usual stall, that 
Mr Swiveller found time to talk.
"It's hard work," said Richard. "What do you say to some beer?"
Kit at first declined, but presently consented, and they adjourned to the 
neighbouring bar together.
"We'll drink our friend what's-his-name," said Dick, holding up the bright 
frothy pot; " - that was talking to you this morning, you know - I know him 
- a good fellow, but eccentric - very - here's what's-his-name."
Kit pledged him.
"He lives in my house," said Dick; "at least in the house occupied by the 
firm in which I'm a sort of a - of a managing partner - a difficult fellow 
to get anything out of, but we like him - we like him."
"I must be going sir, if you please," said Kit, moving away.
"Don't be in a hurry, Christopher," replied his patron, "we'll drink your 
mother."
"Thank you sir."
"An excellent woman that mother of yours, Christopher," said Mr Swiveller. 
"Who ran to catch me when I fell and kissed the place to make it well? My 
mother. A charming woman. He's a liberal sort of fellow. We must get him to 
do something for your mother. Does he know her, Christopher?"
Kit shook his head, and glancing slyly at his questioner, thanked him, and 
made off before he could say another word.
"Humph!" said Mr Swiveller pondering, "this is queer. Nothing but mysteries 
in connection with Brass's house. I'll keep my own counsel, however. 
Everybody and anybody has been in my confidence as yet, but now I think 
I'll set up in business for myself. Queer - very queer!"
After pondering deeply and with a face of exceeding wisdom for some time, 
Mr Swiveller drank some more of the beer, and summoning a small boy who had 
been watching his proceedings, poured forth the few remaining drops as a 
libation on the gravel, and bade him carry the empty vessel to the bar with 
his compliments, and above all things to lead a sober and temperate life, 
and abstain from all intoxicating and exciting liquors. Having given him 
this piece of moral advice for his trouble (which as he wisely observed was 
far better than half-pence) the Perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious 
Apollos thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered away: still 
pondering as he went.


Chapter 39

All that day, though he waited for Mr Abel until evening, Kit kept clear of 
his mother's house, determined not to anticipate the pleasures of the 
morrow, but to let them come in their full rush of delight; for tomorrow 
was the great and long looked-for epoch in his life - tomorrow was the end 
of his first quarter - the day of receiving, for the first time, one fourth 
part of his annual income of Six Pounds in one vast sum of Thirty Shillings 
- tomorrow was to be a half-holiday devoted to a whirl of entertainments, 
and little Jacob was to know what oysters meant, and to see a play.
All manner of incidents combined in favour of the occasion: not only had Mr 
and Mrs Garland forewarned him that they intended to make no deduction for 
his outfit from the great amount, but to pay it him unbroken in all its 
gigantic grandeur; not only had the unknown gentleman increased the stock 
by the sum of five shillings, which was a perfect godsend and in itself a 
fortune; not only had these things come to pass which nobody could have 
calculated upon, or in their wildest dreams have hoped; but it was 
Barbara's quarter too - Barbara's quarter, that very day - and Barbara had 
a half-holiday as well as Kit, and Barbara's mother was going to make one 
of the party, and to take tea with Kit's mother, and cultivate her 
acquaintance.
To be sure Kit looked ont of his window very early that morning to see 
which way the clouds were flying, and to be sure Barbara would have been at 
hers too, if she had not sat up so late over night, starching and ironing 
small pieces of muslin, and crimping them into frills, and sewing them on 
to other pieces to form magnificent wholes for next day's wear. But they 
were both up very early for all that, and had small appetites for breakfast 
and less for dinner, and were in a state of great excitement when Barbara's 
mother came in, with astonishing accounts of the fineness of the weather 
out of doors (but with a very large umbrella notwithstanding, for people 
like Barbara's mother seldom make holiday without one), and when the bell 
rung for them to go upstairs and receive their quarter's money in gold and 
silver.
Well, wasn't Mr Garland kind when he said "Christopher, here's your money 
and you have earned it well:" and wasn't Mrs Garland kind when she said 
"Barbara here's yours, and I'm much pleased with you;" and didn't Kit sign 
his name bold to his receipt, and didn't Barbara sign her name all a 
trembling to hers; and wasn't it beautiful to see how Mrs Garland poured 
out Barbara's mother a glass of wine; and didn't Barbara's mother speak up 
when she said "Here's blessing you, ma'am, as a good lady, and you, sir, as 
a good gentleman, and Barbara my love to you, and here's towards you, Mr 
Christopher;" and wasn't she as long drinking it as if it had been a 
tumblerful; and didn't she look genteel, standing there with her gloves on; 
and wasn't there plenty of laughing and talking among them as they reviewed 
all these things upon the top of the coach; and didn't they pity the people 
who hadn't got a holiday.
But Kit's mother, again - wouldn't anybody have supposed she had come of 
good stock and been a lady all her life! There she was, quite ready to 
receive them, with a display of tea-things that might have warmed the heart 
of a china-shop; and little Jacob and the baby in such a state of 
perfection that their clothes looked as good as new, though Heaven knows 
they were old enough! Didn't she say before they had sat down five minutes 
that Barbara's mother was exactly the sort of lady she expected, and didn't 
Barbara's mother say that Kit's mother was the very picture of what she had 
expected, and didn't Kit's mother compliment Barbara's mother on Barbara, 
and didn't Barbara's mother compliment Kit's mother on Kit, and wasn't 
Barbara herself quite fascinated with little Jacob, and did ever a child 
show off when he was wanted, as that child did, or make such friends as he 
made!
"And we are both widows too!" said Barbara's mother. "We must have been 
made to know each other."
"I haven't a doubt about it," returned Mrs Nubbles. "And what a pity it is, 
we didn't know each other sooner."
"But then, you know, it's such a pleasure," said Barbara's mother, "to have 
it brought about by one's son and daughter, that it's fully made up for. 
Now, an't it?"
To this, Kit's mother yielded her full assent, and tracing things back from 
effects to causes, they naturally reverted to their deceased husbands, 
respecting whose lives, deaths, and burials, they compared notes, and 
discovered sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful exactness; such 
as Barbara's father having been exactly four years and ten months older 
than Kit's father, and one of them having died on a Wednesday and the other 
on a Thursday, and both of them having been of a very fine make and 
remarkably good-looking, with other extraordinary coincidences. These 
recollections being of a kind calculated to cast a shadow on the brightness 
of the holiday, Kit diverted the conversation to general topics, and they 
were soon in great force again and as merry as before. Among other things, 
Kit told them about his old place, and the extraordinary beauty of Nell (of 
whom he had talked to Barbara a thousand times already); but the last-named 
circumstance failed to interest his hearers to anything like the extent he 
had supposed, and even his mother said (looking accidentally at Barbara at 
the same time) that there was no doubt Miss Nell was very pretty, but she 
was but a child after all, and there were many young women quite as pretty 
as she; and Barbara mildly observed that she should think so, and that she 
never could help believing Mr Christopher must be under a mistake - which 
Kit wondered at very much, not being able to conceive what reason she had 
for doubting him. Barbara's mother too observed that it was very common for 
young folks to change at about fourteen or fifteen, and whereas they had 
been very pretty before, to grow up quite plain; which truth she 
illustrated by many forcible examples, especially one of a young man, who, 
being a builder with great prospects, had been particular in his attentions 
to Barbara, but whom Barbara would have nothing to say to; which (though 
everything happened for the best) she almost thought was a pity. Kit said 
he thought so too, and so he did honestly, and he wondered what made 
Barbara so silent all at once, and why his mother looked at him as if he 
shouldn't have said it.
However, it was high time now to be thinking of the play; for which, great 
preparation was required, in the way of shawls and bonnets, not to mention 
one handkerchief full of oranges and another of apples, which took some 
time tying up, in consequence of the fruit having a tendency to roll out at 
the corners. At length, everything was ready, and they went off very fast; 
Kit's mother carrying the baby, who was dreadfully wide awake, and Kit 
holding little Jacob in one hand, and escorting Barbara with the other - a 
state of things which occasioned the two mothers, who walked behind, to 
declare that they looked quite family folks, and caused Barbara to blush 
and say, "Now don't, mother!" But Kit said she had no call to mind what 
they said; and indeed she need not have had, if she had known how very far 
from Kit's thoughts any love-making was. Poor Barbara!
At last they got to the theatre, which was Astley's; and in some two 
minutes after they had reached the yet unopened door, little Jacob was 
squeezed flat, and the baby had received diverse concussions, and Barbara's 
mother's umbrella had been carried several yards off and passed back to her 
over the shoulders of the people, and Kit had hit a man on the head with 
the handkerchief of apples for "scrowdging" his parent with unnecessary 
violence, and there was a great uproar. But, when they were once past the 
pay-place and tearing away for very life with their checks in their hands, 
and, above all, when they were fairly in the theatre, and seated in such 
places that they couldn't have had better if they had picked them out, and 
taken them beforehand, all this was looked upon as quite a capital joke, 
and an essential part of the entertainment.
Dear, dear, what a place it looked, that Astley's! with all the paint, 
gilding, and looking-glass; the vague smell of horses suggestive of coming 
wonders; the curtain that hid such gorgeous mysteries; the clean white 
sawdust down in the circus; the company coming in and taking their places; 
the fiddlers looking carelessly up at them while they tuned their 
instruments, as if they didn't want the play to begin, and knew it all 
beforehand! What a glow was that, which burst upon them all, when that 
long, clear, brilliant row of lights came slowly up; and what the feverish 
excitement when the little bell rang and the music began in good earnest, 
with strong parts of the drums, and sweet effects for the triangles! Well 
might Barbara's mother say to Kit's mother that the gallery was the place 
to see from, and wonder it wasn't much dearer than the boxes; well might 
Barbara feel doubtful whether to laugh or cry, in her flutter of delight.
Then the play itself! the horses which little Jacob believed from the first 
to be alive, and the ladies and gentlemen of whose reality he could be by 
no means persuaded, having never seen or heard anything at all like them - 
the firing, which made Barbara wink - the forlorn lady, who made her cry - 
the tyrant, who made her tremble - the man who sang the song with the 
lady's-maid and danced the chorus, who made her laugh - the pony who reared 
up on his hind legs when he saw the murderer, and wouldn't hear of walking 
on all fours again until he was taken into custody - the clown who ventured 
on such familiarities with the military man in boots - the lady who jumped 
over the nine-and-twenty ribbons and came down safe upon the horse's back - 
everything was delightful, splendid, and surprising! Little Jacob applauded 
until his hands were sore; Kit cried "an-kor" at the end of everything, the 
three-act piece included; and Barbara's mother beat her umbrella on the 
floor, in her ecstasies, until it was nearly worn down to the gingham.
In the midst of all these fascinations, Barbara's thoughts seemed to have 
been still running on what Kit had said at tea-time; for, when they were 
coming out of the play, she asked him, with an hysterical simper, if Miss 
Nell was as handsome as the lady who jumped over the ribbons.
"As handsome as her?" said Kit. "Double as handsome."
"Oh Christopher! I'm sure she was the beautifullest creature ever was," 
said Barbara.
"Nonsense!" returned Kit. "She was well enough, I don't deny that; but 
think how she was dressed and painted, and what a difference that made. Why 
you are a good deal better-looking than her, Barbara."
"Oh Christopher!" said Barbara, looking down.
"You are, any day," said Kit, - "and so's your mother."
Poor Barbara!
What was all this though - even all this - to the extraordinary dissipation 
that ensued, when Kit, walking into an oyster-shop as bold as if he lived 
there, and not so much as looking at the counter or the man behind it, led 
his party into a box - a private box, fitted up with red curtains, white 
tablecloth, and cruet-stand complete - and ordered a fierce gentleman with 
whiskers, who acted as waiter and called him, him Christopher Nubbles, 
"sir," to bring three dozen of his largest-sized oysters, and to look sharp 
about it! Yes, Kit told this gentleman to look sharp, and he not only said 
he would look sharp, but he actually did, and presently came running back 
with the newest loaves, and the freshest butter, and the largest oysters, 
ever seen. Then said Kit to this gentleman, "a pot of beer," - just so - 
and the gentleman, instead of replying, "Sir, did you address that language 
to me?" only said, "Pot o' beer, sir? yes, sir," and went off and fetched 
it, and put it on the table in a small decanter-stand, like those which 
blind men's dogs carry about the streets in their mouths, to catch the half-
pence in; and both Kit's mother and Barbara's mother declared as he turned 
away that he was one of the slimmest and gracefullest young men she had 
ever looked upon.
Then they fell to work upon the supper in earnest; and there was Barbara, 
that foolish Barbara, declaring that she couldn't eat more than two, and 
wanting more pressing than you would believe before she would eat four: 
though her mother and Kit's mother made up for it pretty well, and ate and 
laughed and enjoyed themselves so thoroughly that it did Kit good to see 
them and made him laugh and eat likewise from strong sympathy. But the 
greatest miracle of the night was little Jacob, who ate oysters as if he 
had been born and bred to the business - sprinkled the pepper and the 
vinegar with a discretion beyond his years - and afterwards built a grotto 
on the table with the shells. There was the baby too, who had never closed 
an eye all night, but had sat as good as gold, trying to force a large 
orange into his mouth, and gazing intently at the lights in the chandelier -
 there he was, sitting up in his mother's lap, staring at the gas without 
winking, and making indentations in his soft visage with an oyster-shell, 
to that degree that a heart of iron must have loved him! In short, there 
never was a more successful supper; and when Kit ordered in a glass of 
something hot to finish with, and proposed Mr and Mrs Garland before 
sending it round, there were not six happier people in all the world.
But all happiness has an end - hence the chief pleasure of its next 
beginning - and as it was now growing late, they agreed it was time to turn 
their faces homewards. So, after going a little out of their way to see 
Barbara and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they were to 
pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the door, with an early 
appointment for returning to Finchley next morning, and a great many plans 
for next quarter's enjoyment. Then, Kit took little Jacob on his back, and 
giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the baby, they all trudged 
merrily home together.


Chapter 40

Full of that vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next morning, 
Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his faith in last night's enjoyments a 
little shaken by cool daylight and the return to everyday duties and 
occupations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the appointed place. 
And being careful not to awaken any of the little household, who were yet 
resting from their unusual fatigues, Kit left his money on the chimney-
piece, with an inscription in chalk calling his mother's attention to the 
circumstance, and informing her that it came from her dutiful son; and went 
his way, with a heart something heavier than his pockets, but free from any 
very great oppression notwithstanding.
Oh these holidays! why will they leave us some regret? why cannot we push 
them back, only a week or two in our memories, so as to put them at once at 
that convenient distance whence they may be regarded either with a calm 
indifference or a pleasant effort of recollection! why will they hang about 
us, like the flavour of yesterday's wine, suggestive of headaches and 
lassitude, and those good intentions for the future, which, under the 
earth, form the everlasting pavement of a large estate, and, upon it, 
usually endure until dinner-time or thereabouts.
Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that Barbara's mother was 
disposed to be cross, or that she slightly underrated Astley's, and thought 
the clown was older than they had taken him to be last night? Kit was not 
surprised to hear her say so - not he. He had already had a misgiving that 
the inconstant actors in that dazzling vision had been doing the same thing 
the night before last, and would do it again that night, and the next, and 
for weeks and months to come, though he would not be there. Such is the 
difference between yesterday and today. We are all going to the play, or 
coming home from it.
However, the Sun himself is weak when he first rises, and gathers strength 
and courage as the day gets on. By degrees, they began to recall 
circumstances more and more pleasant in their nature, until, what between 
talking, walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in such good heart, 
that Barbara's mother declared she never felt less tired or in better 
spirits. And so said Kit. Barbara had been silent all the way, but she said 
so too. Poor little Barbara! She was very quiet.
They were at home in such good time that Kit had rubbed down the pony and 
made him as spruce as a racehorse, before Mr Garland came down to 
breakfast; which punctual and industrious conduct the old lady, and the old 
gentleman, and Mr Abel, highly extolled. At his usual hour (or rather at 
his usual minute and second, for he was the soul of punctuality) Mr Abel 
walked out, to be overtaken by the London coach, and Kit and the old 
gentleman went to work in the garden.
This was not the least pleasant of Kit's employments. On a fine day they 
were quite a family party; the old lady sitting hard by with her work-
basket on a little table; the old gentleman digging, or pruning, or 
clipping about with a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some way or 
other with great assiduity; and Whisker looking on from his paddock in 
placid contemplation of them all. Today they were to trim the grapevine, so 
Kit mounted halfway up a short ladder, and began to snip and hammer away, 
while the old gentleman, with a great interest in his proceedings, handed 
up the nails and shreds of cloth as he wanted them. The old lady and 
Whisker looked on as usual.
"Well Christopher," said Mr Garland, "and so you have made a new friend, 
eh?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?" returned Kit, looking down from the ladder.
"You have made a new friend, I hear from Mr Abel," said the old gentleman, 
"at the office!"
"Oh - yes sir, yes. He behaved very handsome, sir."
"I'm glad to hear it," returned the old gentleman with a smile. "He is 
disposed to behave more handsomely still, though, Christopher."
"Indeed, sir! It's very kind in him, but I don't want him to, I'm sure," 
said Kit, hammering stoutly at an obdurate nail.
"He is rather anxious," pursued the old gentleman, "to have you in his own 
service - take care what you're doing, or you will fall down and hurt 
yourself."
"To have me in his service, sir!" cried Kit, who had stopped short in his 
work and faced about on the ladder like some dexterous tumbler. "Why, sir, 
I don't think he can be in earnest when he says that."
"Oh! But he is indeed," said Mr Garland. "And he has told Mr Abel so."
"I never heard of such a thing!" muttered Kit, looking ruefully at his 
master and mistress. "I wonder at him; that I do."
"You see, Christopher," said Mr Garland, "this is a point of much 
importance to you, and you should understand and consider it in that light. 
This gentleman is able to give you more money than I - not, I hope, to 
carry through the various relations of master and servant, more kindness 
and confidence, but certainly Christopher, to give you more money."
"Well," said Kit, "after that, sir - "
"Wait a moment," interposed Mr Garland. "That is not all. You were a very 
faithful servant to your old employers, as I understand, and should this 
gentleman recover them, as it is his purpose to attempt doing by every 
means in his power, I have no doubt that you being in his service, would 
meet with your reward. Besides," added the old gentleman with stronger 
emphasis, "besides having the pleasure of being again brought into 
communication with those to whom you seem to be so very strongly and 
disinterestedly attached. You must think of all this, Christopher, and not 
be rash or hasty in your choice."
Kit did suffer one twinge, one momentary pang, in keeping the resolution he 
had already formed, when this last argument passed swiftly into his 
thoughts, and conjured up the realisation of all his hopes and fancies. But 
it was gone in a minute, and he sturdily rejoined that the gentleman must 
look out for somebody else, as he did think he might have done at first.
"He has no right to think that I'd be led away to go to him, sir," said 
Kit, turning round again after half a minute's hammering. "Does he think 
I'm a fool?"
"He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse his offer," said Mr Garland 
gravely.
"Then let him, sir," retorted Kit; "what do I care, sir, what he thinks? 
why should I care for his thinking, sir, when I know that I should be a 
fool, and worse than a fool, sir, to leave the kindest master and mistress 
that ever was or can be, who took me out of the streets a very poor and 
hungry lad indeed - poorer and hungrier perhaps than ever you think for, 
sir - to go to him or anybody? If Miss Nell was to come back, ma'am," added 
Kit, turning suddenly to his mistress, "why that would be another thing, 
and perhaps if she wanted me, I might ask you now and then to let me work 
for her when all was done at home. But when she comes back, I see now that 
she'll be rich as old master always said she would, and being a rich young 
lady, what could she want of me! No, no," added Kit, shaking his head 
sorrowfully, "she'll never want me any more, and bless her, I hope she 
never may, though I should like to see her too!"
Here Kit drove a nail into the wall, very hard - much harder than was 
necessary - and having done so, faced about again.
"There's the pony, sir," said Kit - "Whisker, ma'am (and he knows so well 
I'm talking about him that he begins to neigh directly, sir), - would he 
let anybody come near him but me, ma'am? Here's the garden, sir, and Mr 
Abel, ma'am. Would Mr Abel part with me, sir, or is there anybody that 
could be fonder of the garden, ma'am? It would break mother's heart, sir, 
and even little Jacob would have sense enough to cry his eyes out, ma'am, 
if he thought that Mr Abel could wish to part with me so soon, after having 
told me, only the other day, that he hoped we might be together for years 
to come - "
There is no telling how long Kit might have stood upon the ladder, 
addressing his master and mistress by turns, and generally turning towards 
the wrong person, if Barbara had not at that moment come running up to say 
that a messenger from the office had brought a note, which, with an 
expression of some surprise at Kit's oratorical appearance, she put into 
her master's hand.
"Oh!" said the old gentleman after reading it, "ask the messenger to walk 
this way." Barbara tripping off to do as she was bid, he turned to Kit and 
said that they would not pursue the subject any further, and that Kit could 
not be more unwilling to part with them, than they would be to part with 
Kit; a sentiment which the old lady very generously echoed.
"At the same time, Christopher," added Mr Garland, glancing at the note in 
his hand, "if the gentleman should want to borrow you now and then for an 
hour or so, or even a day or so, at a time, we must consent to lend you, 
and you must consent to be lent - Oh! here is the young gentleman. How do 
you do, sir?"
This salutation was addressed to Mr Chuckster, who, with his hat extremely 
on one side, and his hair a long way beyond it, came swaggering up the 
walk.
"Hope I see you well, sir," returned that gentleman. "Hope I see you well, 
ma'am. Charming box this, sir. Delicious country to be sure."
"You want to take Kit back with you, I find?" observed Mr Garland.
"I've got a chariot-cab waiting on purpose," replied the clerk. "A very 
spanking grey, in that cab, sir, if you're a judge of horse-flesh."
Declining to inspect the spanking grey, on the plea that he was but poorly 
acquainted with such matters, and would but imperfectly appreciate his 
beauties, Mr Garland invited Mr Chuckster to partake of a slight repast in 
the way of lunch. That gentleman readily consenting, certain cold viands, 
flanked with ale and wine, were speedily prepared for his refreshment. At 
this repast, Mr Chuckster exerted his utmost abilities to enchant his 
entertainers, and impress them with a conviction of the mental superiority 
of those who dwelt in town; with which view he led the discourse to the 
small scandal of the day, in which he was justly considered by his friends 
to shine prodigiously. Thus, he was in a condition to relate the exact 
circumstances of the difference between the Marquis of Mizzler and Lord 
Bobby, which it appeared originated in a disputed bottle of champagne, and 
not in a pigeon-pie, as erroneously reported in the newspapers; neither had 
Lord Bobby said to the Marquis of Mizzler, "Mizzler, one of us two tells a 
lie, and I'm not the man," as incorrectly stated by the same authorities; 
but, "Mizzler, you know where I'm to be found, and, damme, sir, find me if 
you want me" - which, of course, entirely changed the aspect of this 
interesting question, and placed it in a very different light. He also 
acquainted them with the precise amount of the income guaranteed by the 
Duke of Thigsberry to Violetta Stetta of the Italian Opera, which is 
appeared was payable quarterly, and not half-yearly, at the public had been 
given to understand, and which was exclusive, and not inclusive, (as had 
been monstrously stated,) of jewelry, perfumery, hair-powder for five 
footmen, and two daily changes of kid gloves for a page. Having entreated 
the old lady and gentleman to set their minds at rest on these absorbing 
points, for they might rely on his statement being the correct one, Mr 
Chuckster entertained them with theatrical chit-chat and the court 
circular; and so wound up a brilliant and fascinating conversation which he 
had maintained alone, and without any assistance, whatever, for upwards of 
three-quarters of an hour.
"And now that the nag has got his wind again," said Mr Chuckster, rising in 
a graceful manner, "I'm afraid I must cut my stick."
Neither Mr nor Mrs Garland offered any opposition to his tearing himself 
away, (feeling no doubt, that such a man could ill be spared from his 
proper sphere of action,) and therefore Mr Chuckster and Kit were shortly 
afterwards upon their way to town; Kit being perched upon the box of the 
cabriolet beside the driver, and Mr Chuckster seated in solitary state 
inside, with one of his boots sticking out at each of the front windows.
When they reached the Notary's house, Kit followed into the office, and was 
desired by Mr Abel to sit down and wait, for the gentleman who wanted him 
had gone out, and perhaps might not return for some time. This anticipation 
was strictly verified, for Kit had had his dinner, and his tea, and had 
read all the lighter matter in the Law-List, and the Post-Office Directory, 
and had fallen asleep a great many times, before the gentleman whom he had 
seen before, came in; which he did at last in a very great hurry.
He was closeted with Mr Witherden for some little time, and Mr Abel had 
been called in to assist at the conference, before Kit, wondering very much 
what he was wanted for, was summoned to attend them.
"Christopher," said the gentleman, turning to him directly he entered the 
room, "I have found your old master and young mistress."
"No, sir! Have you, though?" returned Kit, his eyes sparkling with delight. 
"Where are they, sir? How are they, sir? Are they - are they near here?"
"A long way from here," returned the gentleman, shaking his head. "But I am 
going away tonight to bring them back, and I want you to go with me."
"Me, sir?" cried Kit, full of joy and surprise.
"The place," said the strange gentleman, turning thoughtfully to the 
Notary, "indicated by this man of the dogs, is - how far from here - sixty 
miles?"
"From sixty to seventy."
"Humph! If we travel post all night, we shall reach there in good time 
tomorrow morning. Now, the only question is, as they will not know me, and 
the child, God bless her, would think that any stranger pursuing them had a 
design upon her grandfather's liberty, - can I do better than take this 
lad, whom they both know and will readily remember, as an assurance to them 
of my friendly intentions?"
"Certainly not," replied the Notary. "Take Christopher by all means."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Kit, who had listened to this discourse with 
a lengthening countenance, "but if that's the reason, I'm afraid I should 
do more harm than good - Miss Nell, sir, she knows me, and would trust in 
me, I am sure; but old master - I don't know why, gentlemen; nobody does - 
would not bear me in his sight after he had been ill, and Miss Nell herself 
told me that I must not go near him or let him see me any more. I should 
spoil all that you were doing if I went, I'm afraid. I'd give the world to 
go, but you had better not take me, sir."
"Another difficulty!" cried the impetuous gentleman. "Was ever man so beset 
as I? Is there nobody else that knew them, nobody else in whom they had any 
confidence! Solitary as their lives were, is there no one person who would 
serve my purpose?"
"Is there, Christopher?" said the Notary.
"Not one, sir," replied Kit. "Yes, though - there's my mother."
"Did they know her?" said the single gentleman.
"Know her, sir! why, she was always coming backwards and forwards. They 
were as kind to her, as they were to me. Bless you, sir, she expected 
they'd come back to her house."
"Then where the devil is the woman?" said the impatient gentleman, catching 
up his hat. "Why isn't she here? Why is that woman always out of the way 
when she is most wanted?"
In a word, the single gentleman was bursting out of the office, bent upon 
laying violent hands on Kit's mother, forcing her into a post-chaise, and 
carrying her off, when this novel kind of abduction was with some 
difficulty prevented by the joint efforts of Mr Abel and the Notary, who 
restrained him by dint of their remonstrances, and persuaded him to sound 
Kit upon the probability of her being able and willing to undertake such a 
journey on so short a notice.
This occasioned some doubts on the part of Kit, and some violent 
demonstrations on that of the single gentleman, and a great many soothing 
speeches on that of the Notary and Mr Abel. The upshot of the business was, 
that Kit, after weighing the matter in his mind and considering it 
carefully, promised on behalf of his mother, that she should be ready 
within two hours from that time to undertake the expedition, and engaged to 
produce her in that place, in all respects equipped and prepared for the 
journey, before the specified period had expired.
Having given this pledge, which was rather a bold one, and not particularly 
easy of redemption, Kit lost no time in sallying forth and taking measures 
for its immediate fulfilment.


Chapter 41

Kit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing the stream of 
people, dashing across the busy roadways, diving into lanes and alleys, and 
stopping or turning aside for nothing, until he came in front of the Old 
Curiosity Shop, when he came to a stand, partly from the habit and partly 
from being out of breath.
It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the old place had never 
looked so dismal as in its dreary twilight. The windows, broken, the rusty 
sashes rattling in their frames, the deserted house a dull barrier dividing 
the glaring lights and bustle of the street into two long lines, and 
standing in the midst, cold, dark, and empty, - presented a cheerless 
spectacle which mingled harshly with the bright prospects the boy had been 
building up for its late inmates, and came like a disappointment or 
misfortune. Kit would have had a good fire roaring up the empty chimneys, 
lights sparkling and shining through the windows, people moving briskly to 
and fro, voices in cheerful conversation, something in unison with the new 
hopes that were astir. He had not expected that the house would wear any 
different aspect - had known indeed that it could not - but coming upon it 
in the midst of eager thoughts and expectations, it checked the current in 
its flow, and darkened it with a mournful shadow.
Kit, however, fortunately for himself, was not learned enough or 
contemplative enough to be troubled with presages of evil afar off, and, 
having no mental spectacles to assist his vision in this respect, saw 
nothing but the dull house, which jarred uncomfortably upon his previous 
thoughts. So, almost wishing that he had not passed it, though hardly 
knowing why, he hurried on again, making up by his increased speed for the 
few moments he had lost.
"Now, if she should be out," thought Kit, as he approached the poor 
dwelling of his mother, "and I not able to find her, this impatient 
gentleman would be in a pretty taking. And sure enough there's no light and 
the door's fast. Now, God forgive me for saying so, but if this is Little 
Bethel's doing, I wish Little Bethel was - was farther off," said Kit 
checking himself, and knocking at the door.
A second knock brought no reply from within the house; but caused a woman 
over the way to look out and inquire who that was, awanting Mrs Nubbles.
"Me," said Kit. "She's at - at Little Bethel, I suppose?" - getting out the 
name of the obnoxious conventicle with some reluctance, and laying a 
spiteful emphasis upon the words.
The neighbour nodded assent.
"Then pray tell me where it is," said Kit, "for I have come on a pressing 
matter, and must fetch her out, even if she was in the pulpit."
It was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold in question, as 
none of the neighbours were of the flock that resorted thither, and few 
knew anything more of it than the name. At last, a gossip of Mrs Nubble's, 
who had accompanied her to chapel on one or two occasions when a 
comfortable cup of tea had preceded her devotions, furnished the needful 
information, which Kit had no sooner obtained than he started off again.
Little Bethel might have been nearer, and might have been in a straighter 
road, though in that case the reverend gentleman who presided over its 
congregation would have lost his favourite allusion to the crooked ways by 
which it was approached, and which enabled him to liken it to Paradise 
itself, in contradistinction to the parish church and the broad 
thoroughfare leading thereunto. Kit found it, at last, after some trouble, 
and pausing at the door to take breath that he might enter with becoming 
decency, passed into the chapel.
It was not badly named in one respect, being in truth a particularly little 
Bethel - a Bethel of the smallest dimensions - with a small number of small 
pews, and a small pulpit, in which a small gentleman (by trade a Shoemaker, 
and by calling a Divine) was delivering in a by no means small voice, a by 
no means small sermon, judging of its dimensions by the condition of his 
audience, which if their gross amount were but small, comprised a still 
smaller number of hearers, as the majority were slumbering.
Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter of extreme difficulty 
to keep her eyes open after the fatigues of last night, and feeling their 
inclination to close strongly backed and seconded by the arguments of the 
preacher, had yielded to the drowsiness that overpowered her, and fallen 
asleep; though not so soundly but that she could, from time to time, utter 
a slight and almost inaudible groan, as if in recognition of the orator's 
doctrines. The baby in her arms was as fast asleep as she; and little 
Jacob, whose youth prevented him from recognising in this prolonged 
spiritual nourishment anything half as interesting as oysters, was 
alternately very fast asleep and very wide awake, as his inclination to 
slumber, or his terror at being personally alluded to in the discourse, 
gained the mastery over him.
"And now I'm here," thought Kit, gliding into the nearest empty pew which 
was opposite his mother's, and on the other side of the little aisle, "how 
am I ever to get at her, or persuade her to come out! I might as well be 
twenty miles off. She'll never wake till it's all over, and there goes the 
clock again! If he would but leave off for a minute, or if they'd only 
sing!"
But there was little encouragement to believe that either event would 
happen for a couple of hours to come. The preacher went on telling them 
what he meant to convince them of before he had done, and it was clear that 
if he only kept to one-half of his promises and forgot the other, he was 
good for that time at least.
In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes about the chapel, and 
happening to let them fall upon a little seat in front of the clerk's desk, 
could scarcely believe them when they showed him - Quilp!
He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted that Quilp was 
there, and there indeed he was, sitting with his hands upon his knees, and 
his hat between them, on a little wooden bracket, with the accustomed grin 
on his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He certainly did 
not glance at Kit or at his mother, and appeared utterly unconscious of 
their presence; still Kit could not help feeling, directly, that the 
attention of the sly little fiend was fastened upon them, and upon nothing 
else.
But, astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the Little 
Bethelites, and not free from a misgiving that it was the forerunner of 
some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue his wonder and to 
take active measures for the withdrawal of his parent, as the evening was 
now creeping on, and the matter grew serious. Therefore, the next time 
little Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract his wandering attention, and 
this not being a very difficult task (one sneeze effected it) he signed to 
him to rouse his mother.
Ill-luck would have it, however, that, just then, the preacher, in a 
forcible exposition of one head of his discourse, leaned over upon the 
pulpit-desk, so that very little more of him than his legs remained inside: 
and, while he made vehement gestures with his right hand, and held on with 
his left, stared, or seemed to stare, straight into little Jacob's eyes, 
threatening him by his strained look and attitude - so it appeared to the 
child - that if he so much as moved a muscle, he, the preacher, would be 
literally, and not figuratively, "down upon him" that instant. In this 
fearful state of things, distracted by the sudden appearance of Kit, and 
fascinated by the eyes of the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat bolt 
upright, wholly incapable of motion, strongly disposed to cry but afraid to 
do so, and returning his pastor's gaze until his infant eyes seemed 
starting from their sockets.
"If I must do it openly, I must," thought Kit. With that, he walked softly 
out of his pew and into his mother's, and as Mr Swiveller would have 
observed if he had been present, "collared" the baby without speaking a 
word.
"Hush, mother!" whispered Kit. "Come along with me, I've got something to 
tell you."
"Where am I?" said Mrs Nubbles.
"In this blessed Little Bethel," returned her son peevishly.
"Blessed indeed!" cried Mrs Nubbles, catching at the word. "Oh, 
Christopher, how have I been edified this night!"
"Yes, yes, I know," said Kit hastily; "but come along, mother, everybody's 
looking at us. Don't make a noise - bring Jacob - that's right!"
"Stay, Satan, stay!" cried the preacher, as Kit was moving off.
"The gentleman says you're to stay, Christopher," whispered his mother.
"Stay, Satan, stay!" roared the preacher again. "Tempt not the woman that 
doth incline her ear to thee, but hearken to the voice of him that calleth. 
He hath a lamb from the fold!" cried the preacher, raising his voice still 
higher and pointing to the baby. "He beareth off a lamb, a precious lamb! 
He goeth about, like a wolf in the night season, and inveigleth the tender 
lambs!"
Kit was the best-tempered fellow in the world, but considering this strong 
language, and being somewhat excited by the circumstances in which he was 
placed, he faced round to the pulpit with the baby in his arms, and replied 
aloud,
"No, I don't. He's my brother."
"He's my brother!" cried the preacher.
"He isn't," said Kit indignantly.
"How can you say such a thing? - and don't call me names if you please; 
what harm have I done? I shouldn't have come to take 'em away, unless I was 
obliged, you may depend upon that. I wanted to do it very quiet, but you 
wouldn't let me. Now you have the goodness to abuse Satan and them, as much 
as you like, sir, and to let me alone if you please."
So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by his mother and little 
Jacob, and found himself in the open air, with an indistinct recollection 
of having seen the people wake up and look surprised, and of Quilp having 
remained, throughout the interruption, in his old attitude, without moving 
his eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to take the smallest notice of 
anything that passed.
"Oh Kit!" said his mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes, "what have 
you done! I never can go there again - never!"
"I'm glad of it, mother. What was there in the little bit of pleasure you 
took last night that made it necessary for you to be low-spirited and 
sorrowful tonight? That's the way you do. If you're happy or merry ever, 
you come here to say, along with that chap, that you're sorry for it. More 
shame for you, mother, I was going to say."
"Hush, dear!" said Mrs Nubbles; "you don't mean what you say I know, but 
you're talking sinfulness."
"Don't mean it? But I do mean it!" retorted Kit. "I don't believe, mother, 
that harmless cheerfulness and good-humour are thought greater sins in 
Heaven than shirt-collars are, and I do believe that those chaps are just 
about as right and sensible in putting down the one as in leaving off the 
other - that's my belief. But I won't say anything more about it, if you'll 
promise not to cry, that's all; and you take the baby that's a lighter 
weight, and give me little Jacob, and as we go along (which we must do 
pretty quick) I'll tell you the news I bring, which will surprise you a 
little, I can tell you. There - that's right. Now you look as if you'd 
never seen Little Bethel in all your life, as I hope you never will again; 
and here's the baby; and little Jacob, you get atop of my back and catch 
hold of me tight round the neck, and whenever a Little Bethel parson calls 
you a precious lamb or says your brother's one, you tell him it's the 
truest thing he's said for a twelvemonth, and that if he'd got a little 
more of the lamb himself, and less of the mint-sauce - not being quite so 
sharp and sour over it - I should like him all the better. That's what 
you've got to say to him, Jacob!"
Talking on in this way, half in jest and half in earnest, and cheering up 
his mother, the children, and himself, by the one simple process of 
determining to be in a good humour, Kit led them briskly forward; and on 
the road home, he related what had passed at the Notary's house, and the 
purpose with which he had intruded on the solemnities of Little Bethel.
His mother was not a little startled on learning what service was required 
of her, and presently fell into a confusion of ideas, of which the most 
prominent were that it was a great honour and dignity to ride in a post-
chaise, and that it was a moral impossibility to leave the children behind. 
But this objection, and a great many others, founded on certain articles of 
dress being at the wash, and certain other articles having no existence in 
the wardrobe of Mrs Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who opposed to each and 
every of them, the pleasure of recovering Nell, and the delight it would be 
to bring her back in triumph.
"There's only ten minutes now, mother" - said Kit when they reached home. 
"There's a bandbox. Throw in what you want, and we'll be off directly."
To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of things which could, 
by no remote contingency, be wanted, and how he left out everything likely 
to be of the smallest use; how a neighbour was persuaded to come and stop 
with the children, and how the children at first cried dismally, and then 
laughed heartily on being promised all kinds of impossible and unheard-of 
toys; how Kit's mother wouldn't leave off kissing them, and how Kit 
couldn't make up his mind to be vexed with her for doing it; would take 
more time and room than you and I can spare. So, passing over all such 
matters, it is sufficient to say that within a few minutes after the two 
hours had expired, Kit and his mother arrived at the Notary's door, where a 
post-chase was already waiting.
"With four horses I declare!" said Kit, quite aghast at the preparations. 
"Well you are going to do it, mother! Here she is, sir. Here's my mother. 
She's quite ready, sir."
"That's well," returned the gentleman. "Now, don't be in a flutter ma'am; 
you'll be taken great care of. Where's the box with the new clothing and 
necessaries for them?"
"Here it is," said the Notary. "In with it, Christopher."
"All right sir," replied Kit. "Quite ready now, sir."
"Then come along," said the single gentleman. And thereupon he gave his arm 
to Kit's mother, handed her into the carriage as politely as you please, 
and took his seat beside her.
Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled the wheels, and off 
they rattled, with Kit's mother hanging out at one window waving a damp 
pocket-handkerchief and screaming out a great many messages to little Jacob 
and the baby, of which nobody heard a word.
Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after them with tears in 
his eyes - not brought there by the departure he witnessed, but by the 
return to which he looked forward. "They went away," he thought, "on foot 
with nobody to speak to them or say a kind word at parting, and they'll 
come back, drawn by four horses, with this rich gentleman for their friend, 
and all their troubles over! She'll forget that she taught me to write - "
Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time to think of, for he 
stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the chaise had 
disappeared, and did not return into the house until the Notary and Mr 
Abel, who had themselves lingered outside till the sound of the wheels was 
no longer distinguishable, had several times wondered what could possibly 
detain him.


Chapter 42

It behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant, and to 
follow the fortunes of little Nell; resuming the thread of the narrative at 
the point where it was left, some chapters back.
In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the two 
sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sympathy with them and her 
recognition in their trials of something akin to her own loneliness of 
spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such moments a time of deep 
delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded was of that kind which 
lives and dies in tears - in one of those wanderings at the quiet hour of 
twilight, when sky, and earth, and air, and rippling water, and sound of 
distant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of the solitary child, and 
inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of a child's world or its easy 
joys - in one of those rambles which had now become her only pleasure or 
relief from care, light had faded into darkness and evening deepened into 
night, and still the young creature lingered in the gloom; feeling a 
companionship in Nature so serene and still, when noise of tongues and 
glare of garish lights would have been solitude indeed.
The sisters had gone home, and she was alone. She raised her eyes to the 
bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of air, and, 
gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her view, and more beyond, and 
more beyond again, until the whole great expanse sparkled with shining 
spheres, rising higher and higher in immeasurable space, eternal in their 
numbers as in their changeless and incorruptible existence. She bent over 
the calm river, and saw them shining in the same majestic order as when the 
dove beheld them gleaming through the swollen waters, upon the mountain 
tops down far below, and dead mankind, a million fathoms deep.
The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by the 
stillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders. The time and place 
awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope - less hope, perhaps, 
than resignation - on the past, and present, and what was yet before her. 
Between the old man and herself there had come a gradual separation, harder 
to bear than any former sorrow. Every evening, and often in the daytime 
too, he was absent, alone; and although she well knew where he went, and 
why - too well from the constant drain upon her scanty purse and from his 
haggard looks - he evaded all inquiry, maintained a strict reserve, and 
even shunned her presence.
She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it, as it 
were, with everything about her, when the distant church-clock bell struck 
nine. Rising at the sound, she retraced her steps, and turned thoughtfully 
towards the town.
She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the stream, led 
into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy light, and 
looking forward more attentively, discerned that it proceeded from what 
appeared to be an encampment of gypsies, who had made a fire in one corner 
at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round it. As 
she was too poor to have any fear of them, she did not alter her course, 
(which, indeed, she could not have done without going a long way round,) 
but quickened her pace a little, and kept straight on.
A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the spot, 
to glance towards the fire. There was a form between it and her, the 
outline strongly developed against the light, which caused her to stop 
abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and were assured that 
it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not, that of the 
person she had supposed, she went on again.
But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been 
carrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the voice that 
spoke - she could not distinguish words - sounded as familiar to her as her 
own.
She turned, and looked back. The person had been seated before, but was now 
in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which he rested 
both hands. The attitude was no less familiar to her than the tone of voice 
had been. It was her grandfather.
Her first impulse was to call to him: her next to wonder who his associates 
could be, and for what purpose they were together. Some vague apprehension 
succeeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination it awakened, she drew 
nearer to the place; not advancing across the open field, however, but 
creeping towards it by the hedge.
In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing among 
a few young trees, could both see and hear, without much danger of being 
observed.
There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gypsy camps they 
had passed in their wayfaring and but one gypsy - a tall athletic man, who 
stood with his arms folded leaning against a tree at a little distance off, 
looking now at the fire, and now under his black eyelashes, at three other 
men who were there, with a watchful but half-concealed interest in their 
conversation. Of these her grandfather was one; the others she recognised 
as the first card-players at the public-house on the eventful night of the 
storm - the man whom they had called Isaac List, and his gruff companion. 
One of the low, arched gypsy-tents, common to that people, was pitched hard 
by, but it either was, or appeared to be, empty.
"Well, are you going?" said the stout man, looking up from the ground where 
he was lying at his ease, into her grandfather's face. "You were in a 
mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own master, I 
hope?"
"Don't vex him," returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on the 
other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he seemed to be 
squinting all over; "he didn't mean any offence."
"You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me 
besides," said the old man, turning from one to the other. "Ye'll drive me 
mad among ye."
The utter irresolution and feebleness of the grey-haired child, contrasted 
with the keen and cunning looks of those in whose hands he was, smote upon 
the little listener's heart. But she constrained himself to attend to all 
that passed, and to note each look and word.
"Confound you, what do you mean?" said the stout man, rising a little, and 
supporting himself on his elbow. "Keep you poor? You'd keep us poor, if you 
could, wouldn't you? That's the way with you whining, puny, pitiful 
players. When you lose, you're martyrs; but I don't find that when you win, 
you look upon the other losers in that light. As to plunder!" cried the 
fellow, raising his voice - "Damme, what do you mean by such ungentlemanly 
language as plunder, eh?"
The speaker laid himself down again at full length, and gave one or two 
short, angry kicks, as if in further expression of his unbounded 
indignation. It was quite plain that he acted the bully, and his friend the 
peacemaker, for some particular purpose; or rather, it would have been to 
any one but the weak old man; for they exchanged glances quite openly, both 
with each other and with the gypsy, who grinned his approval of the jest 
until his white teeth shone again.
The old man stood helplessly among them for a little time, and then said, 
turning to his assailant:
"You yourself were speaking of plunder, just now, you know. Don't be so 
violent with me. You were, were you not!"
"Not of plundering among present company! Honour among - among gentlemen, 
sir," returned the other, who seemed to have been very near giving an 
awkward termination to the sentence.
"Don't be hard upon him, Jowl," said Isaac List. "He's very sorry for 
giving offence. There, - go on with what you were saying - go on."
"I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am," cried Mr Jowl, "to be sitting 
here at my time of life giving advice, when I know it won't be taken, and 
that I shall get nothing but abuse for my pains. But that's the way I've 
gone through life. Experience has never put a chill upon my warm-
heartedness."
"I tell you he's very sorry, don't I?" remonstrated Isaac List, "and that 
he wishes you'd go on."
"Does he wish it?" said the other.
"Ay," groaned the old man, sitting down, and rocking himself to and fro. 
"Go on, go on. It's in vain to fight with it; I can't do it; go on."
"I go on then," said Jowl, "where I left off, when you got up so quick. If 
you're persuaded that it's time for luck to turn, as it certainly is, and 
find that you haven't means enough to try it, (and that's where it is, for 
you know, yourself, that you never have the funds to keep on long enough at 
a sitting,) help yourself to what seems put in your way on purpose. Borrow 
it, I say, and when you're able, pay it back again."
"Certainly," Isaac List struck in, "if this good lady as keeps the waxworks 
has money, and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to bed, and doesn't 
lock her door for fear of fire, it seems a easy thing; quite a Providence, 
I should call it - but then I've been religiously brought up."
"You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing himself 
closer to the old man, while he signed to the gypsy not to come between 
them; "you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out, every hour of the 
day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these strangers to get 
under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the cupboard; suspicion would 
be very wide, and would fall a long way from the mark, no doubt. I'd give 
him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, whatever the amount was."
"But could you?" urged Isaac List. "Is your bank strong enough?"
"Strong enough!" answered the other, with assumed dignity. "Here, you sir, 
give me that box out of the straw!"
This was addressed to the gypsy, who crawled into the low tent on all 
fours, and after some rummaging and rustling returned with a cash-box, 
which the man who had spoken opened with a key he wore about his person.
"Do you see this?" he said, gathering up the money in his hand and letting 
it drop back into the box, between his fingers like water. Do you hear it? 
Do you know the sound of gold? There, put it back - and don't talk about 
banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of your own."
Isaac List, with great apparent humility, protested that he never doubted 
the credit of a gentleman so notorious for his honourable dealing as Mr 
Jowl, and that he had hinted at the production of the box, not for the 
satisfaction of his doubts, for he could have none, but with a view to 
being regaled with a sight of so much wealth, which, though it might be 
deemed by some but an unsubstantial and visionary pleasure, was to one in 
his circumstances a source of extreme delight, only to be surpassed by its 
safe depository in his own personal pockets. Although Mr List and Mr Jowl 
addressed themselves to each other, it was remarkable that they both looked 
narrowly at the old man, who, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, sat 
brooding over it, yet listening eagerly - as it seemed, from a certainly 
involuntary motion of the head, or twitching of the face from time to time -
 to all they said.
"My advice," said Jowl, lying down again, with a careless air, "is plain - 
I have given it, in fact. I act as a friend. Why should I help a man to the 
means perhaps of winning all I have, unless I considered him my friend? 
It's foolish, I dare say, to be so thoughtful of the welfare of other 
people, but that's my constitution, and I can't help it; so don't blame me, 
Isaac List."
"I blame you!" returned the person addressed; "not for the world, Mr Jowl. 
I wish I could afford to be as liberal as you; and, as you say, he might 
pay it back if he won - and if he lost - "
"You're not to take that into consideration at all," said Jowl. "But 
suppose he did, (and nothing's less likely, from all I know of chances,) 
why, it's better to lose other people's money than one's own, I hope?"
"Ah!" cried Isaac List rapturously, "the pleasures of winning! The delight 
of picking up the money - the bright, shining yellow-boys - and sweeping 
'em into one's pocket! The deliciousness of having a triumph at last, and 
thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but went halfway to meet 
it The - but you're not going, old gentleman?"
"I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three 
hurried steps away, and now returned as hurriedly. "I'll have it, every 
penny."
"Why, that's brave," cried Isaac, jumping up and slapping him on the 
shoulder; "and I respect you for having so much young blood left. Ha, ha, 
ha! Joe Jowl's half sorry he advised you now. We've got the laugh against 
him. Ha, ha, ha!"
"He gives me my revenge, mind," said the old man, pointing to him eagerly 
with his shrivelled hand; "mind - he stakes coin against coin, down to the 
last one in the box, be there many or few. Remember that!"
"I'm witness," returned Isaac. "I'll see fair between you."
"I have passed my word," said Jowl, with feigned reluctance, "and I'll keep 
it. When does this match come off? I wish it was over. - Tonight?"
"I must have the money first," said the old man; "and that I'll have 
tomorrow - "
"Why not tonight?" urged Jowl.
"It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried," said the old man. 
"It must be softly done. No, tomorrow night."
"Then tomorrow be it," said Jowl. "A drop of comfort here. Luck to the best 
man! Fill!"
The gypsy produced three tin cups, and filled them to the brim with brandy. 
The old man turned aside and muttered to himself before he drank. Her own 
name struck upon the listener's ear, coupled with some wish so fervent, 
that he seemed to breathe it in an agony of supplication.
"God be merciful to us!" cried the child within herself, "and help us in 
this trying hour! What shall I do to save him!"
The remainder of their conversation was carried on in a lower tone of 
voice, and was sufficiently concise; relating merely to the execution of 
the project, and the best precautions for diverting suspicion. The old man 
then shook hands with his tempters, and withdrew.
They watched his bowed and stooping figure as it retreated slowly, and when 
he turned his head to look back, which he often did, waved their hands, or 
shouted some brief encouragement. It was not until they had seen him 
gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant road, that they 
turned to each other, and ventured to laugh aloud.
"So," said Jowl, warming his hands at the fire, "it's done at last. He 
wanted more persuading than I expected. It's three weeks ago since we first 
put this in his head. What'll he bring, do you think?"
"Whatever he brings, it's halved between us," returned Isaac List.
The other man nodded. "We must make quick work of it," he said, "and then 
cut his acquaintance, or we may be suspected. Sharp's the word."
List and the gypsy acquiesced. When they had all three amused themselves a 
little with their victim's infatuation, they dismissed the subject as one 
which had been sufficiently discussed and began to talk in a jargon which 
the child did not understand. As their discourse appeared to relate to 
matters in which they were warmly interested, however, she deemed it the 
best time for escaping unobserved; and crept away with slow and cautious 
steps, keeping in the shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path through them 
or the dry ditches, until she could emerge upon the road at a point beyond 
their range of vision Then she fled homewards as quickly as she could, torn 
and bleeding from the wounds of thorns and briars, but more lacerated in 
mind, and threw herself upon her bed, distracted.
The first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight, instant flight; 
dragging him from that place, and rather dying of want upon the roadside, 
than ever exposing him again to such terrible temptations. Then, she 
remembered that the crime was not to be committed until next night, and 
there was the intermediate time for thinking, and resolving what to do. 
Then, she was distracted with a horrible fear that he might be committing 
it at that moment; with a dread of hearing shrieks and cries piercing the 
silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might be tempted and 
led on to do, if he were detected in the act, and had but a woman to 
struggle with. It was impossible to bear such torture. She stole to the 
room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. God be praised! 
He was not there, and she was sleeping soundly.
She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But 
who could sleep - sleep! who could lie passively down, distracted by such 
terrors? They came upon her more and more strongly yet Half undressed, and 
with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the old man's bedside, clasped 
him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.
"What's this!" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her 
spectral face.
"I have had a dreadful dream," said the child, with an energy that nothing 
but such terrors should have inspired. "A dreadful horrible dream. I have 
had it once before. It is a dream of grey-haired men like you, in darkened 
rooms by night, robbing the sleepers of their gold. Up, up!" the old man 
shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.
"Not to me," said the child, "not to me - to Heaven to save us from such 
deeds! This dream is too real I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot 
leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must fly."
He looked at her as if she were a spirit - she might have been, for all the 
look of earth she had - and trembled more and more.
"There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute," said the child. 
"Up! and away with me!"
"Tonight?" murmured the old man.
"Yes, tonight," replied the child. "Tomorrow night will be too late. The 
dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"
The old man rose from his bed: his forehead bedewed with the cold sweat of 
fear: and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel messenger 
sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her. She took him by 
the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of the room he had 
proposed to rob she shuddered and looked up into his face. What a white 
face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!
She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding him by the hand as if 
she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered together the little stock 
she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from 
her hands and strapped it on his shoulders - his staff, too, she had 
brought away - and then she led him forth.
Through the strait streets, and narrow crooked outskirts, their trembling 
feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill too, crowned by the old grey castle, 
they toiled with rapid steps, and had not once looked behind.
But as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose in all her gentle 
glory, and, from their venerable age, garlanded with ivy, moss, and waving 
grass, the child looked back upon the sleeping town, deep in the valley's 
shade: and on the far-off river with its winding track of light: and on the 
distant hills; and as she did so, she clasped the hand she held, less 
firmly, and bursting into tears, fell upon the old man's neck.


Chapter 43

Her momentary weakness past, the child again summoned the resolution which 
had until now sustained her, and, endeavouring to keep steadily in her view 
the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and that her 
grandfather's preservation must depend solely on her firmness, unaided by 
one word of advice or any helping hand, urged him onward and looked back no 
more.
While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch before her, and to shrink 
and cower down, as if in the presence of some superior creature, the child 
herself was sensible of a new feeling within her, which elevated her 
nature, and inspired her with an energy and confidence she had never known. 
There was no divided responsibility now; the whole burden of their two 
lives had fallen upon her, and henceforth she must think and act for both. 
"I have saved him," she thought. "In all dangers and distresses, I will 
remember that."
At any other time, the recollection of having deserted the friend who had 
shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of justification - the 
thought that they were guilty, in appearance, of treachery and ingratitude -
 even the having parted from the two sisters - would have filled her with 
sorrow and regret. But now all other considerations were lost in the new 
uncertainties and anxieties of their wild and wandering life; and the very 
desperation of their condition roused and stimulated her.
In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own to the delicate face 
where thoughtful care already mingled with the winning grace and loveliness 
of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips that pressed 
each other with such high resolve and courage of the heart, the slight 
figure firm in its bearing, and yet so very weak, told their silent tale; 
but told it only to the wind that rustled by, which, taking up its burden, 
carried, perhaps to some mother's pillow, faint dreams of childhood fading 
in its bloom, and resting in the sleep that knows no waking.
The night crept on apace, the moon went down, the stars grew pale and dim, 
and morning, cold as they, slowly approached. Then, from behind a distant 
hill, the noble sun rose up, driving the mists in phantom shapes before it, 
and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till darkness came again. 
When it had climbed higher into the sky and there was warmth in its 
cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep, upon a bank hard by some 
water.
But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, and long after he was 
slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole over her 
at last; her grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they slept side 
by side.
A confused sound of voices, mingling with her dreams, awoke her. A man of 
very uncouth and rough appearance was standing over them, and two of his 
companions were looking on from a long heavy boat which had come close to 
the bank while they were sleeping. The boat had neither oar nor sail, but 
was towed by a couple of horses, who, with the rope to which they were 
harnessed slack and dripping in the water, were resting on the path.
"Holloa!" said the man roughly. "What's the matter here?"
"We were only asleep, sir," said Nell. "We have been walking all night."
"A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night," observed the man who 
had first accosted them. "One of you is a trifle too old for that sort of 
work, and the other a trifle too young. Where are you going?"
Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the West, upon which the man 
inquired if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more 
questioning said, "Yes, that was the place."
"Where have you come from?" was the next question; and this being an easier 
one to answer, Nell mentioned the name of the village in which their friend 
the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men or to 
provoke further inquiry.
"I thought somebody had been robbing and ill-using you, might be," said the 
man. "That's all. Good day."
Returning his salute and feeling greatly relieved by his departure, Nell 
looked after him as he mounted one of the horses, and the boat went on. It 
had not gone very far, when it stopped again, and she saw the men beckoning 
to her.
"Did you call to me?" said Nell, running up to them.
"You may go with us if you like," replied one of those in the boat. "We're 
going to the same place."
The child hesitated for a moment. Thinking, as she had thought with great 
trepidation more than once before, that the men whom she had seen with her 
grandfather might, perhaps, in their eagerness for the booty, follow them, 
and, regaining their influence over him, set hers at naught; and that if 
they went with these men, all traces of them must surely be lost at that 
spot; determined to accept the offer. The boat came close to the bank 
again, and before she had had any more time for consideration, she and her 
grandfather were on board, and gliding smoothly down the canal.
The sun shone pleasantly on the bright water, which was sometimes shaded by 
trees, and sometimes open to a wide extent of country, intersected by 
running streams, and rich with wooded hills, cultivated land, and sheltered 
farms. Now and then, a village with its modest spire, thatched roofs, and 
gable-ends, would peep out from among the trees; and, more than once, a 
distant town, with great church towers looming through its smoke, and high 
factories or workshops rising above the mass of houses, would come in view, 
and, by the length of time it lingered in the distance, show them how 
slowly they travelled. Their way lay, for the most part through the low 
grounds, and open plains; and except these distant places, and occasionally 
some men working in the fields, or lounging on the bridges under which they 
passed, to see them creep along, nothing encroached on their monotonous and 
secluded track.
Nell was rather disheartened, when they stopped at a kind of wharf late in 
the afternoon, to learn from one of the men that they would not reach their 
place of destination until next day, and that, if she had no provision with 
her, she had better buy it there. She had but a few pence, having already 
bargained with them for some bread, but even of these it was necessary to 
be very careful, as they were on their way to an utterly strange place, 
with no resource whatever. A small loaf and a morsel of cheese, therefore, 
were all she could afford, and with these she took her place in the boat 
again, and, after half an hour's delay during which the men were drinking 
at the public-house, proceeded on the journey.
They brought some beer and spirits into the boat with them, and what with 
drinking freely before, and again now, were soon in a fair way of being 
quarrelsome and intoxicated. Avoiding the small cabin, therefore, which was 
very dark and filthy, and to which they often invited both her and her 
grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the old man by her side: 
listening to their boisterous hosts with a palpitating heart, and almost 
wishing herself safe on shore again though she should have to walk all 
night.
They were, in truth, very rugged, noisy fellows, and quite brutal among 
themselves, though civil enough to their two passengers. Thus, when a 
quarrel arose between the man who was steering and his friend in the cabin, 
upon the question who had first suggested the propriety of offering Nell 
some beer, and when the quarrel led to a scuffle in which they beat each 
other fearfully, to her inexpressible terror, neither visited his 
displeasure upon her, but each contented himself with venting it on his 
adversary, on whom, in addition to blows, he bestowed a variety of 
compliments, which happily for the child, were conveyed in terms, to her 
quite unintelligible. The difference was finally adjusted, by the man who 
had come out of the cabin knocking the other into it head first, and taking 
the helm into his own hands, without evincing the least discomposure 
himself, or causing any in his friend, who, being of a tolerably strong 
constitution and perfectly inured to such trifles, went to sleep as he was, 
with his heels upwards, and in a couple of minutes or so was snoring 
comfortably.
By this time it was night again, and though the child felt cold, being but 
poorly clad, her anxious thoughts were far removed from her own suffering 
or uneasiness, and busily engaged in endeavouring to devise some scheme for 
their joint subsistence. The same spirit which had supported her on the 
previous night, upheld and sustained her now. Her grandfather lay sleeping 
safely at her side, and the crime to which his madness urged him, was not 
committed. That was her comfort.
How every circumstance of her short, eventful life, came thronging into her 
mind, as they travelled on! Slight incidents, never thought of, or 
remembered until now; faces seen once and ever since forgotten; words, 
scarcely heeded at the time; scenes, of a year ago and those of yesterday, 
mixing up and linking themselves together; familiar places shaping 
themselves out in the darkness from things which, when approached, were, of 
all others, the most remote and most unlike them; sometimes, a strange 
confusion in her mind relative to the occasion of her being there, and the 
place to which she was going, and the people she was with; and imagination 
suggesting remarks and questions which sounded so plainly in her ears, that 
she would start, and turn, and be almost tempted to reply; - all the 
fancies and contradictions common in watching and excitement and restless 
change of place, beset the child.
She happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter the face of the man 
on deck, in whom the sentimental stage of drunkenness had now succeeded to 
the boisterous, and who, taking from his mouth a short pipe, quilted over 
with string, for its longer preservation, requested that she would oblige 
him with a song.
"You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a very strong 
memory," said this gentleman; "the voice and eye I've got evidence for, and 
the memory's an opinion of my own. And I'm never wrong. Let me hear a song 
this minute."
"I don't think I know one, sir," returned Nell.
"You know forty-seven songs," said the man, with a gravity which admitted 
of no altercation on the subject. "Forty-seven's your number. Let me hear 
one of 'em - the best. Give me a song this minute."
Not knowing what might be the consequences of irritating her friend, and 
trembling with the fear of doing so, poor Nell sang him some little ditty 
which she had learned in happier times, and which was so agreeable to his 
ear, that on its conclusion he in the same peremptory manner requested to 
be favoured with another, to which he was so obliging as to roar a chorus 
to no particular tune, and with no words at all, but which amply made up in 
its amazing energy for its deficiency in other respects. The noise of this 
vocal performance awakened the other man, who, staggering upon deck and 
shaking his late opponent by the hand, swore that singing was his pride and 
joy and chief delight, and that he desired no better entertainment. With a 
third call, more imperative than either of the two former, Nell felt 
obliged to comply, and this time a chorus was maintained not only by the 
two men together, but also by the third man on horseback, who, being by his 
position debarred from a nearer participation in the revels of the night, 
roared when his companions roared, and rent the very air. In this way, with 
little cessation, and singing the same songs again and again, the tired and 
exhausted child kept them in good humour all that night; and many a 
cottager, who was roused from his soundest sleep by the discordant chorus 
as it floated away upon the wind, hid his head beneath the bedclothes and 
trembled at the sounds.
At length the morning dawned. It was no sooner light than it began to rain 
heavily. As the child could not endure the intolerable vapours of the 
cabin, they covered her, in return for her exertions, with some pieces of 
sail-cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her tolerably dry 
and to shelter her grandfather besides. As the day advanced the rain 
increased. At noon it poured down more hopelessly and heavily than ever, 
without the faintest promise of abatement.
They had, for some time, been gradually approaching the place for which 
they were bound. The water had become thicker and dirtier; other barges, 
coming from it, passed them frequently; the paths of coal-ash and huts of 
staring brick, marked the vicinity of some great manufacturing town; while 
scattered streets and houses, and smoke from distant furnaces, indicated 
that they were already in the outskirts. Now, the clustered roofs, and 
piles of buildings, trembling with the working of engines, and dimly 
resounding with their shrieks and throbbings; the tall chimneys vomiting 
forth a black vapour, which hung in a dense ill-favoured cloud above the 
housetops and filled the air with gloom; the clank of hammers beating upon 
iron, the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds, gradually augmenting until 
all the various sounds blended into one and none was distinguishable for 
itself, announced the termination of their journey.
The boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged. The men were occupied 
directly. The child and her grandfather, after waiting in vain to thank 
them, or ask them whither they should go, passed through a dirty lane into 
a crowded street, and stood, amid its din and tumult, and in the pouring 
rain, as strange, bewildered, and confused, as if they had lived a thousand 
years before, and were raised from the dead and placed there by a miracle.


Chapter 44

The throng of people hurried by, in two opposite streams, with no symptom 
of cessation or exhaustion; intent upon their own affairs; and undisturbed 
in their business speculations, by the roar of carts and waggons laden with 
clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet upon the wet and greasy 
pavement, the rattling of the rain on windows and umbrella tops, the 
jostling of the more impatient passengers, and all the noise and tumult of 
a crowded street in the high tide of its occupation; while the two poor 
strangers, stunned and bewildered by the hurry they beheld but had no part 
in, looked mournfully on; feeling, amidst the crowd, a solitude which has 
no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner, who, tossed to 
and fro upon the billows of a mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking 
on the water which hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his 
burning tongue.
They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched the 
faces of those who passed, to find in one among them a ray of encouragement 
or hope. Some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to themselves, some made 
slight gestures, as if anticipating the conversation in which they would 
shortly be engaged, some wore the cunning look of bargaining and plotting, 
some were anxious and eager, some slow and dull; in some countenances were 
written gain; in others, loss. It was like being in the confidence of all 
these people to stand quietly there, looking into their faces as they 
flitted past. In busy places, where each man has an object of his own, and 
feels assured that every other man has his, his character and purpose are 
written broadly in his face. In the public walks and lounges of a town, 
people go to see and to be seen, and there the same expression, with little 
variety, is repeated a hundred times. The working-day faces come nearer to 
the truth, and let it out more plainly.
Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens, the 
child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering interest, 
amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition. But 
cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in which to lay her 
aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the point whence they had 
strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice them, or to whom she durst 
appeal. After some time, they left their place of refuge from the weather, 
and mingled with the concourse.
Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer people 
about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own breasts, and 
the same indifference from all around. The lights in the streets and shops 
made them feel yet more desolate, for with their help, night and darkness 
seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body, 
and sick to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness and 
resolution even to creep along.
Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful country 
places, in which at least they might have hungered and thirsted, with less 
suffering than in this squalid strife! They were but an atom, here, in a 
mountain heap of misery, the very sight of which increased their 
hopelessness and suffering.
The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their 
destitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who 
began to murmur at having been led away from their late abode, and demand 
that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no relief or 
prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps through the 
deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to find the boat in 
which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on board that night. But 
here again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed, and some fierce 
dogs, barking at their approach, obliged them to retreat.
"We must sleep in the open air tonight, dear," said the child in a weak 
voice, as they turned away from this last repulse; "and tomorrow we will 
beg our way to some quiet part of the country, and try to earn our bread in 
very humble work."
"Why did you bring me here?" returned the old man fiercely. "I cannot bear 
these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did you force 
me to leave it?"
"Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more," said the child, 
with a momentary firmness that lost itself in tears; "and we must live 
among poor people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are old and 
weak, I know; but look at me. I never will complain if you will not, but I 
have some suffering indeed."
"Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!" cried the old man, 
clasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious 
face, her travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet; "has all my 
agony of care brought her to this at last! Was I a happy man once, and have 
I lost happiness and all I had, for this!"
"If we were in the country now," said the child with assumed cheerfulness, 
as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, "we should find some 
good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding 
and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep, thinking of him while he 
watched. Please God we shall be there soon - tomorrow or next day at the 
farthest - and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing 
we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if 
any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us 
further. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway - very 
dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind don't blow in here - What's 
that!"
Uttering a half-shriek, she recoiled from a black figure which came 
suddenly out of the dark recess in which they were about to take refuge, 
and stood still, looking at them.
"Speak again," it said; "do I know the voice?"
"No," replied the child timidly; "we are strangers, and having no money for 
a night's lodging, were going to rest here."
There was a feeble lamp at no great distance; the only one in the place, 
which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean 
it was. To this, the figure beckoned them; at the same time drawing within 
its rays, as if to show them that it had no desire to conceal itself or 
take them at an advantage.
The form was that of man, miserably clad, and begrimed with smoke, which, 
perhaps by its contrast with the natural colour of his skin, made him look 
paler than he really was. That he was naturally of a very wan and pallid 
aspect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features, and sunken eyes, no 
less than a certain look of patient endurance, sufficiently testified. His 
voice was harsh by nature, but not brutal; and though his face, besides 
possessing the characteristics already mentioned, was overshadowed by a 
quantity of long dark hair, its expression was neither ferocious nor bad.
"How came you to think of resting there?" he said. "Or how," he added, 
looking more attentively at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest 
at this time of night?"
"Our misfortunes," the grandfather answered, "are the cause."
"Do you know," said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell, "how wet 
she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?"
"I know it well, God help me," he replied. "What can I do!"
The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her garments, from which 
the rain was running off in little streams, "I can give you warmth," he 
said, after a pause; "nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that 
house," pointing to the doorway from which he had emerged, "but she is 
safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can 
pass the night beside it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see 
that red light yonder?"
They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging in the dark sky; the 
dull reflection of some distant fire.
"It's not far," said the man. "Shall I take you there? You were going to 
sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes - nothing 
better."
Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he took 
Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.
Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had been an infant, 
and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way through 
what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of the town; not 
turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running water-spouts, but 
holding his course regardless of such obstructions, and making his way 
straight through them. They had proceeded thus, in silence, for some 
quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had 
pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they had come, when it 
suddenly burst upon them again, streaming up from the high chimney of a 
building close before them.
"This is the place," he said, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take 
her hand. "Don't be afraid. There's nobody here, will harm you."
It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to enter, 
and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension and alarm. In 
a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great black 
apertures in the upper walls, open to the external air; echoing to the roof 
with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing 
of red-hot metal plunged in water, and a hundred strange unearthly noises 
never heard elsewhere; in this gloomy place, moving like demons among the 
flame and smoke, dimly and fitfully seen, flushed and tormented by the 
burning fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty blow from any one of 
which must have crushed some workman's skull, a number of men laboured like 
giants. Others reposing on heaps of coals or ashes, with their faces turned 
to the black vault above, slept or rested from their toil. Others, again, 
opening the white-hot furnace-doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came 
rushing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others 
drew forth, with clashing noise, upon the ground, great sheets of glowing 
steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep light like that 
which reddens in the eyes of savage beasts.
Through these bewildering sights and deafening sounds, their conductor let 
them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt by 
night and day - so, at least, they gathered from the motion of his lips, 
for as yet they could only see him speak: not hear him. The man who had 
been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly 
withdrew, and left them with their friend, who, spreading Nell's little 
cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer-
clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. For 
himself he took his station on a rugged mat before the furnace-door, and 
resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the 
iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave 
below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the great 
fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to fall with 
a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling 
her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon 
his neck she lay and dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how 
short a time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any 
cold air that might find its way into the building, and from the scorching 
heat, by some of the workmen's clothes, and glancing at their friend saw 
that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with a fixed earnestness 
of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very still that he did not 
even seem to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and waking, 
looking so long at his motionless figure that at length she almost feared 
he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, 
ventured to whisper in his ear.
He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied, as if 
to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, looked 
inquiringly into her face.
"I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all in motion, and 
you are so very quiet."
"They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my humour. They laugh at 
me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder there - that's my friend."
"The fire?" said the child.
"It has been alive as long as I have," the man made answer. "We talk and 
think together all night long."
The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his 
eyes in their former direction, and was musing as before.
"It's like a book to me," he said - "the only book I ever learned to read; 
and many an old story it tells me. It's music, for I should know its voice 
among a thousand and there are other voices in its roar. It has its 
pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I 
trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, that fire, and shows me all my 
life."
The child bending down to listen to his words, could not help remarking 
with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse.
"Yes," he said, with a faint smile, "it was the same when I was quite a 
baby, and crawled about it, till I fell asleep. My father watched it then."
"Had you no mother?" asked the child.
"No, she was dead. Women work hard in these parts. She worked herself to 
death they told me, and as they said so then, the fire has gone on saying 
the same thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always believed 
it."
"Were you brought up here, then," said the child.
"Summer and winter," he replied. "Secretly at first but when they found it 
out, they let him keep me here. So the fire nursed me - the same fire. It 
has never gone out."
"You are fond of it?" said the child.
"Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall down - just there, where 
those ashes are burning now - and wondered, I remember, why it didn't help 
him."
"Have you been here, ever since?" asked the child.
"Ever since I came to watch it; but there was a while between, and a very 
cold dreary while it was. It burnt all the time though, and roared and 
leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess, 
from looking at me, what kind of a child I was, but for all the difference 
between us I was a child, and when I saw you in the street tonight, you put 
me in mind of myself, as I was after he died, and made me wish to bring you 
to the fire. I thought of those old times again, when I saw you sleeping by 
it. You should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down 
again!"
With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes 
with which she had found herself enveloped when she woke, returned to his 
seat, whence he moved no more unless to feed the furnace, but remained 
motionless as a statue. The child continued to watch him for a little time, 
but soon yielded to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark 
strange place and on the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully, as if the room 
had been a palace chamber, and the bed, a bed of down.
When she awoke again, broad day was shining through the lofty openings in 
the walls, and, stealing in slanting rays but midway down, seemed to make 
the building darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult were 
still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning fiercely as before; 
for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.
Her friend parted his breakfast - a scanty mess of coffee and some coarse 
bread - with the child and her grandfather, and inquired whither they were 
going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, remote 
from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering tongue inquired 
what road they would do best to take.
"I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head, "for such as I, 
pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to 
breathe. But there are such places yonder."
"And far from here?" said Nell.
"Aye surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road 
lies, too, though miles and miles, all lighted up by fires like ours - a 
strange black road, and one that would frighten you by night."
"We are here and must go on," said the child boldly; for she saw that the 
old man listened with anxious ears to this account.
"Rough people - paths never made for little feet like yours - a dismal, 
blighted way - is there no turning back, my child?"
"There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. 
If not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed you do not 
know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from 
it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would not."
"God forbid, if it is so!" said their uncouth protector, glancing from the 
eager child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon 
the ground. "I'll direct you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could 
do more."
He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what 
course they should hold when they had gained it. He lingered so long on 
these instructions, that the child, with a fervent blessing, tore herself 
away, and staid to hear no more.
But, before they had reached the corner of the lane, the man came running 
after them, and, pressing her hand, left something in it - two old, 
battered, smoke-encrusted penny pieces. Who knows but they shone as 
brightly in the eyes of angels, as golden gifts that have been chronicled 
on tombs?
And thus they separated; the child to lead her sacred charge farther from 
guilt and shame; and the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the spot 
where his guests had slept, and read new histories in his furnace fire.


Chapter 45

In all their journeying, they had never longed so ardently, they had never 
so pined and wearied, for the freedom of pure air and open country, as now. 
No, not even on that memorable morning, when, deserting their old home, 
they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a strange world, and left all 
the dumb and senseless things they had known and loved, behind - not even 
then, had they so yearned for the fresh solitudes of wood, hillside, and 
field, as now, when the noise and dirt and vapour, of the great 
manufacturing town, reeking with lean misery and hungry wretchedness, 
hemmed them in on every side, and seemed to shut out hope, and render 
escape impossible.
"Two days and nights!" thought the child. "He said two days and nights we 
should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh! if we live to reach 
the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, though it 
is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank God 
for so much mercy!"
With thoughts like this, and with some vague design of travelling to a 
great distance among streams and mountains, where only very poor and simple 
people lived, and where they might maintain themselves by very humble 
helping work in farms, free from such terrors as that from which they fled, 
- the child, with no resource but the poor man's gift, and no encouragement 
but that which flowed from her own heart, and its sense of the truth and 
right of what she did, nerved herself to this last journey and boldly 
pursued her task.
"We shall be very slow today, dear," she said, as they toiled painfully 
through the streets; "my feet are sore, and I have pains in all my limbs 
from the wet of yesterday. I saw that he looked at us and thought of that, 
when he said how long we should be upon the road."
"It was a dreary way, he told us of," returned her grandfather, piteously. 
"Is there no other road? Will you not let me go some other way than this?"
"Places lie beyond these," said the child, firmly, "where we may live in 
peace, and be tempted to do no harm. We will take the road that promises to 
have that end, and we would not turn out of it, if it were a hundred times 
worse than our fears lead us to expect. We would not, dear, would we?"
"No," replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no less than in his 
manner. "No. Let us go on. I am ready. I am quite ready, Nell."
The child walked with more difficulty than she had led her companion to 
expect, for the pains that racked her joints were of no common severity, 
and every exertion increased them. But they wrung from her no complaint, or 
look of suffering; and, though the two travellers proceeded very slowly, 
they did proceed. Clearing the town in course of time, they began to feel 
that they were fairly on their way.
A long suburb of red brick houses, - some with patches of garden-ground, 
where coal-dust and factory smoke darkened the shrinking leaves, and coarse 
rank flowers, and where the struggling vegetation sickened and sank under 
the hot breath of kiln and furnace, making them by its presence seem yet 
more blighting and unwholesome than in the town itself, - a long, flat, 
straggling suburb passed, they came, by slow degrees, upon a cheerless 
region, where not a blade of grass was seen to grow, where not a bud put 
forth its promise in the spring, where nothing green could live but on the 
surface of the stagnant pools, which here and there lay idly sweltering by 
the black road side.
Advancing more and more into the shadow of this mournful place, its dark 
depressing influence stole upon their spirits, and filled them with a 
dismal gloom. On every side, and far as the eye could see into the heavy 
distance, tall chimneys, crowding on each other, and presenting that 
endless repetition of the same dull, ugly form, which is the horror of 
oppressive dreams, poured out their plague of smoke, obscured the light, 
and made foul the melancholy air. On mounds of ashes by the way side, 
sheltered only by a few rough boards, or rotten penthouse roofs, strange 
engines spun and writhed like tortured creatures: clanking their iron 
chains, shrieking in their rapid whirl from time to time as though in 
torment unendurable, and making the ground tremble with their agonies. 
Dismantled houses here and there appeared, tottering to the earth, propped 
up by fragments of others that had fallen down, unroofed, windowless, 
blackened, desolate, but yet inhabited. Men, women, children, wan in their 
looks and ragged in attire, tended the engines, fed their tributary fires, 
begged upon the road, or scowled half-naked from the doorless houses. Then, 
came more of the wrathful monsters, whose like they almost seemed to be in 
their wildness and their untamed air, screeching and turning round and 
round again; and still, before, behind, and to the right and left, was the 
same interminable perspective of brick towers, never ceasing in their black 
vomit, blasting all things living or inanimate, shutting out the face of 
day, and closing in on all these horrors with a dense dark cloud.
But, night-time in this dreadful spot! - night, when the smoke was changed 
to fire; when every chimney spirted up its flame; and places, that had been 
dark vaults all day, now shone red hot, with figures moving to and fro 
within their blazing jaws, and calling to one another with hoarse cries - 
night, when the noise of every strange machine was aggravated by the 
darkness; when the people near them looked wilder and more savage; when 
bands of unemployed labourers paraded the roads, or clustered by torchlight 
round their leaders, who told them, in stern language, of their wrongs, and 
urged them on to frightful cries and threats; when maddened men, armed with 
sword and firebrand, spurning the tears and prayers of women who would 
restrain them, rushed forth on errands of terror and destruction, to work 
no ruin half so surely as their own - night, when carts came rumbling by, 
filled with rude coffins (for contagious disease and death had been busy 
with the living crops); when orphans cried, and distracted women shrieked 
and followed in their wake - night, when some called for bread, and some 
for drink to drown their cares, and some with tears, and some with 
staggering feet, and some with bloodshot eyes, went brooding home - night, 
which, unlike the night that Heaven sends on earth, brought with it no 
peace, nor quiet, nor signs of blessed sleep - who shall tell the terrors 
of the night to the young wandering child!
And yet she lay down, with nothing between her and the sky; and, with no 
fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor old 
man. So very weak and spent, she felt, so very calm and unresisting, that 
she had no thought of any wants of her own, but prayed that God would raise 
up some friend for him. She tried to recall the way they had come, and to 
look in the direction where the fire by which they had slept last night was 
burning. She had forgotten to ask the name of the poor man, their friend, 
and when she had remembered him in her prayers, it seemed ungrateful not to 
turn one look towards the spot where he was watching.
A penny loaf was all they had had that day. It was very little, but even 
hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquility that crept over her senses. 
She lay down, very gently, and, with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into 
a slumber. It was not like sleep - and yet it must have been, or why those 
pleasant dreams of the little scholar all night long!
Morning came. Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and hearing, and 
yet the child made no complaint - perhaps would have made none, even if she 
had not had that inducement to be silent, travelling by her side. She felt 
a hopelessness of their ever being extricated together from that forlorn 
place; a dull conviction that she was very ill, perhaps dying; but no fear 
or anxiety.
A loathing of food that she was not conscious of until they expended their 
last penny in the purchase of another loaf, prevented her partaking even of 
this poor repast. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see.
Their way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety or 
improvement. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the same 
blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery and distress. 
Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the path more rugged and uneven, 
for sometimes she stumbled, and became roused, as it were, in the effort to 
prevent herself from falling. Poor child! the cause was in her tottering 
feet.
Towards the afternoon, her grandfather complained bitterly of hunger. She 
approached one of the wretched hovels by the wayside, and knocked with her 
hand upon the door.
"What would you have here?" said a gaunt man, opening it.
"Charity. A morsel of bread."
"Do you see that?" returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a kind of bundle 
on the ground. "That's a dead child. I and five hundred other men were 
thrown out of work, three months ago. That is my third dead child, and 
last. Do you think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of bread to 
spare?"
The child recoiled from the door, and it closed upon her. Impelled by 
strong necessity, she knocked at another: a neighbouring one, which, 
yielding to the slight pressure of her hand, flew open.
It seemed that a couple of poor families lived in this hovel, for two 
women, each among children of her own, occupied different portions of the 
room. In the centre, stood a grave gentleman in black, who appeared to have 
just entered, and who held by the arm a boy.
"Here, woman," he said, "here's your deaf and dumb son. You may thank me 
for restoring him to you. He was brought before me, this morning, charged 
with theft; and with any other boy it would have gone hard, I assure you. 
But, as I had compassion on his infirmities, and thought he might have 
learnt no better, I have managed to bring him back to you. Take more care 
of him for the future."
"And won't you give me back my son!" said the other woman, hastily rising 
and confronting him. "Won't you give me back my son, sir, who was 
transported for the same offence!"
"Was he deaf and dumb, woman!" asked the gentleman sternly.
"Was he not, sir?"
"You know he was not."
"He was," cried the woman. "He was deaf, dumb, and blind, to all that was 
good and right, from his cradle. Her boy may have learnt no better! where 
did mine learn better? where could he? who was there to teach him better, 
or where was it to be learnt?"
"Peace, woman," said the gentleman, "your boy was in possession of all his 
senses."
"He was," cried the mother; "and he was the more easy to be led astray 
because he had them. If you save this boy because he may not know right 
from wrong, why did you not save mine who was never taught the difference? 
You gentlemen have as good a right to punish her boy, that God has kept in 
ignorance of sound and speech, as you have to punish mine, that you kept in 
ignorance yourselves. How many of the girls and boys - ah, men and women 
too - that are brought before you and you don't pity, are deaf and dumb in 
their minds, and go wrong in that state, and are punished in that state, 
body and soul, while you gentlemen are quarrelling among yourselves whether 
they ought to learn this or that? - Be a just man, sir, and give me back my 
son!"
"You are desperate," said the gentleman, taking out his snuff-box, "and I 
am sorry for you."
"I am desperate," returned the woman, "and you have made me so. Give me 
back my son, to work for these helpless children. Be a just man, sir, and, 
as you have had mercy upon this boy, give me back my son!"
The child had seen and heard enough to know that this was not a place at 
which to ask for alms. She led the old man softly from the door, and they 
pursued their journey.
With less and less of hope or strength, as they went on, but with an 
undiminished resolution not to betray by any word or sign her sinking 
state, so long as she had energy to move, the child, throughout the 
remainder of that hard day, compelled herself to proceed: not even stopping 
to rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure for the tardy 
pace at which she was obliged to walk. Evening was drawing on, but had not 
closed in, when - still travelling among the same dismal objects - they 
came to a busy town.
Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were insupportable. After 
humbly asking for relief at some few doors, and being repulsed, they agreed 
to make their way out of it as speedily as they could, and try if the 
inmates of any lone house beyond would have more pity on their exhausted 
state.
They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child 
felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers would bear 
no more. There appeared before them, at this juncture, going in the same 
direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a portmanteau 
strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked, and read from 
a book which he held in his other hand.
It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and beseech his aid, for he 
walked fast, and was a little distance in advance. At length he stopped, to 
look more attentively at some passage in his book. Animated with a ray of 
hope, the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the 
stranger without rousing him by the sound of her footsteps, began, in a few 
faint words, to implore his help.
He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, uttered a wild 
shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.


Chapter 46

It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely 
less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than she had been on 
recognising him, he stood, for a moment, silent and confounded by this 
unexpected apparition, without even the presence of mind to raise her from 
the ground.
But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick and 
book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured, by such simple 
means as occurred to him, to restore her to herself; while her grandfather, 
standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with many endearing 
expressions to speak to him, were it only a word.
"She is quite exhausted," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his 
face. "You have taxed her powers too far, friend."
"She is perishing of want," rejoined the old man. "I never thought how weak 
and ill she was, till now."
Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate, the 
schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man gather up 
her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at his utmost 
speed.
There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had been 
directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this place he 
hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and 
calling upon the company there assembled to make way for God's sake, 
deposited it on a chair before the fire.
The company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster's entrance, did as 
people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody called for his or her 
favourite remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more air, at the 
same time carefully excluding what air there was, by closing round the 
object of sympathy; and all wondered why somebody else didn't do, what it 
never appeared to occur to them might be done by themselves.
The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness and activity than any 
of them, and who had withal a quicker perception of the merits of the case, 
soon came running in, with a little hot brandy and water, followed by her 
servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling-salts, and such other 
restoratives; which, being duly administered, recovered the child so far as 
to enable her to thank them in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the 
poor schoolmaster, who stood, with an anxious face, hard by. Without 
suffering her to speak another word, or so much as to stir a finger any 
more, the women straightway carried her off to bed; and, having covered her 
up warm, bathed her cold feet and wrapped them in flannel, they despatched 
a messenger for the doctor.
The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of seals 
dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with all speed, 
and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and 
felt her pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again, 
and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied wineglass as if in profound 
abstraction.
"I should give her - " said the doctor at length, "A teaspoonful, every now 
and then, of hot brandy and water."
"Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!" said the delighted landlady.
"I should also," observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath on the 
stairs, "I should also," said the doctor, in the voice of an oracle, "put 
her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise," 
said the doctor, with increased solemnity, "give her something light for 
supper - the wing of a roasted fowl now - "
"Why goodness, gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this 
instant!" cried the landlady. And so indeed it was, for the schoolmaster 
had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the 
doctor might have smelt it if he had tried - perhaps he did.
"You may then," said the doctor, rising gravely, "give her a glass of hot 
mulled port wine, if she likes wine - "
"And a toast, sir?" suggested the landlady.
"Ay," said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes a dignified 
concession. "And a toast - of bread. But be very particular to make it of 
bread, if you please, ma'am."
With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously delivered, the 
doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that wisdom which 
tallied so closely with their own. Everybody said he was a very shrewd 
doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions were; which 
there appears some reason to suppose he did.
While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep, 
from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she evinced 
extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was below stairs, 
and was greatly troubled at the thought of their being apart, he took his 
supper with her. Finding her still very restless on this head, they made 
him up a bed in an inner room, to which he presently retired. The key of 
this chamber happened by good fortune to be on that side of the door which 
was in Nell's room; she turned it on him when the landlady had withdrawn, 
and crept to bed again with a thankful heart.
The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire, 
which was now deserted, thinking, with a very happy face, on the fortunate 
chance which had brought him so opportunely to the child's assistance, and 
parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the inquisitive cross-
examination of the landlady, who had a great curiosity to be made 
acquainted with every particular of Nell's life and history. The poor 
schoolmaster was so open-hearted, and so little versed in the most ordinary 
cunning and deceit, that she could not have failed to succeed in the first 
five minutes, but that he happened to be unacquainted with what she wished 
to know; and so he told her. The landlady, by no means satisfied with this 
assurance, which she considered an ingenious evasion of the question, 
rejoined that he had his reasons of course. Heaven forbid that she should 
wish to pry into the affairs of her customers, which indeed were no 
business of hers, who had so many of her own. She had merely asked a civil 
question, and to be sure she knew it would meet with a civil answer. She 
was quite satisfied - quite. She had rather perhaps that he would have said 
at once that he didn't choose to be communicative, because that would have 
been plain and intelligible. However, she had no right to be offended of 
course. He was the best judge, and had a perfect right to say what he 
pleased; nobody could dispute that, for a moment. Oh dear, no!
"I assure you, my good lady," said the mild schoolmaster, "that I have told 
you the plain truth - as I hope to be saved, I have told you the truth."
"Why then, I do believe you are in earnest," rejoined the landlady, with 
ready good-humour, "and I'm very sorry I have teased you. But curiosity you 
know is the curse of our sex, and that's the fact."
The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the curse sometimes 
involved the other sex likewise; but he was prevented from making any 
remark to that effect, if he had it in contemplation to do so, by the 
schoolmaster's rejoinder.
"You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a sitting, and welcome, 
and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart you have shown 
tonight, if I could," he said. "As it is, please to take care of her in the 
morning, and let me know early how she is; and to understand that I am 
paymaster for the three."
So, parting with them on most friendly terms, not the less cordial perhaps 
for this last direction, the schoolmaster went to his bed, and the host and 
hostess to theirs.
The report in the morning was that the child was better, but was extremely 
weak, and would at least require a day's rest, and careful nursing, before 
she could proceed upon her journey. The schoolmaster received this 
communication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that he had a day to 
spare - two days for that matter - and could very well afford to wait. As 
the patient was to sit up in the evening, he appointed to visit her in her 
room at a certain hour, and rambling out with his book, did not return 
until the hour arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at 
sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a 
few tears himself, at the same time showing in very energetic language how 
foolish it was to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided, if one 
tried.
"It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness," said the 
child, "to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank 
you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he would 
have been left alone."
"We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster; "and as to burdens, I 
have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage."
"Indeed!" cried the child joyfully.
"Oh yes," returned her friend. "I have been appointed clerk and 
schoolmaster to a village a long way from here - and a long way from the 
old one as you may suppose - at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and-
thirty pounds!"
"I am very glad," said the child - "so very, very glad."
"I am on my way there now," resumed the schoolmaster. "They allowed me the 
stagecoach-hire - outside stagecoach-hire all the way. Bless you, they 
grudge me nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there, left me 
ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How glad I am, to think I did 
so!"
"How glad should we be!"
"Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair, 
"certainly, that's very true. But you - where are you going, where are you 
coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had you been 
doing before? Now, tell me - do tell me. I know very little of the world, 
and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its affairs than I am 
qualified to give advice to you; but I am very sincere, and I have a reason 
(you have not forgotten it) for loving you. I have felt since that time as 
if my love for him who died, had been transferred to you who stood beside 
his bed. If this," he added looking upward, "is the beautiful creation that 
springs from ashes, let its peace prosper with me, as I deal tenderly and 
compassionately by this young child!"
The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate 
earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon his 
every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the utmost 
arts of treachery and dissimulation could never have awakened in her 
breast. She told him all - that they had no friend or relative - that she 
had fled with the old man, to save him from a madhouse and all the miseries 
he dreaded - that she was flying now, to save him from himself - and that 
she sought an asylum in some remote and primitive place, where the 
temptation before which he fell would never enter, and her late sorrows and 
distresses could have no place.
The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. "This child!" he thought - 
"Has this child heroically persevered under all doubts and dangers, 
struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by strong 
affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone! And yet the world is 
full of such heroism. Have I yet to learn that the hardest and best-borne 
trials are those which are never chronicled in any earthly record, and are 
suffered every day! And should I be surprised to hear the story of this 
child!"
What more he thought or said, matters not. It was concluded that Nell and 
her grandfather should accompany him to the village whither he was bound, 
and that he should endeavour to find them some humble occupation by which 
they could subsist. "We shall be sure to succeed," said the schoolmaster, 
heartily. "The cause is too good a one to fail."
They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a stage-
waggon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as they must 
take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver for a small 
gratuity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon struck when the 
waggon came; and in due time it rolled away; with the child comfortably 
bestowed among the softer packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster 
walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks of 
the inn screaming out their good wishes and farewells.
What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside that 
slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells, the 
occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great 
broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery goodnights of passing 
travellers jogging past on little short-stepped horses - all made 
pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning, which seemed made for lazy 
listening under, till one fell asleep! The very going to sleep, still with 
an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of 
moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing all these sounds like 
dreamy music, lulling to the senses - and the slow waking up, and finding 
one's self staring out through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, 
far up into the cold bright sky with its countless stars, and downward at 
the driver's lantern dancing on like its namesake Jack of the swamps and 
marshes, and sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bare 
road rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as 
if there were no more road, and all beyond was sky - and the stopping at 
the inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire and 
candles, and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that the night 
was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to think it colder than it 
was! - What a delicious journey was that journey in the waggon.
Then the going on again - so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards so 
sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like a 
highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions of a 
guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman in a 
fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied - the stopping at 
the turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at the door until 
he answered with a smothered shout from under the bedclothes in the little 
room above, where the faint light was burning, and presently came down, 
night-capped and shivering, to throw the gate wide open, and wish all 
waggons off the road, except by day. The cold sharp interval between night 
and morning - the distant streak of light widening and spreading, and 
turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and from yellow to 
burning red - the presence of day, with all its cheerfulness and life - men 
and horses at the plough - birds in the trees and hedges, and boys in 
solitary fields, frightening them away with rattles. The coming to a town - 
people busy in the market; light carts and chaises round the tavern yard; 
tradesmen standing at their doors; men running horses up and down the 
street for sale; pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty distance, getting 
off with long strings at their legs, running into clean chemists' shops and 
being dislodged with brooms by 'prentices; the night coach changing horses -
 the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and discontented with three months' 
growth of hair in one night - the coachman fresh as from a bandbox, and 
exquisitely beautiful by contrast: - so much bustle, so many things in 
motion, such a variety of incidents - when was there a journey with so many 
delights as that journey in the waggon!
Sometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, and 
sometimes even prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take her place and lie 
down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily until they came to a large 
town, where the waggon stopped, and where they spent a night. They passed a 
large church; and in the streets were a number of old houses, built of a 
kind of earth or plaster, crossed and recrossed in a great many directions 
with black beams, which gave them a remarkable and very ancient look. The 
doors, too, were arched and low, some with open portals and quaint benches, 
where the former inhabitants had sat on summer evenings. The windows were 
latticed in little diamond panes, that seemed to wink and blink upon the 
passengers as if they were dim of sight. They had long since got clear of 
the smoke and furnaces, except in one or two solitary instances, where a 
factory planted among fields withered the space about it like a burning 
mountain. When they had passed through this town, they entered again upon 
the country, and began to draw near their place of destination.
It was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon the 
road; not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but that the 
schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles of his village, had a 
fidgetty sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was unwilling to make 
his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered dress. It was a fine, 
clear, autumn morning, when they came upon the scene of his promotion, and 
stopped to contemplate its beauties.
"See - here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster, in a low 
voice; "and that old building close beside it, is the schoolhouse, I'll be 
sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this beautiful place!"
They admired everything - the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the 
venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the 
very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and homestead, 
peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the distant water-
mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away. It was for such a spot the child 
had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of labour. Upon her bed of 
ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through which they had forced their 
way, visions of such scenes - beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful than 
this sweet reality - had been always present to her mind. They had seemed 
to melt into a dim and airy distance, as the prospect of ever beholding 
them again grew fainter; but, as they receded, she had loved and panted for 
them more.
"I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said the schoolmaster, at 
length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their gladness. 
"I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you know. Where shall I 
take you? To the little inn yonder?"
"Let us wait here," rejoined Nell. "The gate is open. We will sit in the 
church porch till you come back."
"A good place too," said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it, 
disincumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on the stone 
seat. "Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone?"
So the happy schoolmaster put on a brand-new pair of gloves which he had 
carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off, full 
of ardour and excitement.
The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage hid him 
from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old churchyard - so 
solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon the fallen leaves, 
which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless, seemed an invasion 
of its silence. It was a very aged, ghostly place; the church had been 
built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery 
attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments of 
blackened walls, were yet standing; while other portions of the old 
building, which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled with the 
churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they too claimed a burying-
place and sought to mix their ashes with the dust of men. Hard by these 
gravestones of dead years, and forming a part of the ruin which some pains 
had been taken to render habitable in modern times, were two small 
dwellings with sunken windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, 
empty and desolate.
Upon these tenements the attention of the child became exclusively riveted. 
She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated graves, had equal 
claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from the moment when her 
eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could turn to nothing else. 
Even when she had made the circuit of the inclosure, and returning to the 
porch, sat pensively waiting for their friend, she took her station where 
she could still look upon them, and felt as if fascinated towards that 
spot.


Chapter 47

Kit's mother and the single gentleman - upon whose track it is expedient to 
follow with hurried steps, lest this history should be chargeable with 
inconstancy, and the offence of leaving its characters in situations of 
uncertainty and doubt - Kit's mother and the single gentleman speeding 
onward in the post-chaise-and-four, whose departure from the Notary's door 
we have already witnessed, soon left the town behind them, and struck fire 
from the flints of the broad highway.
The good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the novelty of her 
situation, and certain maternal apprehensions that perhaps by this time 
little Jacob or the baby, or both, had fallen into the fire, or tumbled 
down stairs, or had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded their 
windpipes in endeavouring to allay their thirst at the spouts of tea-
kettles, preserved an uneasy silence; and meeting from the window the eyes 
of turnpike-men, omnibus-drivers, and others, felt in the new dignity of 
her position like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being greatly afflicted 
by the loss of the departed, recognises his every day acquaintances from 
the window of the mourning coach, but is constrained to preserve a decent 
solemnity, and the appearance of being indifferent to all external objects.
To have been indifferent to the companionship of the single gentleman would 
have been tantamount to being gifted with nerves of steel. Never did chaise 
inclose, or horses draw, such a restless gentleman as he. He never sat in 
the same position for two minutes together, but was perpetually tossing his 
arms and legs about, pulling up the sashes and letting them violently down, 
or thrusting his head out of one window to draw it in again and thrust it 
out of another. He carried in his pocket, too, a fire-box of mysterious and 
unknown construction; and as sure as ever Kit's mother closed her eyes, so 
surely - whisk, rattle, fizz - there was the single gentleman consulting 
his watch by a flame of fire, and letting the sparks fall down among the 
straw as if there were no such thing as a possibility of himself and Kit's 
mother being roasted alive before the boys could stop their horses. 
Whenever they halted to change, there he was - out of the carriage without 
letting down the steps, bursting about the inn-yard like a lighted cracker, 
pulling out his watch by lamplight and forgetting to look at it before he 
put it up again, and in short committing so many extravagancies that Kit's 
mother was afraid of him. Then, when the horses were to, in he came like a 
Harlequin, and before they had gone a mile, out came the watch and the fire-
box together, and Kit's mother was wide awake again, with no hope of a wink 
of sleep for that stage.
"Are you comfortable?" the single gentleman would say after one of these 
exploits, turning sharply round.
"Quite, sir, thank you."
"Are you sure? An't you cold?"
"It is a little chilly, sir," Kit's mother would reply.
"I knew it!" cried the single gentleman, letting down one of the front 
glasses. "She wants some brandy and water! Of course she does. How could I 
forget it? Hallo! Stop at the next inn, and call out for a glass of hot 
brandy and water."
It was in vain for Kit's mother to protest that she stood in need of 
nothing of the kind. The single gentleman was inexorable; and whenever he 
had exhausted all other modes and fashions of restlessness, it invariably 
occurred to him that Kit's mother wanted brandy and water.
In this way they travelled on until near midnight, when they stopped to 
supper, for which meal the single gentleman ordered everything eatable that 
the house contained; and because Kit's mother didn't eat everything at 
once, and eat it all, he took it into his head that she must be ill.
"You're faint," said the single gentleman, who did nothing himself but walk 
about the room. "I see what's the matter with you, ma'am. You're faint."
"Thank you, sir, I'm not indeed."
"I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this poor woman from the bosom of 
her family at a minute's notice, and she goes on getting fainter and 
fainter before my eyes. I'm a pretty fellow! How many children have you 
got, ma'am?"
"Two sir, besides Kit."
"Boys, ma'am?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are they christened?"
"Only half baptised as yet, sir."
"I'm godfather to both of 'em. Remember that, if you please, ma'am. You had 
better have some mulled wine."
"I couldn't touch a drop indeed, sir."
"You must," said the single gentleman. "I see you want it. I ought to have 
thought of it before."
Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled wine as impetuously 
as if it had been wanted for instant use in the recovery of some person 
apparently drowned, the single gentleman made Kit's mother swallow a bumper 
of it at such a high temperature that the tears ran down her face, and then 
hustled her off to the chaise again, where - not impossibly from the 
effects of this agreeable sedative - she soon became insensible to his 
restlessness, and fell fast asleep. Nor were the happy effects of this 
prescription of a transitory nature, as notwithstanding that the distance 
was greater, and the journey longer, than the single gentleman had 
anticipated, she did not awake until it was broad day, and they were 
clattering over the pavement of a town.
"This is the place!" cried her companion, letting down all the glasses. 
"Drive to the waxwork!"
The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting spurs to his horse, to 
the end that they might go in brilliantly, all four broke into a smart 
canter, and dashed through the streets with a noise that brought the good 
folks wondering to their doors and windows, and drowned the sober voices of 
the town-clocks as they chimed out half-past eight. They drove up to a door 
round which a crowd of persons were collected, and there stopped.
"What's this?" said the single gentleman, thrusting out his head. "Is 
anything the matter here?"
"A wedding, sir, a wedding!" cried several voices. "Hurrah!"
The single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding himself the centre of 
this noisy throng, alighted with the assistance of one of the postilions 
and handed out Kit's mother, at sight of whom the populace cried out, 
"Here's another wedding!" and roared and leaped for joy.
"The world has gone mad, I think," said the single gentleman, pressing 
through the concourse with his supposed bride. "Stand back here, will you, 
and let me knock."
Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd. A score of dirty 
hands were raised directly to knock for him, and seldom has a knocker of 
equal powers been made to produce more deafening sounds than this 
particular engine on the occasion in question. Having rendered these 
voluntary services, the throng modestly retired a little, preferring that 
the single gentleman should bear their consequences alone.
"Now, sir, what do you want?" said a man with a large white bow at his 
buttonhole, opening the door, and confronting him with a very stoical 
aspect.
"Who has been married here, my friend?" said the single gentleman.
"I have."
"You! and to whom in the devil's name?"
"What right have you to ask?" returned the bridegroom, eyeing him from top 
to toe.
"What right!" cried the single gentleman, drawing the arm of Kit's mother 
more tightly through his own, for that good woman evidently had it in 
contemplation to run away. "A right you little dream of. Mind, good people, 
if this fellow has been marrying a minor - tut, tut, that can't be. Where 
is the child you have here, my good fellow. You call her Nell. Where is 
she?"
As he propounded this question, which Kit's mother echoed, somebody in a 
room near at hand, uttered a great shriek, and a stout lady in a white 
dress came running to the door, and supported herself upon the bridegroom's 
arm.
"Where is she!" cried this lady. "What news have you brought me? What has 
become of her?"
The single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the face of the late Mrs 
Jarley (that morning wedded to the philosophic George, to the eternal wrath 
and despair of Mr Slum the poet), with looks of conflicting apprehension, 
disappointment, and incredulity. At length he stammered out,
"I ask you where she is? What do you mean?"
"Oh sir!" cried the bride, "If you have come here to do her any good, why 
weren't you here a week ago?"
"She is not - not dead?" said the person to whom she addressed herself, 
turning very pale.
"No, not so bad as that."
"I thank God," cried the single gentleman feebly. "Let me come in."
They drew back to admit him, and when he had entered, closed the door.
"You see in me, good people," he said, turning to the newly-married couple, 
"one to whom life itself is not dearer than the two persons whom I seek. 
They would not know me. My features are strange to them, but if they or 
either of them are here, take this good woman with you, and let them see 
her first, for her they both know. If you deny them from any mistaken 
regard or fear for them, judge of my intentions by their recognition of 
this person as their old humble friend."
"I always said it!" cried the bride, "I knew she was not a common child! 
Alas, sir! we have no power to help you, for all that we could do, has been 
tried in vain."
With that, they related to him, without disguise or concealment, all that 
they knew of Nell and her grandfather, from their first meeting with them, 
down to the time of their sudden disappearance; adding (which was quite 
true) that they had made every possible effort to trace them, but without 
success; having been at first in great alarm for their safety, as well as 
on account of the suspicions to which they themselves might one day be 
exposed in consequence of their abrupt departure. They dwelt upon the old 
man's imbecility of mind, upon the uneasiness the child had always 
testified when he was absent, upon the company he had been supposed to 
keep, and upon the increased depression which had gradually crept over her, 
and changed her both in health and spirits. Whether she had missed the old 
man in the night, and knowing or conjecturing whither he had bent his 
steps, had gone in pursuit, or whether they had left the house together, 
they had no means of determining. Certain they considered it, that there 
was but slender prospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether 
their flight originated with the old man, or with the child, there was now 
no hope of their return.
To all this, the single gentleman listened with the air of a man quite 
borne down by grief and disappointment. He shed tears when they spoke of 
the grandfather, and appeared in deep affliction.
Not to protract this portion of our narrative, and to make short work of a 
long story, let it be briefly written that before the interview came to a 
close, the single gentleman deemed he had sufficient evidence of having 
been told the truth, and that he endeavoured to force upon the bride and 
bridegroom an acknowledgment of their kindness to the unfriended child, 
which, however, they steadily declined accepting. In the end, the happy 
couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their honeymoon in a country 
excursion; and the single gentleman and Kit's mother stood ruefully before 
their carriage door.
"Where shall we drive you, sir?" said the postboy.
"You may drive me," said the single gentleman, "to the - " He was not going 
to add "inn," but he added it for the sake of Kit's mother; and to the inn 
they went.
Rumours had already got abroad that the little girl who used to show the 
waxwork, was the child of great people who had been stolen from her parents 
in infancy, and had only just been traced. Opinion was divided whether she 
was the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl, a viscount, or a baron, but 
all agreed upon the main fact, and that the single gentleman was her 
father; and all bent forward to catch a glimpse, though it were only of the 
tip of his noble nose, as he rode away, desponding, in his four-horse 
chaise.
What would he have given to know, and what sorrow would have been saved if 
he had only known, that at that moment both child and grandfather were 
seated in the old church porch, patiently awaiting the schoolmaster's 
return!


Chapter 48

Popular rumour, concerning the single gentleman and his errand, travelling 
from mouth to mouth, and waxing stronger in the marvellous as it was 
bandied about - for your popular rumour, unlike the rolling stone of the 
proverb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its wanderings up and down, 
- occasioned his dismounting at the inn door to be looked upon as an 
exciting and attractive spectacle, which could scarcely be enough admired; 
and drew together a large concourse of idlers, who having recently been, as 
it were, thrown out of employment by the closing of the waxwork, and the 
completion of the nuptial ceremonies, considered his arrival as little else 
than a special providence, and hailed it with demonstrations of the 
liveliest joy.
Not at all participating in the general sensation, but wearing the 
depressed and wearied look of one who sought to meditate on his 
disappointment in silence and privacy, the single gentleman alighted, and 
handed out Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness which impressed the 
lookers-on extremely. That done, he gave her his arm and escorted her into 
the house, while several active waiters ran on before as a skirmishing 
party, to clear the way and to show the room which was ready for their 
reception.
"Any room will do," said the single gentleman. "Let it be near at hand, 
that's all."
"Close here, sir, if you please to walk this way."
"Would the gentleman like this room?" said a voice, as a little out-of-the-
way door at the foot of the well staircase flew briskly open and a head 
popped out. "He's quite welcome to it. He's as welcome as flowers in May, 
or coals at Christmas. Would you like this room, sir?" Honour me by walking 
in. Do me the favour, pray."
"Goodness gracious me!" cried Kit's mother, falling back in extreme 
surprise, "only think of this!"
She had some reason to be astonished, for the person who proffered the 
gracious invitation was no other than Daniel Quilp. The little door out of 
which he had thrust his head was close to the inn larder; and there he 
stood, bowing with grotesque politeness; as much at his ease as if the door 
were that of his own house; blighting all the legs of mutton and cold roast 
fowl by his close companionship, and looking like the evil genius of the 
cellars come from underground upon some work of mischief.
"Would you do me the honour?" said Quilp.
"I prefer being alone," replied the single gentleman.
"Oh!" said Quilp. And with that, he darted in again with one jerk and 
clapped the little door to, like a figure in a Dutch clock when the hour 
strikes.
"Why it was only last night, sir," whispered Kit's mother, "that I left him 
in Little Bethel."
"Indeed!" said her fellow-passenger. "When did that person come here, 
waiter?"
"Come down by the night-coach, this morning, sir."
"Humph! And when is he going?"
"Can't say, sir, really. When the chambermaid asked him just now if he 
should want a bed, sir, he first made faces at her, and then wanted to kiss 
her."
"Beg him to walk this way," said the single gentleman. "I should be glad to 
exchange a word with him, tell him. Beg him to come at once, do you hear?"
The man stared on receiving these instructions, for the single gentleman 
had not only displayed as much astonishment as Kit's mother at sight of the 
dwarf, but, standing in no fear of him, had been at less pains to conceal 
his dislike and repugnance. He departed on his errand, however, and 
immediately returned, ushering in its object.
"Your servant, sir," said the dwarf. "I encountered your messenger halfway. 
I thought you'd allow me to pay my compliments to you. I hope you're well. 
I hope you're very well."
There was a short pause, while the dwarf, with half-shut eyes and puckered 
face, stood waiting for an answer. Receiving none, he turned towards his 
more familiar acquaintance.
"Christopher's mother!" he cried. "Such a dear lady, such a worthy woman, 
so blest in her honest son! How is Christopher's mother? Have change of air 
and scene improved her? Her little family too, and Christopher? Do they 
thrive? Do they flourish? Are they growing into worthy citizens, eh?"
Making his voice ascend in the scale with every succeeding question, Mr 
Quilp finished in a shrill squeak, and subsided into the panting look which 
was customary with him, and which whether it were assumed or natural, had 
equally the effect of banishing all expression from his face, and rendering 
it, as far as it afforded any index to his mood or meaning, a perfect 
blank.
"Mr Quilp," said the single gentleman.
The dwarf put his hand to his great flapped ear, and counterfeited the 
closest attention.
"We too have met before - "
"Surely," cried Quilp, nodding his head. "Oh surely, sir. Such an honour 
and pleasure - it's both, Christopher's mother, it's both - is not to be 
forgotten so soon. By no means!"
"You may remember that the day I arrived in London, and found the house to 
which I drove, empty and deserted, I was directed by some of the neighbours 
to you, and waited upon you without stopping for rest or refreshment?"
"How precipitate that was, and yet what an earnest and vigorous measure!" 
said Quilp, conferring with himself, in imitation of his friend Mr Sampson 
Brass.
"I found," said the single gentleman, "you most unaccountably, in 
possession of everything that had so recently belonged to another man, and 
that other man, who up to the time of your entering upon his property had 
been looked upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beggary, and driven from 
house and home."
"We had warrant for what we did, my good sir," rejoined Quilp, "we had our 
warrant. Don't say driven either. He went of his own accord - vanished in 
the night, sir."
"No matter," said the single gentleman angrily. "He was gone."
"Yes, he was gone," said Quilp, with the same exasperating composure. "No 
doubt he was gone. The only question was, where. And it's a question 
still."
"Now, what am I to think," said the single gentleman, sternly regarding 
him, "of you, who, plainly indisposed to give me any information then - 
nay, obviously holding back, and sheltering yourself with all kinds of 
cunning, trickery, and evasion, - are dogging my footsteps now?"
"I dogging!" cried Quilp.
"Why, are you not?" returned his questioner, fretted into a state of the 
utmost irritation. "Were you not a few hours since, sixty miles off, and in 
the chapel to which this good woman goes to say her prayers?"
"She was there too, I think?" said Quilp, still perfectly unmoved. "I might 
say, if I was inclined to be rude, how do I know but you are dogging my 
footsteps. Yes, I was at chapel. What then? I've read in books that 
pilgrims were used to go to chapel before they went on journeys, to put up 
petitions for their safe return. Wise men! journeys are very perilous - 
especially outside the coach. Wheels come off, horses take fright, coachmen 
drive too fast, coaches overturn. I always go to chapel before I start on 
journeys. It's the last thing I do on such occasions, indeed."
That Quilp lied most heartily in his speech, it needed no very great 
penetration to discover, although for anything that he suffered to appear 
in his face, voice, or manner, he might have been clinging to the truth 
with the quiet constancy of a martyr.
"In the name of all that's calculated to drive one crazy, man," said the 
unfortunate single gentleman, "have you not, for some reason of your own, 
taken upon yourself my errand? don't you know with what object I have come 
here, and if you do know, can you throw no right upon it?"
"You think I'm a conjuror, sir," replied Quilp, shrugging up his shoulders. 
"If I was, I should tell my own fortune - and make it."
"Ah! we have said all we need say, I see," returned the other, throwing 
himself impatiently upon a sofa. "Pray leave us, if you please."
"Willingly," returned Quilp. "Most willingly. Christopher's mother, my good 
soul, farewell. A pleasant journey - back, sir. Ahem!"
With these parting words, and with a grin upon his features altogether 
indescribable, but which seemed to be compounded of every monstrous grimace 
of which men or monkeys are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated and closed 
the door behind him.
"Oho!" he said when he had regained his own room, and sat himself down in a 
chair with his arms akimbo. "Oho! Are you there, my friend? Indeed!"
Chuckling as though in very great glee, and recompensing himself for the 
restraint he had lately put upon his countenance by twisting it into all 
imaginable varieties of ugliness, Mr Quilp, rocking himself to and fro in 
his chair and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell into certain 
meditations, of which it may be necessary to relate the substance.
First, he reviewed the circumstances which had led to his repairing to that 
spot, which were briefly these. Dropping in at Mr Sampson Brass's office on 
the previous evening, in the absence of that gentleman and his learned 
sister, he had lighted upon Mr Swiveller, who chanced at the moment to be 
sprinkling a glass of warm gin and water on the dust of the law, and to be 
moistening his clay, as the phrase goes, rather copiously. But as clay in 
the abstract, when too much moistened, becomes of a weak and uncertain 
consistency, breaking down in unexpected places, retaining impressions but 
faintly, and preserving no strength or steadiness of character, so Mr 
Swiveller's clay, having imbibed a considerable quantity of moisture, was 
in a very loose and slippery state, insomuch that the various ideas 
impressed upon it were fast losing their distinctive character, and running 
into each other. It is not uncommon for human clay in this condition to 
value itself above all things upon its great prudence and sagacity; and Mr 
Swiveller, especially prizing himself upon these qualities, took occasion 
to remark that he had made strange discoveries, in connection with the 
single gentleman who lodged above, which he had determined to keep within 
his own bosom, and which neither tortures nor cajolery should ever induce 
him to reveal. Of this determination Mr Quilp expressed his high approval, 
and setting himself in the same breath to goad Mr Swiveller on to further 
hints, soon made out that the single gentleman had been seen in 
communication with Kit, and that this was the secret which was never to be 
disclosed.
Possessed of this piece of information, Mr Quilp directly supposed that the 
single gentleman above stairs must be the same individual who had waited on 
him, and having assured himself by further inquiries that this surmise was 
correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that the intent 
and object of his correspondence with Kit was the recovery of his old 
client and the child. Burning with curiosity to know what proceedings were 
afoot, he resolved to pounce upon Kit's mother as the person least able to 
resist his arts, and consequently the most likely to be entrapped into such 
revelations as he sought; so taking an abrupt leave of Mr Swiveller, he 
hurried to her house. The good woman being from home, he made inquiries of 
a neighbour, as Kit himself did soon afterwards, and being directed to the 
chapel betook himself there, in order to waylay her, at the conclusion of 
the service.
He had not sat in the chapel more than a quarter of an hour, and with his 
eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling was chuckling inwardly over the joke of 
his being there at all, when Kit himself appeared. Watchful as a lynx, one 
glance showed the dwarf that he had come on business. Absorbed in 
appearance, as we have seen, and feigning a profound abstraction, he noted 
every circumstance of his behaviour, and when he withdrew with his family, 
shot out after him. In fine, he traced them to the notary's house; learnt 
the destination of the carriage from one of the postilions; and knowing 
that a fast night-coach started for the same place, at the very hour which 
was on the point of striking, from a street hard by, darted round to the 
coach-office without much more ado, and took his seat upon the roof. After 
passing and repassing the carriage on the road, and being passed and 
repassed by it sundry times in the course of the night, according as their 
stoppages were longer or shorter, or their rate of travelling varied, they 
reached the town almost together. Quilp kept the chaise in sight, mingled 
with the crowd, learnt the single gentleman's errand, and its failure, and 
having possessed himself of all that was material to know, hurried off, 
reached the inn before him, had the interview just now detailed, and shut 
himself up in the little room in which he hastily reviewed all these 
occurrences.
"You are there, are you, my friend?" he repeated, greedily biting his 
nails. "I am suspected and thrown aside, and Kit's the confidential agent, 
is he? I shall have to dispose of him, I fear. If we had come up with them 
this morning," he continued, after a thoughtful pause, "I was ready to 
prove a pretty good claim. I could have made my profit. But for these 
canting hypocrites, the lad and his mother, I could get this fiery 
gentleman as comfortable into my net as our old friend - our mutual friend, 
ha! ha! - and chubby, rosy Nell. At the worst it's a golden opportunity, 
not to be lost. Let us find them first, and I'll find means of draining you 
of some of your superfluous cash, sir, while there are prison bars and 
bolts, and locks, to keep your friend or kinsman safely. I hate your 
virtuous people!" said the dwarf, throwing off a bumper of brandy, and 
smacking his lips, "ah! I hate 'em every one!"
This was not a mere empty vaunt, but a deliberate avowal of his real 
sentiments; for Mr Quilp, who loved nobody, had by little and little come 
to hate everybody, nearly or remotely connected with his ruined client: - 
the old man himself, because he had been able to deceive him and elude his 
vigilance - the child, because she was the object of Mrs Quilp's 
commiseration and constant self-reproach - the single gentleman, because of 
his unconcealed aversion to himself - Kit and his mother, most mortally, 
for the reasons already shown. Above and beyond that general feeling of 
opposition to them, which would have been inseparable from his ravenous 
desire to enrich himself by these altered circumstances, Daniel Quilp hated 
them every one.
In this amiable mood, Mr Quilp enlivened himself and his hatreds with more 
brandy, and then, changing his quarters, withdrew to an obscure ale house, 
under cover of which seclusion he instituted all possible inquiries that 
might lead to the discovery of the old man and his grandchild. But all was 
in vain. Not the slightest trace or clue could be obtained. They had left 
the town by night; no one had seen them go; no one had met them on the 
road; the driver of no coach, cart, or waggon, had seen any travellers 
answering their description; nobody had fallen in with them or heard of 
them. Convinced at last that for the present all such attempts were 
hopeless, he appointed two or three scouts, with promises of large rewards 
in case of their forwarding him any intelligence, and returned to London by 
next day's coach.
It was some gratification to Mr Quilp to find, as he took his place upon 
the roof, that Kit's mother was alone inside; from which circumstance he 
derived in the course of the journey much cheerfulness of spirit, inasmuch 
as her solitary condition enabled him to terrify her with many 
extraordinary annoyances; such as hanging over the side of the coach at the 
risk of his life, and staring in with his great goggle eyes, which seemed 
in hers the more horrible from his face being upside down; dodging her in 
this way from one window to another; getting nimbly down whenever they 
changed horses and thrusting his head in at the window with a dismal 
squint: which ingenious tortures had such an effect upon Mrs Nubbles, that 
she was quite unable for the time to resist the belief that Mr Quilp did in 
his own person represent and embody that Evil Power, who was so vigorously 
attacked at Little Bethel, and who, by reason of her back-slidings in 
respect of Astley's and oysters, was now frolicsome and rampant.
Kit, having been apprised by letter of his mother's intended return, was 
waiting for her at the coach-office; and great was his surprise when he 
saw, leering over the coachman's shoulder like some familiar demon, 
invisible to all eyes but his, the well-known face of Quilp.
"How are you, Christopher?" croaked the dwarf from the coach-top. "All 
right, Christopher. Mother's inside."
"Why, how did he come here, mother?" whispered Kit.
"I don't know how he came or why, my dear," rejoined Mrs Nubbles, 
dismounting with her son's assistance, "but he has been terrifying me out 
of my seven senses all this blessed day."
"He has?" cried Kit.
"You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't," replied his mother, "but 
don't say a word to him, for I really don't believe he's human. Hush! Don't 
turn round as if I was talking of him, but he's a squinting at me now in 
the full blaze of the coach-lamp, quite awful!"
In spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned sharply round to look. Mr 
Quilp was serenely gazing at the stars, quite absorbed in celestial 
contemplation.
"Oh, he's the artfullest creetur!" cried Mrs Nubbles. "But come away. Don't 
speak to him for the world."
"Yes I will, mother. What nonsense. I say sir - "
Mr Quilp affected to start, and looked smilingly round.
"You let my mother alone, will you?" said Kit. "How dare you tease a poor 
lone woman like her, making her miserable and melancholy as if she hadn't 
got enough to make her so, without you. An't you ashamed of yourself, you 
little monster?"
"Monster!" said Quilp inwardly with a smile, "Ugliest dwarf that could be 
seen anywhere for a penny - monster - ah!"
"You show her any of your impudence again," resumed Kit, shouldering the 
bandbox, "and I tell you what, Mr Quilp, I won't bear with you any more. 
You have no right to do it; I'm sure we never interfered with you. This 
isn't the first time; and if ever you worry or frighten her again, you'll 
oblige me (though I should be very sorry to do it, on account of your size) 
to beat you."
Quilp said not a word in reply, but walking up so close to Kit as to bring 
his eyes within two or three inches of his face, looked fixedly at him, 
retreated a little distance without averting his gaze, approached again, 
again withdrew, and so on for half-a-dozen times, like a head in a 
phantasmagoria. Kit stood his ground as if in expectation of an immediate 
assault, but finding that nothing came of these gestures, snapped his 
fingers and walked away; his mother dragging him off as fast as she could, 
and, even in the midst of his news of little Jacob and the baby, looking 
anxiously over her shoulder to see if Quilp were following.


Chapter 49

Kit's mother might have spared herself the trouble of looking back so 
often, for nothing was further from Mr Quilp's thoughts than any intention 
of pursuing her and her son, or renewing the quarrel with which they had 
parted. He went his way, whistling from time to time some fragments of a 
tune; and, with a face quite tranquil and composed, jogged pleasantly 
towards home; entertaining himself as he went with visions of the fears and 
terrors of Mrs Quilp, who having received no intelligence of him for three 
whole days and two nights, and having had no previous notice of his 
absence, was doubtless by that time in a state of distraction, and 
constantly fainting away with anxiety and grief.
This facetious probability was so congenial to the dwarf's humour, and so 
exquisitely amusing to him, that he laughed as he went along until the 
tears ran down his cheeks; and more than once, when he found himself in a 
bye street, vented his delight in a shrill scream, which greatly terrifying 
any lonely passenger, who happened to be walking on before him expecting 
nothing so little, increased his mirth, and made him remarkably cheerful 
and light-hearted.
In this happy flow of spirits Mr Quilp reached Tower Hill, when, gazing up 
at the window of his own sitting-room, he thought he descried more light 
than is usual in a house of mourning. Drawing nearer, and listening 
attentively, he could hear several voices in earnest conversation, among 
which he could distinguish, not only those of his wife and mother-in-law, 
but the tongues of men.
"Ha!" cried the jealous dwarf. "What's this! Do they entertain such 
visitors while I'm away!"
A smothered cough from above, was the reply. He felt in his pockets for his 
latch-key, but had forgotten it. There was no resource but to knock at the 
door.
"A light in the passage," said Quilp, peeping through the keyhole. "A very 
soft knock; and, by your leave, my lady, I may yet steal upon you unawares. 
Soho!"
A very low and gentle rap, received no answer from within. But after a 
second application to the knocker, no louder than the first, the door was 
softly opened by the boy from the wharf, whom Quilp instantly gagged with 
one hand, and dragged into the street with the other.
"You'll throttle me, master," whispered the boy. "Let go, will you."
"Who's upstairs, you dog?" retorted Quilp in the same tone. "Tell me. And 
don't speak above your breath, or I'll choke you in good earnest."
The boy could only point to the window, and reply with a stifled giggle 
expressive of such intense enjoyment, that Quilp clutched him by the throat 
again, and might have carried his threat into execution, or at least have 
made very good progress towards that end, but for the boy's nimbly 
extricating himself from his grasp, and fortifying himself behind the 
nearest post, at which, after some fruitless attempts to catch him by the 
hair of his head, his master was obliged to come to a parley.
"Will you answer me?" said Quilp. "What's going on, above?"
"You won't let one speak," replied the boy. "They - ha ha ha! - they think 
you're - you're dead. Ha ha ha!"
"Dead!" cried Quilp, relaxing into a grim laugh himself. "No. Do they? Do 
they really, you dog?"
"They think you're - you're drowned," replied the boy, who in his malicious 
nature had a strong infusion of his master. "You was last seen on the brink 
of the wharf, and they think you tumbled over. Ha ha!"
The prospect of playing the spy under such delicious circumstances, and of 
disappointing them all by walking in alive, gave more delight to Quilp than 
the greatest stroke of good fortune could possibly have inspired him with. 
He was no less tickled than his hopeful assistant, and they both stood for 
some seconds, grinning and gasping, and wagging their heads at each other, 
on either side of the post, like an unmatchable pair of Chinese idols.
"Not a word," said Quilp, making towards the door on tiptoe. "Not a sound, 
not so much as a creaking board, or a stumble against a cobweb. Drowned, 
eh, Mrs Quilp? Drowned!"
So saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off his shoes, and groped his way 
upstairs; leaving his delighted young friend in an ecstacy of summersets on 
the pavement.
The bedroom-door on the staircase being unlocked, Mr Quilp slipped in, and 
planted himself behind the door of communication between that chamber and 
the sitting-room, which standing ajar to render both more airy, and having 
a very convenient chink (of which he had often availed himself, for 
purposes of espial, and had indeed enlarged with his pocket-knife), enabled 
him not only to hear, but to see distinctly, what was passing.
Applying his eye to this convenient place, he descried Mr Brass seated at 
the table with pen, ink, and paper, and the case-bottle of rum - his own 
case-bottle, and his own particular Jamaica - convenient to his hand; with 
hot water, fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and all things fitting: from 
which choice materials, Sampson, by no means insensible to their claims 
upon his attention, had compounded a mighty glass of punch reeking hot; 
which he was at that very moment stirring up with a teaspoon, and 
contemplating with looks in which a faint assumption of sentimental regret, 
struggled but weakly with a bland and comfortable joy. At the same table, 
with both her elbows upon it, was Mrs Jiniwin; no longer sipping other 
people's punch feloniously with teaspoons, but taking deep draughts from a 
jorum of her own; while her daughter - not exactly with ashes on her head, 
or sackcloth on her back, but preserving a very decent and becoming 
appearance of sorrow nevertheless - was reclining in an easychair, and 
soothing her grief with a smaller allowance of the same glib liquid. There 
were also present, a couple of waterside men, bearing between them certain 
machines called drags; even these fellows were accommodated with a stiff 
glass apiece; and as they drank with a great relish, and were naturally of 
a red-nosed, pimple-faced, convivial look, their presence rather increased 
than detracted from that decided appearance of comfort, which was the great 
characteristic of the party.
"If I could poison that dear old lady's rum and water," murmured Quilp, 
"I'd die happy."
"Ah!" said Mr Brass, breaking the silence, and raising his eyes to the 
ceiling with a sigh, "who knows but he may be looking down upon us now! Who 
knows but he may be surveying us from - from somewheres or another, and 
contemplating us with a watchful eye! Oh Lor!"
Here Mr Brass stopped to drink half his punch, and then resumed; looking at 
the other half, as he spoke, with a dejected smile.
"I can almost fancy," said the lawyer, shaking his head, "that I see his 
eye glistening down at the very bottom of my liquor. When shall we look 
upon his like again? Never, never! One minute we are here" - holding his 
tumbler before his eyes - "the next we are there" - gulping down its 
contents, and striking himself emphatically a little below the chest - "in 
the silent tomb. To think that I should be drinking his very rum! It seems 
like a dream."
With the view, no doubt, of testing the reality of his position, Mr Brass 
pushed his tumbler as he spoke towards Mrs Jiniwin for the purpose of being 
replenished; and turned towards the attendant mariners.
"The search has been quite unsuccessful, then?"
"Quite, master. But I should say that if he turns up anywhere, he'll come 
ashore somewhere about Grinidge tomorrow, at ebb tide, eh, mate?"
The other gentleman assented, observing that he was expected at the 
Hospital, and that several pensioners would be ready to receive him 
whenever he arrived.
"Then we have nothing for it but resignation," said Mr Brass; "nothing but 
resignation, and expectation. It would be a comfort to have his body; it 
would be a dreary comfort."
"Oh, beyond a doubt," assented Mrs Jiniwin hastily; "if we once had that we 
should be quite sure."
"With regard to the descriptive advertisement," said Sampson Brass, taking 
up his pen. "It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits. Respecting 
his legs now -?"
"Crooked, certainly," said Mrs Jiniwin.
"Do you think they were crooked?" said Brass, in an insinuating tone. "I 
think I see them now coming up the street very wide apart, in nankeen 
pantaloons a little shrunk and without straps. Ah! what a vale of tears we 
live in. Do we say crooked?"
"I think they were a little so," observed Mrs Quilp, with a sob.
"Legs crooked," said Brass, writing as he spoke. "Large head, short body, 
legs crooked - "
"Very crooked," suggested Mrs Jiniwin.
"We'll not say very crooked, ma'am," said Brass piously. "Let us not bear 
hard upon the weaknesses of the deceased. He is gone, ma'am, to where his 
legs will never come in question. - We will content ourselves with crooked, 
Mrs Jiniwin."
"I thought you wanted the truth," said the old lady. "That's all."
"Bless your eyes, how I love you," muttered Quilp. "There she goes again. 
Nothing but punch!"
"This is an occupation," said the lawyer, laying down his pen and emptying 
his glass, "which seems to bring him before my eyes like the Ghost of 
Hamlet's father, in the very clothes that he wore on work-a-days. His coat, 
his waistcoat, his shoes and stockings, his trousers, his hat, his wit and 
humour, his pathos and his umbrella, all come before me like visions of my 
youth. His linen!" said Mr Brass, smiling fondly at the wall, "his linen 
which was always of a particular colour, for such was his whim and fancy - 
how plain I see his linen now!"
"You had better go on, sir," said Mrs Jiniwin impatiently.
"True, ma'am, true," cried Mr Brass. "Our faculties must not freeze with 
grief. I'll trouble you for a little more of that, ma'am. A question now 
arises, with relation to his nose."
"Flat," said Mrs Jiniwin.
"Aquiline!" cried Quilp, thrusting in his head, and striking the feature 
with his fist. "Aquiline, you hag. Do you see it? Do you call this flat? Do 
you? Eh?"
"Oh capital, capital!" shouted Brass, from the mere force of habit. 
"Excellent! How very good he is! He's a most remarkable man - so extremely 
whimsical! Such an amazing power of taking people by surprise!"
Quilp paid no regard whatever to these compliments, nor to the dubious and 
frightened look into which the lawyer gradually subsided, nor to the 
shrieks of his wife and mother-in-law, nor to the latter's running from the 
room, nor to the former's fainting away. Keeping his eye fixed on Sampson 
Brass he walked up to the table, and beginning with his glass, drank off 
the contents, and went regularly round until he had emptied the other two, 
when he seized the case-bottle, and hugging it under his arm, surveyed him 
with a most extraordinary leer.
"Not yet, Sampson," said Quilp. "Not just yet!"
"Oh very good indeed!" cried Brass, recovering his spirits a little. "Ha ha 
ha! Oh exceedingly good! There's not another man alive who could carry it 
off like that. A most difficult position to carry off. But he has such a 
flow of good humour, such an amazing flow!"
"Good night," said the dwarf, nodding expressively.
"Good night sir, good night," cried the lawyer, retreating backwards 
towards the door. "This is a joyful occasion indeed, extremely joyful. Ha 
ha ha! oh very rich, very rich indeed, remarkably so!"
Waiting until Mr Brass's ejaculations died away in the distance (for he 
continued to pour them out, all the way downstairs), Quilp advanced towards 
the two men, who yet lingered in a kind of stupid amazement.
"Have you been dragging the river all day, gentlemen?" said the dwarf, 
holding the door open with great politeness.
"And yesterday too, master."
"Dear me you've had a deal of trouble. Pray consider everything yours that 
you find upon the - upon the body. Good-night!"
The men looked at each other, but had evidently no inclination to argue the 
point just then, and shuffled out of the room. This speedy clearance 
effected, Quilp locked the doors; and, still embracing the case-bottle with 
shrugged-up shoulders and folded arms, stood looking at his insensible wife 
like a dismounted nightmare.


Chapter 50

Matrimonial differences are usually discussed by the parties concerned in 
the form of dialogue, in which the lady bears at least her full half share. 
Those of Mr and Mrs Quilp, however, were an exception to the general rule; 
the remarks which they occasioned being limited to a long soliloquy on the 
part of the gentleman, with perhaps a few deprecatory observations from the 
lady, not extending beyond a trembling monosyllable uttered at long 
intervals, and in a very submissive and humble tone. On the present 
occasion, Mrs Quilp did not for a long time venture even on this gentle 
defence, but, when she had recovered from her fainting fit, sat in a 
tearful silence, meekly listening to the reproaches of her lord and master.
Of these Mr Quilp delivered himself with the utmost animation and rapidity, 
and with so many distortions of limb and feature, that even his wife, 
although tolerably well accustomed to his proficiency in these respects, 
was well nigh beside herself with alarm. But the Jamaica rum, and the joy 
of having occasioned a heavy disappointment, by degrees cooled Mr Quilp's 
wrath; which, from being at savage heat, dropped slowly to the bantering or 
chuckling point, at which it steadily remained.
"So you thought I was dead and gone, did you?" said Quilp. "You thought you 
were a widow, eh? Ha, ha, ha, you jade!"
"Indeed Quilp," returned his wife. "I'm very sorry - "
"Who doubts it!" cried the dwarf. "You very sorry! to be sure you are. Who 
doubts that you're very sorry!"
"I don't mean sorry that you have come home again alive and well," said his 
wife, "but sorry that I should have been led into such a belief. I am glad 
to see you Quilp; indeed I am."
In truth Mrs Quilp did seem a great deal more glad to behold her lord than 
might have been expected, and did evince a degree of interest in his safety 
which, all things considered, was rather unaccountable. Upon Quilp, 
however, this circumstance made no impression, farther than as it moved him 
to snap his fingers close to his wife's eyes, with divers grins of triumph 
and derision.
"How could you go away so long, without saying a word to me or letting me 
hear of you or know anything about you?" asked the poor little woman, 
sobbing. "How could you be so cruel, Quilp?"
"How could I be so cruel! cruel!" cried the dwarf. "Because I was in the 
humour. I'm in the humour now. I shall be cruel when I like. I'm going away 
again."
"Not again!"
"Yes, again. I'm going away now. I'm off directly. I mean to go and live 
wherever the fancy seizes me - at the wharf - at the counting-house - and 
be a jolly bachelor. You were a widow in anticipation. Damme," screamed the 
dwarf, "I'll be a bachelor in earnest."
"You can't be serious, Quilp," sobbed his wife.
"I tell you," said the dwarf, exulting in his project, "that I'll be a 
bachelor, a devil-may-care bachelor; and I'll have my bachelor's hall at 
the counting-house, and at such times come near it if you dare. And mind 
too that I don't pounce in upon you at unseasonable hours again, for I'll 
be a spy upon you, and come and go like a mole or a weazel. Tom Scott - 
where's Tom Scott?"
"Here I am, master," cried the voice of the boy, as Quilp threw up the 
window.
"Wait there, you dog," returned the dwarf, "to carry a bachelor's 
portmanteau. Pack it up, Mrs Quilp. Knock up the dear old lady to help; 
knock her up. Hallo there! Hallo!"
With these exclamations, Mr Quilp caught up the poker, and hurrying to the 
door of the good lady's sleeping-closet, beat upon it therewith until she 
awoke in inexpressible terror, thinking that her amiable son-in-law surely 
intended to murder her in justification of the legs she had slandered. 
Impressed with this idea, she was no sooner fairly awake than she screamed 
violently, and would have quickly precipitated herself out of the window 
and through a neighbouring skylight, if her daughter had not hastened in to 
undeceive her, and implore her assistance. Somewhat reassured by her 
account of the service she was required to render, Mrs Jiniwin made her 
appearance in a flannel dressing-gown; and both mother and daughter, 
trembling with terror and cold - for the night was now far advanced - 
obeyed Mr Quilp's directions in submissive silence. Prolonging his 
preparations as much as possible, for their greater comfort, that eccentric 
gentleman superintended the packing of his wardrobe, and, having added to 
it with his own hands, a plate, knife and fork, spoon, teacup and saucer, 
and other small household matters of that nature, strapped up the 
portmanteau, took it on his shoulders, and actually marched off without 
another word, and with the case-bottle (which he had never once put down) 
still tightly clasped under his arm. Consigning his heavier burden to the 
care of Tom Scott when he reached the street, taking a dram from the bottle 
for his own encouragement, and giving the boy a rap on the head with it as 
a small taste for himself, Quilp very deliberately led the way to the 
wharf, and reached it at between three and four o'clock in the morning.
"Snug!" said Quilp, when he had groped his way to the wooden counting-
house, and opened the door with a key he carried about with him. 
"Beautifully snug! Call me at eight, you dog."
With no more formal leave-taking or explanation, he clutched the 
portmanteau, shut the door on his attendant, and climbing on the desk, and 
rolling himself up as round as a hedgehog, in an old boat-cloak, fell fast 
asleep.
Being roused in the morning at the appointed time, and roused with 
difficulty, after his late fatigues, Quilp instructed Tom Scott to make a 
fire in the yard of sundry pieces of old timber, and to prepare some coffee 
for breakfast; for the better furnishing of which repast he entrusted him 
with certain small moneys, to be expended in the purchase of hot rolls, 
butter, sugar, Yarmouth bloaters, and other articles of house-keeping; so 
that in a few minutes a savoury meal was smoking on the board. With this 
substantial comfort, the dwarf regaled himself to his heart's content; and 
being highly satisfied with this free and gypsy mode of life (which he had 
often meditated, as offering, whenever he chose to avail himself of it, an 
agreeable freedom from the restraints of matrimony, and a choice means of 
keeping Mrs Quilp and her mother in a state of incessant agitation and 
suspense), bestirred himself to improve his retreat, and render it more 
commodious and comfortable.
With this view he issued forth to a place hard by, where sea-stores were 
sold, purchased a secondhand hammock, and had it slung in seamanlike 
fashion from the ceiling of the counting-house. He also caused to be 
erected, in the same mouldy cabin, an old ship's stove with a rusty funnel 
to carry the smoke through the roof; and these arrangements completed, 
surveyed them with ineffable delight.
"I've got a country-house like Robinson Crusoe," said the dwarf, ogling the 
accommodations; "a solitary, sequestered desolate island sort of a spot, 
where I can be quite alone when I have business on hand, and be secure from 
all spies and listeners. Nobody near me here, but rats, and they are fine, 
stealthy secret fellows. I shall be as merry as a grig among these gentry. 
I'll look out for one like Christopher, and poison him - ha, ha, ha! 
Business though - business - we must be mindful of business in the midst of 
pleasure, and the time has flown this morning, I declare."
Enjoining Tom Scott to await his return, and not to stand upon his head, or 
throw a summerset, or so much as walk upon his hands meanwhile, on pain of 
lingering torments, the dwarf threw himself into a boat, and crossing to 
the other side of the river, and then speeding away on foot, reached Mr 
Swiveller's usual house of entertainment in Bevis Marks, just as that 
gentleman sat down alone to dinner in its dusky parlour.
"Dick," - said the dwarf, thrusting his head in at the door, "my pet, my 
pupil, the apple of my eye, hey, hey!"
"Oh you're there, are you?" returned Mr Swiveller, "how are you?"
"How's Dick?" retorted Quilp. "How's the cream of clerkship, eh?"
"Why, rather sour, sir," replied Mr Swiveller. "Beginning to border upon 
cheesiness, in fact."
"What's the matter?" said the dwarf, advancing. "Has Sally proved unkind. 
'Of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like - ' eh Dick!"
"Certainly not," replied Mr Swiveller, eating his dinner with great 
gravity, "none like her. She's the sphynx of private life is Sally B."
"You're out of spirits," said Quilp, drawing up a chair. "What's the 
matter?"
"The law don't agree with me," returned Dick. "It isn't moist enough, and 
there's too much confinement. I have been thinking of running away."
"Bah!" said the dwarf. "Where would you run to, Dick?"
"I don't know," returned Mr Swiveller. "Towards Highgate, I suppose. 
Perhaps the bells might strike up 'Turn again Swiveller, Lord Mayor of 
London.' Whittington's name was Dick. I wish cats were scarcer."
Quilp looked at his companion with his eyes screwed up into a comical 
expression of curiosity, and patiently awaited his further explanation; 
upon which however, Mr Swiveller appeared in no hurry to enter, as he ate a 
very long dinner in profound silence, finally pushed away his plate, threw 
himself back into his chair, folded his arms, and stared ruefully at the 
fire, in which some ends of cigars were smoking on their own account, and 
sending up a fragrant odour.
"Perhaps you'd like a bit of cake" - said Dick, at last turning to the 
dwarf. "You're quite welcome to it. You ought to be, for it's of your 
making."
"What do you mean?" said Quilp.
Mr Swiveller replied by taking from his pocket a small and very greasy 
parcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum cake, 
extremely indigestible in appearance, and bordered with a paste of white 
sugar an inch and a half deep.
"What should you say this was?" demanded Mr Swiveller.
"It looks like bride-cake," replied the dwarf, grinning.
"And whose should you say it was?" inquired Mr Swiveller, rubbing the 
pastry against his nose with a dreadful calmness. "Whose?"
"Not - "
"Yes," said Dick, "the same. You needn't mention her name. There's no such 
name now. Her name is Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs. Yet loved I as man never 
loved that hadn't wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is breaking for the 
love of Sophy Cheggs."
With this extemporary adaptation of a popular ballad to the distressing 
circumstances of his own case, Mr Swiveller folded up the parcel again, 
beat it very flat between the palms of his hands, thrust it into his 
breast, buttoned his coat over it and folded his arms upon the whole.
"Now, I hope you're satisfied sir," said Dick; "and I hope Fred's 
satisfied. You went partners in the mischief, and I hope you like it. This 
is the triumph I was to have, is it? It's like the old country-dance of 
that name, where there are two gentlemen to one lady, and one has her, and 
the other hasn't, but comes limping up behind to make out the figure. But 
it's Destiny, and mine's a crusher!"
Disguising his secret joy in Mr Swiveller's defeat, Daniel Quilp adopted 
the surest means of soothing him, by ringing the bell, and ordering in a 
supply of rosy wine (that is to say of its usual representative), which he 
put about with great alacrity, calling upon Mr Swiveller to pledge him in 
various toasts derisive of Cheggs, and eulogistic of the happiness of 
single men. Such was their impression on Mr Swiveller, coupled with the 
reflection that no man could oppose his destiny, that in a very short space 
of time his spirits rose surprisingly, and he was enabled to give the dwarf 
an account of the receipt of the cake, which, it appeared, had been brought 
to Bevis Marks by the two surviving Miss Wackleses in person, and delivered 
at the office door with much giggling and joyfulness.
"Ha!" said Quilp. "It will be our turn to giggle soon. And that reminds me -
 you spoke of young Trent - where is he?"
Mr Swiveller explained that his respectable friend had recently accepted a 
responsible situation in a locomotive gaming house, and was at that time 
absent on a professional tour, among the adventurous spirits of Great 
Britain.
"That's unfortunate," said the dwarf, "for I came, in fact, to ask you 
about him. A thought has occurred to me. Dick; your friend over the way - "
"Which friend?"
"In the first floor."
"Yes?"
"Your friend in the first floor, Dick, may know him."
"No he don't," said Mr Swiveller, shaking his head.
"Don't. No, because he has never seen him," rejoined Quilp; "but if we were 
to bring them together, who knows, Dick, but Fred, properly introduced, 
would serve his turn almost as well as little Nell or her grandfather - who 
knows but it might make the young fellow's fortune, and, through him, 
yours, eh?"
"Why, the fact is, you see," said Mr Swiveller, "that they have been 
brought together."
"Have been!" cried the dwarf, looking suspiciously at his companion. 
"Through whose means?"
"Through mine," said Dick, slightly confused. "Didn't I mention it to you 
the last time you called over yonder?"
"You know you didn't," returned the dwarf.
"I believe you're right," said Dick. "No. I didn't, I recollect. Oh yes, I 
brought 'em together that very day. It was Fred's suggestion."
"And what came of it?"
"Why, instead of my friend's bursting into tears when he knew who Fred was, 
embracing him kindly, and telling him that he was his grandfather, or his 
grandmother in disguise, (which we fully expected), he flew into a 
tremendous passion; called him all manner of names; and said it was in a 
great measure his fault that little Nell and the old gentleman had ever 
been brought to poverty; didn't hint at our taking anything to drink; and - 
and in short rather turned us out of the room than otherwise."
"That's strange," said the dwarf musing.
"So we remarked to each other at the time," returned Dick coolly, "but 
quite true."
Quilp was plainly staggered by this intelligence, over which he brooded for 
some time in moody silence, often raising his eyes to Mr Swiveller's face, 
and sharply scanning its expression. As he could read in it, however, no 
additional information or anything to lead him to believe he had spoken 
falsely; and as Mr Swiveller, left to his own meditations, sighed deeply, 
and was evidently growing maudlin on the subject of Mrs Cheggs; the dwarf 
soon broke up the conference and took his departure, leaving the bereaved 
one to his melancholy ruminations.
"Have been brought together, eh?" said the dwarf, as he walked the streets 
alone. "My friend has stolen a march upon me. It led him to nothing, and 
therefore is no great matter, save in the intention. I'm glad he has lost 
his mistress. Ha ha! The blockhead mustn't leave the law at present. I'm 
sure of him where he is, whenever I want him for my own purposes, and, 
besides, he's a good unconscious spy on Brass, and tells, in his cups, all 
that he sees and hears. You're useful to me Dick, and cost nothing but a 
little treating now and then. I am not sure that it may not be worth while, 
before long, to take credit with the stranger, Dick, by discovering your 
designs upon the child; but for the present, we'll remain the best friends 
in the world, with your good leave."
Pursuing these thoughts, and gasping as he went along, after his own 
peculiar fashion, Mr Quilp once more crossed the Thames, and shut himself 
up in his Bachelor's Hall, which, by reason of his newly erected chimney 
depositing the smoke inside the room and carrying none of it off, was not 
quite so agreeable as more fastidious people might have desired. Such 
inconveniences, however, instead of disgusting the dwarf with his new 
abode, rather suited his humour; so, after dining luxuriously from the 
public house, he lighted his pipe, and smoked against the chimney until 
nothing of him was visible through the mist, but a pair of red and highly 
inflamed eyes, with sometimes a dim vision of his head and face, as, in a 
violent fit of coughing, he slightly stirred the smoke and scattered the 
heavy wreaths by which they were obscured. In the midst of this atmosphere, 
which must infallibly have smothered any other man, Mr Quilp passed the 
evening with great cheerfulness; solacing himself all the time with the 
pipe and the case-bottle; and occasionally entertaining himself with a 
melodious howl, intended for a song, but bearing not the faintest 
resemblance to any scrap of any piece of music, vocal or instrumental, ever 
invented by man. Thus he amused himself until nearly midnight, when he 
turned into his hammock with the utmost satisfaction.
The first sound that met his ears in the morning - as he half opened his 
eyes, and, finding himself so unusually near the ceiling, entertained a 
drowsy idea that he must have been transformed into a fly or blue-bottle in 
the course of the night, - was that of a stifled sobbing and weeping in the 
room.
Peeping cautiously over the side of the hammock, he descried Mrs Quilp, to 
whom, after contemplating her for some time in silence, he communicated a 
violent start by suddenly yelling out,
"Halloa!"
"Oh Quilp!" cried his poor little wife, looking up. "How you frightened 
me!"
"I meant to, you jade," returned the dwarf. "What do you want here? I'm 
dead, an't I?"
"Oh please come home, do come home," said Mrs Quilp, sobbing; "we'll never 
do so any more, Quilp, and after all it was only a mistake that grew out of 
our anxiety."
"Out of your anxiety," grinned the dwarf. "Yes, I know that - out of your 
anxiety for my death. I shall come home when I please, I tell you. I shall 
come home when I please, and go when I please. I'll be a Will o' the Wisp, 
now here, now there, dancing about you always, starting up when you least 
expect me, and keeping you in a constant state of restlessness and 
irritation. Will you begone?"
Mrs Quilp durst only make a gesture of entreaty.
"I tell you no," cried the dwarf. "No. If you dare to come here again 
unless you're sent for, I'll keep watchdogs in the yard that'll growl and 
bite - I'll have mantraps, cunningly altered and improved for catching 
women - I'll have spring guns that shall explode when you tread upon the 
wires, and blow you into little pieces. Will you go?"
"Do forgive me. Do come back," said his wife, earnestly.
"No-o-o-o-o!" roared Quilp. "Not till my own good time, and then I'll 
return again as often as I choose, and be accountable to nobody for my 
goings or comings. You see the door there. Will you go?"
Mr Quilp delivered this last command in such a very energetic voice, and 
moreover accompanied it with such a sudden gesture, indicative of an 
intention to spring out of his hammock, and, night-capped as he was, bear 
his wife home again through the public streets, that she sped away like an 
arrow. Her worthy lord stretched his neck and eyes until she had crossed 
the yard, and then, not at all sorry to have had this opportunity of 
carrying his point, and asserting the sanctity of his castle, fell into an 
immoderate fit of laughter, and laid himself down to sleep again.


Chapter 51

The bland and open-hearted proprietor of Bachelor's Hall slept on amidst 
the congenial accompaniments of rain, mud, dirt, damp, fog, and rats, until 
late in the day; when, summoning his valet Tom Scott to assist him to rise, 
and to prepare breakfast, he quitted his couch, and made his toilet. This 
duty performed, and his repast ended, he again betook himself to Bevis 
Marks.
This visit was not intended for Mr Swiveller, but for his friend and 
employer Mr Sampson Brass. Both gentlemen however were from home, nor was 
the life and light of law, Miss Sally, at her post either. The fact of 
their joint desertion of the office was made known to all comers by a scrap 
of paper in the handwriting of Mr Swiveller, which was attached to the bell-
handle, and which, giving the reader no clue to the time of day when it was 
first posted, furnished him with the rather vague and unsatisfactory 
information that that gentleman would "return in an hour."
"There's a servant, I suppose," said the dwarf, knocking at the house-door. 
"She'll do."
After a sufficiently long interval, the door was opened, and a small voice 
immediately accosted him with, "Oh please will you leave a card or 
message?"
"Eh?" said the dwarf, looking down (it was something quite new to him) upon 
the small servant.
To this, the child, conducting her conversation as upon the occasion of her 
first interview with Mr Swiveller, again replied, "Oh please will you leave 
a card or message?"
"I'll write a note," said the dwarf, pushing past her into the office; "and 
mind your master has it directly he comes home." So Mr Quilp climbed up to 
the top of a tall stool to write the note, and the small servant carefully 
tutored for such emergencies, looked on, with her eyes wide open, ready if 
he so much as abstracted a wafer, to rush into the street and give the 
alarm to the police.
As Mr Quilp folded his note (which was soon written: being a very short 
one) he encountered the gaze of the small servant. He looked at her, long 
and earnestly.
"How are you?" said the dwarf, moistening a wafer with horrible grimaces.
The small servant, perhaps frightened by his looks, returned no audible 
reply; but it appeared from the motion of her lips that she was inwardly 
repeating the same form of expression concerning the note or message.
"Do they use you ill here? is your mistress a Tartar?" said Quilp with a 
chuckle.
In reply to the last interrogation, the small servant, with a look of 
infinite cunning mingled with fear, screwed up her mouth very tight and 
round, and nodded violently.
Whether there was anything in the peculiar slyness of her action which 
fascinated Mr Quilp, or anything in the expression of her features at the 
moment which attracted his attention for some other reason; or whether it 
merely occurred to him as a pleasant whim to stare the small servant out of 
countenance; certain it is, that he planted his elbows square and firmly on 
the desk, and squeezing up his cheeks with his hands, looked at her 
fixedly.
"Where do you come from?" he said after a long pause, stroking his chin.
"I don't know."
"What's your name?"
"Nothing."
"Nonsense!" retorted Quilp. "What does your mistress call you when she 
wants you?"
"A little devil," said the child.
She added in the same breath, as if fearful of any further questioning, 
"But please will you leave a card or message?"
These unusual answers might naturally have provoked some more inquiries. 
Quilp, however, without uttering another word, withdrew his eyes from the 
small servant, stroked his chin more thoughtfully than before, and then 
bending over the note as if to direct it with scrupulous and hair-breadth 
nicety, looked at her, covertly but very narrowly, from under his bushy 
eyebrows. The result of this secret survey was, that he shaded his face 
with his hands, and laughed slyly and noiselessly, until every vein in it 
was swollen almost to bursting. Pulling his hat over his brow to conceal 
his mirth and its effects, he tossed the letter to the child and hastily 
withdrew.
Once in the street, moved by some secret impulse, he laughed, and held his 
sides, and laughed again, and tried to peer through the dusty area railings 
as if to catch another glimpse of the child, until he was quite tired out. 
At last, he travelled back to the Wilderness, which was within rifle-shot 
of his bachelor retreat, and ordered tea in the wooden summer-house that 
afternoon for three persons; an invitation to Miss Sally Brass and her 
brother to partake of that entertainment at that place, having been the 
object both of his journey and his note.
It was not precisely the kind of weather in which people usually take tea 
in summer-houses, far less in summer-houses in an advanced state of decay, 
and overlooking the slimy banks of a great river at low water. 
Nevertheless, it was in this choice retreat that Mr Quilp ordered a cold 
collation to be prepared, and it was beneath its cracked and leaky roof 
that he, in due course of time, received Mr Sampson and his sister Sally.
"You're fond of the beauties of nature," said Quilp with a grin. "Is this 
charming, Brass? Is it unusual, unsophisticated, primitive?"
"It's delightful indeed, sir," replied the lawyer.
"Cool?" said Quilp.
"N-not particularly so, I think, sir," rejoined Brass, with his teeth 
chattering in his head.
"Perhaps a little damp and ague-ish?" said Quilp.
"Just damp enough to be cheerful, sir," rejoined Brass. "Nothing more, sir, 
nothing more."
"And Sally?" said the delighted dwarf. "Does she like it!"
"She'll like it better," returned that strong-minded lady, "when she has 
tea; so let us have it, and don't bother."
"Sweet Sally!" cried Quilp, extending his arms as if about to embrace her. 
"Gentle, charming, overwhelming Sally."
"He's a very remarkable man indeed!" soliloquised Mr Brass. "He's quite a 
Troubadour you know; quite a Troubadour!"
These complimentary expressions were uttered in a somewhat absent and 
distracted manner; for the unfortunate lawyer, besides having a bad cold in 
his head, had got wet in coming, and would have willingly borne some 
pecuniary sacrifice if he could have shifted his present raw quarters to a 
warm room, and dried himself at a fire. Quilp, however, - who, beyond the 
gratification of his demon whims, owed Sampson some acknowledgment of the 
part he had played in the mourning scene of which he had been a hidden 
witness, - marked these symptoms of uneasiness with a delight past all 
expression, and derived from them a secret joy, which the costliest banquet 
could never have afforded him.
It is worthy of remark too, as illustrating a little feature in the 
character of Miss Sally Brass, that, although on her own account she would 
have borne the discomforts of the Wilderness with a very ill grace, and 
would probably, indeed, have walked off before the tea appeared, she no 
sooner beheld the latent uneasiness and misery of her brother than she 
developed a grim satisfaction, and began to enjoy herself after her own 
manner. Though the wet came stealing through the roof, and trickling down 
upon their heads, Miss Brass uttered no complaint, but presided over the 
tea equipage with imperturbable composure. While Mr Quilp, in his 
uproarious hospitality, seated himself upon an empty beer-barrel, vaunted 
the place as the most beautiful and comfortable in the three kingdoms, and 
elevating his glass, drank to their next merry-meeting in that jovial spot; 
and Mr Brass, with the rain plashing down into his teacup, made a dismal 
attempt to pluck up his spirits and appear at his ease; and Tom Scott, who 
was in waiting at the door under an old umbrella, exulted in his agonies, 
and bade fair to split his sides with laughing; while all this was passing, 
Miss Sally Brass, unmindful of the wet which dripped down upon her own 
feminine person and fair apparel, sat placidly behind the tea-board, erect 
and grizzly, contemplating the unhappiness of her brother with a mind at 
ease, and content, in her amiable disregard of self, to sit there all 
night, witnessing the torments which his avaricious and grovelling nature 
compelled him to endure and forbade him to resent. And this, it must be 
observed, or the illustration would be incomplete, although in a business 
point of view she had the strongest sympathy with Mr Sampson, and would 
have been beyond measure indignant, if he had thwarted their client in any 
one respect.
In the height of his boisterous merriment, Mr Quilp, having on some 
pretence dismissed his attendant sprite for the moment, resumed his usual 
manner all at once, dismounted from his cask, and laid his hand upon the 
lawyer's sleeve.
"A word," said the dwarf, "before we go farther. Sally hark'ee for a 
minute."
Miss Sally drew closer, as if accustomed to business conferences with their 
host which were the better for not having air.
"Business," said the dwarf, glancing from brother to sister. "Very private 
business. Lay your heads together when you're by yourselves."
"Certainly, sir," returned Brass, taking out his pocketbook and pencil. 
"I'll take down the heads if you please, sir. Remarkable documents," added 
the lawyer, raising his eyes to the ceiling, "most remarkable documents. He 
states his points so clearly that it's a treat to have 'em. I don't know 
any act of parliament that's equal to him in clearness."
"I shall deprive you of a treat," said Quilp. "Put up your book. We don't 
want any documents. So. There's a lad name Kit - "
Miss Sally nodded, implying that she knew of him.
"Kit!" said Mr Sampson. - "Kit! Ha! I've heard the name before, but I don't 
exactly call to mind - I don't exactly - "
"You're as slow as a tortoise, and more thick-headed than a rhinoceros," 
returned his obliging client with an impatient gesture.
"He's extremely pleasant!" cried the obsequious Sampson. "His acquaintance 
with Natural History too is surprising. Quite a Buffoon, quite!"
There is no doubt that Mr Brass intended some compliment or other; and it 
has been argued with show of reason that he would have said Buffon, but 
made use of a superfluous vowel. Be this as it may, Quilp gave him no time 
for correction, as he performed that office himself by more than tapping 
him on the head with the handle of his umbrella.
"Don't let's have any wrangling," said Miss Sally, staying his hand. "I've 
shown you that I know him, and that's enough."
"She's always foremost!" said the dwarf patting her on the back and looking 
contemptuously at Sampson. "I don't like Kit, Sally."
"Nor I," rejoined Miss Brass.
"Nor I," said Sampson.
"Why, that's right!" cried Quilp. "Half our work is done already. This Kit 
is one of your honest people; one of your fair characters; a prowling, 
prying hound; a hypocrite; a double-faced, white-livered, sneaking spy; a 
crouching cur to those that feed and coax him, and a barking yelping dog to 
all besides."
"Fearfully eloquent!" cried Brass with a sneeze. "Quite appalling!"
"Come to the point," said Miss Sally, "and don't talk so much."
"Right again!" exclaimed Quilp, with another contemptuous look at Sampson, 
"always foremost! I say, Sally, he is a yelping insolent dog to all 
besides, and most of all, to me. In short, I owe him a grudge."
"That's enough, sir," said Sampson.
"No, it's not enough, sir," sneered Quilp; "will you hear me out? Besides 
that I owe him a grudge on that account, he thwarts me at this minute, and 
stands between me and an end which might otherwise prove a golden one to us 
all. Apart from that, I repeat that he crosses my humour, and I hate him. 
Now, you know the lad, and can guess the rest. Devise your own means of 
putting him out of my way, and execute them. Shall it be done?"
"It shall, sir," said Sampson.
"Then give me your hand," retorted Quilp. "Sally, girl, yours. I rely as 
much, or more, on you than him. Tom Scott comes back. Lantern, pipes, more 
grog, and a jolly night of it!"
No other word was spoken, no other look exchanged, which had the slightest 
reference to this, the real occasion of their meeting. The trio were well 
accustomed to act together, and were linked to each other by ties of mutual 
interest and advantage, and nothing more was needed. Resuming his 
boisterous manner with the same ease with which he had thrown it off, Quilp 
was in an instant the same uproarious, reckless little savage, he had been 
a few seconds before. It was ten o'clock at night before the amiable Sally 
supported her beloved and loving brother from the Wilderness, by which time 
he needed the utmost support her tender frame could render: his walk being 
for some unknown reason anything but steady, and his legs constantly 
doubling up at unexpected places.
Overpowered, notwithstanding his late prolonged slumbers, by the fatigues 
of the last few days, the dwarf lost no time in creeping to his dainty 
house, and was soon dreaming in his hammock. Leaving him to visions in 
which perhaps the quiet figures we quitted in the old church porch were not 
without their share, be it our task to rejoin them as they sat and watched.


Chapter 52

After a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the 
churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his hand, as he came 
along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure and 
haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only point towards the 
old building which the child had been contemplating so earnestly.
"You see those two old houses," he said at last.
"Yes surely," replied Nell. "I have been looking at them nearly all the 
time you have been away."
"And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you could have 
guessed what I have to tell you," said her friend. "One of those houses is 
mine."
"Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the 
schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with 
exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low arched door. After trying several of the keys 
in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which turned 
back, creaking, and admitted them into the house.
The room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once nobly 
ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful 
groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient 
splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery, of 
Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times the leaves outside had 
come and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The broken figures supporting 
the burden of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were still 
distinguishable for what they had been - far different from the dust 
without - and showed sadly by the empty hearth like creatures who had 
outlived their kind, and mourned their own too slow decay.
In some old time - for even change was old in that old place - a wooden 
partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to form a 
sleeping closet, into which the light was admitted at the same period by a 
rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen, together 
with two seats in the broad chimney, had at some forgotten date been part 
of the church or convent; for the oak, hastily appropriated to its present 
purpose, had been little altered from its former shape, and presented to 
the eye a pile of fragments of rich carving from old monkish stalls.
An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that came 
through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of the ruin. 
It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms 
and legs looked as though they had dwindled away with age; a table, the 
very spectre of its race; a great old chest that had once held records in 
the church, with other quaintly fashioned domestic necessaries, and store 
of firewood for the winter, were scattered around, and gave evident tokens 
of its occupation as a dwelling-place at no very distant time.
The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we 
contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the 
great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they were all 
three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they feared 
to break the silence even by so slight a sound.
"It is a very beautiful place!" said the child, in a low voice.
"I almost feared you thought otherwise," returned the schoolmaster. "You 
shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy."
"It was not that," said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder. "Indeed 
I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside, from the church 
porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so old and grey, 
perhaps."
"A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so?" said her friend.
"Oh yes," rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. "A quiet, happy 
place - a place to live and learn to die in!" She would have said more, but 
that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter, and come in 
trembling whispers from her lips.
"A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body 
in," said the schoolmaster; "for this old house is yours."
"Ours!" cried the child.
"Aye," returned the schoolmaster gaily, "for many a merry year to come, I 
hope. I shall be a close neighbour - only next door - but this house is 
yours."
Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster sat 
down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt that that 
ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old person, 
nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the church, opened and 
closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how she had died 
not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, 
learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who was confined to his 
bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention of his fellow-
traveller, which had been so favourably received by that high authority, 
that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to propound the matter to 
the clergyman. In a word, the result of his exertions was, that Nell and 
her grandfather were to be carried before the last-named gentleman next 
day; and, his approval of their conduct and appearance reserved as a matter 
of form, that they were already appointed to the vacant post.
"There's a small allowance of money," said the schoolmaster. "It is not 
much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By clubbing our 
funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that."
"Heaven bless and prosper you!" sobbed the child.
"Amen, my dear," returned her friend cheerfully; "and all of us, as it 
will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this tranquil 
life. But we must look at my house now. Come!"
They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at 
length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led into a 
chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come, but not so 
spacious, and having only one other little room attached. It was not 
difficult to divine that the other house was of right the schoolmaster's, 
and that he had chosen for himself the least commodious, in his care and 
regard for them. Like the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles 
of furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its stack of firewood.
To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could, was 
now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its cheerful fire 
glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old walls with 
a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle, repaired the 
tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that time had worn in the 
threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent. The 
schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed the 
long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, which hung their drooping 
heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of 
home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, lent 
his aid to both, went here and there on little patient services, and was 
happy. Neighbours too, as they came from work, proffered their help; or 
sent their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers 
needed most. It was a busy day; and night came on, and found them wondering 
that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so soon.
They took their supper together, in the house which may be henceforth 
called the child's; and, when they had finished their meal, drew round the 
fire, and almost in whispers - their hearts were too quiet and glad for 
loud expressions - discussed their future plans. Before they separated, the 
schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and then, full of gratitude and 
happiness, they parted for the night.
At that silent hour, when the grandfather was sleeping peacefully in his 
bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the dying 
embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a dream and 
she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking flame, reflected in the oaken 
panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in the gloom of the dusky roof - 
the aged walls, where strange shadows came and went with every flickering 
of the fire - the solemn presence, within, of that decay which falls on 
senseless things the most enduring in their nature; and, without, and round 
about on every side, of Death - filled her with deep and thoughtful 
feelings, but with none of terror or alarm. A change had been gradually 
stealing over her in the time of her loneliness and sorrow. With failing 
strength and heightening resolution, there had sprung up a purified and 
altered mind; there had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, 
which are the portion of few but the weak and drooping. There were none to 
see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from the fire and leaned 
pensively at the open casement; none but the stars, to look into the 
upturned face and read its history. The old church bell rang out the hour 
with a mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from communicating with the 
dead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen leaves rustled; the 
grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping.
Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the church -
 touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and protection. 
Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of trees; others, by 
the path, that footsteps might come near them; others, among the graves of 
little children. Some had desired to rest beneath the very ground they had 
trodden in their daily walks; some, where the setting sun might shine upon 
their beds; some, where its light would fall upon them when it rose. 
Perhaps not one of the unprisoned souls had been able quite to separate 
itself in living thought from its old companion. If any had, it had still 
felt for it a love like that which captives have been known to bear towards 
the cell in which they have been long confined, and, even at parting hung 
upon its narrow bounds affectionately.
It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her bed. 
Again something of the same sensation as before - an involuntary chill - a 
momentary feeling akin to fear - but vanishing directly, and leaving no 
alarm behind. Again too, dreams of the little scholar; of the roof opening, 
and a column of bright faces, rising far away into the sky, as she had seen 
in some old scriptural picture once, and looking down on her, asleep. It 
was a sweet and happy dream. The quiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the 
same, save that there was music in the air, and a sound of angels' wings. 
After a time the sisters came there, hand in hand, and stood among the 
graves. And then the dream grew dim and faded.
With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of yesterday's 
labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its 
energies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked gaily in ordering and 
arranging the houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.
He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued spirit, 
accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the world, which 
he had left many years before to come and settle in that place. His wife 
had died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long since lost 
sight of any earthy cares or hopes beyond it.
He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell; 
asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had led 
her there, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. They 
had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his 
fortunes. He loved the child as though she were his own.
"Well, well," said the clergyman. "Let it be as you desire. She is very 
young."
"Old in adversity and trial, sir," replied the schoolmaster.
"God help her! Let her rest, and forget them," said the old gentleman. "But 
an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you, my 
child."
"Oh no, sir," returned Nell. "I have no such thoughts, indeed."
"I would rather see her dancing on the green at night," said the old 
gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly, "than have her 
sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. You must look to this, and 
see that her heart does not grow heavy among these solemn ruins. Your 
request is granted, friend."
After more kind words, they withdrew and repaired to the child's house; 
where they were yet in conversation on their happy fortune, when another 
friend appeared.
This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the parsonage house, and had 
resided there (so they learnt soon afterwards) ever since the death of the 
clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He had been his 
college friend and always his choice companion; in the first shock of his 
grief he had come to console and comfort him; and from that time they had 
never parted company. The little old gentleman was the active spirit of the 
place, the adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all merry-makings, 
the dispenser of his friend's bounty, and of no small charity of his own 
besides; the universal mediator, comforter, and friend. None of the simple 
villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in 
their memory. Perhaps from some vague rumour of his college honours which 
had been whispered abroad on his first arrival, perhaps because he was an 
unmarried, unincumbered gentleman, he had been called the bachelor. The 
name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the Bachelor he 
had ever since remained. And the bachelor it was, it may be added, who with 
his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the wanderers had found 
in their new habitations.
The bachelor, then - to call him by his usual appellation - lifted the 
latch, showed his little round mild face for a moment at the door, and 
stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it.
"You are Mr Marton, the new schoolmaster?" he said, greeting Nell's kind 
friend.
"I am, sir,"
"You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you. I should have been in 
the way yesterday expecting you, but I rode across the country to carry a 
message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles off, and 
have but just now returned. This is our young church-keeper! You are not 
the less welcome, friend, for her sake, or for this old man's; nor the 
worse teacher for having learned humanity."
"She has been ill, sir, very lately," said the schoolmaster, in answer to 
the look with which their visitor regarded Nell when he had kissed her 
cheek.
"Yes, yes. I know she has," he rejoined. "There have been suffering and 
heartache here."
"Indeed there have, sir."
The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at the 
child, whose hand he took tenderly in his, and held.
"You will be happier here," he said; "we will try, at least, to make you 
so. You have made great improvements here already. Are they the work of 
your hands?"
"Yes, sir."
"We may make some others - not better in themselves, but with better means, 
perhaps," said the bachelor.
"Let us see now, let us see."
Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both the houses, 
in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he engaged to 
supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he had at home, and which 
must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive one, as it comprehended 
the most opposite articles imaginable. They all came, however, and came 
without loss of time; for the little old gentleman, disappearing for some 
five or ten minutes, presently returned, laden with old shelves, rugs, 
blankets, and other household gear, and followed by a boy bearing a similar 
load. These being cast on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a 
quantity of occupation in arranging, erecting, and putting away; the 
superintendence of which task evidently afforded the old gentleman extreme 
delight, and engaged him for some time with great briskness and activity. 
When nothing more was left to be done, he charged the boy to run off and 
bring his schoolmates to be marshalled before their new master, and 
solemnly reviewed.
"As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see," he said, turning 
to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; "but I don't let 'em know I 
think so. That wouldn't do, at all."
The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins, great and 
small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house door, fell into 
various convulsions of politeness; clutching their hats and caps, squeezing 
them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making all manner of bows 
and scrapes, which the little old gentleman contemplated with excessive 
satisfaction, and expressed his approval of by a great many nods and 
smiles. Indeed, his approbation of the boys was by no means so scrupulously 
disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it broke 
out in sundry loud whispers and confidential remarks which were perfectly 
audible to them every one.
"This first boy, schoolmaster," said the bachelor, "is John Owen; a lad of 
good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper; but too thoughtless, too 
playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good sir, would break his 
neck with pleasure, and deprive his parents of their chief comfort - and 
between ourselves when you come to see him at hare and hounds, taking the 
fence and ditch by the finger-post, and sliding down the face of the little 
quarry, you'll never forget it. It's beautiful!"
John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect possession of the 
speech aside, the bachelor singled out another boy.
"Now look at that lad, sir," said the bachelor. "You see that fellow? 
Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with a 
good memory, and a ready understanding, and moreover with a good voice and 
ear for psalm-singing, in which he is the best among us. Yet, sir, that boy 
will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed; he's always falling 
asleep in church in sermon-time - and to tell you the truth, Mr Marton, I 
always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain that it was natural 
to my constitution and I couldn't help it."
This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor 
turned to another.
"But if we talk of examples to be shunned," said he, "if we come to boys 
that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here's the one, 
and I hope you won't spare him. This is the lad, sir; this one with the 
blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir, this fellow - a diver, 
Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for plunging into 
eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's 
dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain and collar, while his 
master stood wringing his hands upon the bank, bewailing the loss of his 
guide and friend. I sent the boy two guineas anonymously, sir," added the 
bachelor, in his peculiar whisper, "directly I heard of it; but never 
mention it on any account, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from 
me."
Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and from 
him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for their 
wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting emphasis on such 
of their propensities as were dearest to his heart, and were unquestionably 
referable to his own precept and example. Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, 
that he made them miserable by his severity, he dismissed them with a small 
present, and an admonition to walk quietly home, without any leapings, 
scufflings, or turnings out of the way; which injunction (he informed the 
schoolmaster in the same audible confidence) he did not think he could have 
obeyed when he was a boy, had his life depended on it.
Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor's disposition as so many 
assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster 
parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and deemed himself 
one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old houses were 
ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the cheerful fires that 
burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend, pausing to look upon them as 
they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the 
beautiful child, and looked round upon the churchyard with a sigh.


Chapter 53

Nell was stirring early in the morning, and having discharged her household 
tasks, and put everything in order for the good schoolmaster (though sorely 
against his will, for he would have spared her the pains), took down, from 
its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of keys with which the bachelor 
had formally invested her on the previous day, and went out alone to visit 
the old church.
The sky was serene and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh scent 
of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense. The neighbouring 
stream sparkled, and rolled onward with a tuneful sound; the dew glistened 
on the green mounds, like tears shed by good spirits over the dead.
Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid from each other, with 
laughing faces. They had an infant with them, and laid it down asleep upon 
a child's grave, in a little bed of leaves. It was a new grave - the 
resting place of some little creature, who, meek and patient in its 
illness, had often sat and watched them, and now seemed, to their minds, 
scarcely changed.
She drew near and asked one of them whose grave it was. The child answered 
that that was not its name; it was a garden - his brother's. It was 
greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds loved it better 
because he had been used to feed them. When he had done speaking, he looked 
at her with a smile, and kneeling down and nestling for a moment with his 
cheek against the turf, bounded merrily away.
She passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the 
wicket gate, and so into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a crutch, 
was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good morrow.
"You are better?" said the child, stopping to speak with him.
"Aye surely," returned the old man. "I'm thankful to say, much better."
"You will be quite well soon."
"With Heaven's leave, and a little patience. But come in, come in!"
The old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step, which 
he achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into his little 
cottage.
"It is but one room you see. There is another up above, but the stairs got 
harder to climb o' late years, and I never use it. I'm thinking of taking 
to it again next summer though."
The child wondered how a grey-headed man like him - one of his trade too - 
could talk of time so easily.
He saw her eyes wandering to the tools that hung upon the wall, and smiled.
"I warrant now," he said, "that you think all those are used in making 
graves."
"Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many."
"And well you might. I am a gardener. I dig the ground, and plant things 
that are to live and grow. My works don't all moulder away, and rot in the 
earth. You see that spade in the centre?"
"The very old one - so notched and worn? Yes."
"That's the sexton's spade, and it's a well-used one, as you see. We're 
healthy people here, but it has done a power of work. If it could speak 
now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected job that it and I 
have done together; but I forget 'em, for my memory's a poor one. - That's 
nothing new," he added hastily. "It always was."
"There are flowers and shrubs to speak to your other work," said the child.
"Oh yes. And tall trees. But they are not so separated from the sexton's 
labours as you think."
"No!"
"Not in my mind, and recollection - such as it is," said the old man. 
"Indeed they often help it. For say that I planted such a tree for such a 
man. There it stands to remind me that he died. When I look at its broad 
shadow, and remember what it was in his time, it helps me to the age of my 
other work, and I can tell you pretty nearly when I made his grave."
"But it may remind you of one who is still alive," said the child.
"Of twenty that are dead, in connection with that one who lives, then," 
rejoined the old man; "wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters, children, 
friends - a score at least. So it happens that the sexton's spade gets worn 
and battered. I shall need a new one - next summer."
The child looked quickly towards him, thinking that he jested with his age 
and infirmity: but the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest.
"Ah!" he said, after a brief silence. "People never learn. They never 
learn. It's only we who turn up the ground where nothing grows and 
everything decays, who think of such things as these - who think of them 
properly, I mean. You have been into the church?"
"I am going there now," the child replied.
"There's an old well there," said the sexton, "right underneath the 
belfrey; a deep, dark, echoing well. Forty years ago you had only to let 
down the bucket till the first knot in the rope was free of the windlass, 
and you heard it splashing in the cold dull water. By little and little the 
water fell away, so that in ten year after that, a second knot was made, 
and you must unwind so much rope, or the bucket swung tight and empty at 
the end. In ten years' time, the water fell again, and a third knot was 
made. In ten year more, the well dried up; and now, if you lower the bucket 
till your arms are tired and let out nearly all the cord, you'll hear it of 
a sudden clanking and rattling on the ground below; with a sound of being 
so deep and so far down, that your heart leaps into your mouth, and you 
start away as if you were falling in."
"A dreadful place to come on in the dark!" exclaimed the child, who had 
followed the old man's looks and words until she seemed to stand upon its 
brink.
"What is it but a grave!" said the sexton. "What else! And which of our old 
folks, knowing all this, thought, as the spring subsided, of their own 
failing strength and lessening life? Not one!"
"Are you very old yourself?" asked the child involuntarily.
"I shall be seventy-nine - next summer."
"You still work when you are well?"
"Work! To be sure. You shall see my gardens hereabout. Look at the window 
there. I made, and have kept, that plot of ground entirely with my own 
hands. By this time next year I shall hardly see the sky, the boughs will 
have grown so thick. I shall have my winter work at night besides."
He opened, as he spoke, a cupboard close to where he sat, and produced some 
miniature boxes, carved in a homely manner and made of old wood.
"Some gentlefolks who are fond of ancient days, and what belongs to them," 
he said, "like to buy these keepsakes from our church and ruins. Sometimes, 
I make them of scraps of oak, that turn up here and there; sometimes of 
bits of coffin which the vaults have long preserved. See here - this is a 
little chest of the last kind, clasped at the edges with fragments of brass 
plates that had writing on 'em once, though it would be hard to read it 
now. I haven't many by me at this time of year, but these shelves will be 
full - next summer."
The child admired and praised his work, and shortly afterwards departed; 
thinking, as she went, how strange it was, that this old man, drawing from 
his pursuits, and everything around him one stern moral, never contemplated 
its application to himself; and while he dwelt upon the uncertainty of 
human life, seemed both in word and deed to deem himself immortal. But her 
musings did not stop here, for she was wise enough to think that by a good 
and merciful adjustment this must be human nature, and that the old sexton, 
with his plans for next summer, was but a type of mankind.
Full of these meditations, she reached the church. It was easy to find the 
key belonging to the outer door, for each was labelled on a scrap of yellow 
parchment. Its very turning in the lock awoke a hollow sound, and when she 
entered with a faltering step, the echoes that it raised in closing, made 
her start.
If the peace of the simple village had moved the child more strongly, 
because of the dark and troubled ways that lay beyond, and through which 
she had journeyed with such failing feet, what was the deep impression of 
finding herself alone in that solemn building, where the very light coming 
through sunken windows, seemed old and grey, and the air, redolent of earth 
and mould, seemed laden with decay, purified by time of all its grosser 
particles, and sighing through arch and aisle, and clustered pillars, like 
the breath of ages gone! Here was the broken pavement, worn, so long ago, 
by pious feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrims' steps, had trodden out 
their track, and left but crumbling stones. Here were the rotten beam, the 
sinking arch, the sapped and mouldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, 
the stately tomb on which no epitaph remained, - all - marble, stone, iron, 
wood, and dust, one common monument of ruin. The best work and the worst, 
the plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing - both 
of Heaven's work and Man's - all found one common level here, and told one 
common tale.
Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and here were effigies 
of the warriors, stretched upon their beds of stone with folded hands - 
cross-legged, those who had fought in the Holy Wars - girded with their 
swords, and cased in armour as they had lived. Some of these knights had 
their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by, 
and dangling from rusty hooks. Broken and dilapidated as they were, they 
yet retained their ancient form, and something of their ancient aspect. 
Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and 
bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes, long after those who worked the 
desolation are but atoms of earth themselves.
The child sat down, in this odd, silent place, among the stark figures on 
the tombs - they made it more quiet there, than elsewhere, to her fancy - 
and gazing round with a feeling of awe, tempered with a calm delight, felt 
that now she was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible from the shelf, and 
read; then, laying it down, thought of the summer days and the bright 
springtime that would come - of the rays of sun that would fall in aslant, 
upon the sleeping forms - of the leaves that would flutter at the window, 
and play in glistening shadows on the pavement - of the songs of birds, and 
growth of buds and blossoms out of doors - of the sweet air, that would 
steal in, and gently wave the tattered banners overhead. What if the spots 
awakened thoughts of death! Die who would, it would still remain the same; 
these sights and sounds would still go on, as happily as ever. It would be 
no pain to sleep amidst them.
She left the chapel - very slowly and often turning back to gaze again - 
and coming to a low door, which led into the tower, opened it, and climbed 
the winding stair in darkness; save where she looked down, through narrow 
loopholes, on the place she had left, or caught a glimmering vision of the 
dusty bells. At length she gained the end of the ascent and stood upon the 
turret top.
Oh! the glory of the sudden burst of light; the freshness of the fields and 
woods, stretching away on every side, and meeting the bright blue sky; the 
cattle grazing in the pasturage; the smoke, that, coming from among the 
trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth; the children yet at 
their gambols down below - all, everything, so beautiful and happy! It was 
like passing from death to life; it was drawing nearer Heaven.
The children were gone, when she emerged into the porch, and locked the 
door. As she passed the schoolhouse she could hear the busy hum of voices. 
Her friend had begun his labours only that day. The noise grew louder, and, 
looking back, she saw the boys come trooping out and disperse themselves, 
with merry shouts and play. "It's a good thing," thought the child. "I am 
very glad they pass the church." And then she stopped to fancy how the 
noise would sound inside, and how gently it would seem to die away upon the 
ear.
Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the old chapel, and in 
her former seat read from the same book, or indulged the same quiet train 
of thought. Even when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of coming night 
made it more solemn still, the child remained, like one rooted to the spot, 
and had no fear or thought of stirring.
They found her there, at last, and took her home. She looked pale but very 
happy, until they separated for the night; and then, as the poor 
schoolmaster stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear upon 
his face.


Chapter 54

The bachelor, among his various occupations, found in the old church a 
constant source of interest and amusement. Taking that pride in it which 
men conceive for the wonders of their own little world, he had made its 
history his study; and many a summer day within its walls, and many a 
winter's night beside the parsonage fire, had found the bachelor still 
poring over, and adding to, his goodly store of tale and legend.
As he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip fair Truth of 
every little shadowy vestment in which time and teeming fancies love to 
array her - and some of which become her pleasantly enough, serving, like 
the waters of her well, to add new graces to the charms they half conceal 
and half suggest, and to awaken interest and pursuit rather than languor 
and indifference - as, unlike this stern and obdurate class, he loved to 
see the goddess crowned with those garlands of wild flowers which tradition 
wreathes for her gentle wearing, and which are often freshest in their 
homeliest shapes, - he trod with a light step and bore with a light hand 
upon the dust of centuries, unwilling to demolish any of the fairy shrines 
that had been raised above it, if any good feeling or affection of the 
human heart were hiding thereabouts. Thus, in the case of an ancient coffin 
of rough stone, supposed, for many generations, to contain the bones of a 
certain baron, who, after ravaging, with cut, and thrust, and plunder, in 
foreign lands, came back with a penitent and sorrowing heart to die at 
home, but which had been lately shown by learned antiquaries to be no such 
thing, as the baron in question (so they contended) had died hard in 
battle, gnashing his teeth and cursing with his latest breath, - the 
bachelor stoutly maintained that the old tale was the true one; that the 
baron, repenting him of the evil, had done great charities and meekly given 
up the ghost; and that, if ever baron went to heaven, that baron was then 
at peace. In like manner, when the aforesaid antiquaries did argue and 
contend that a certain secret vault was not the tomb of a grey-haired lady 
who had been hanged and drawn and quartered by glorious Queen Bess for 
succouring a wretched priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at her door, 
the bachelor did solemnly maintain, against all comers, that the church was 
hallowed by the said poor lady's ashes; that her remains had been collected 
in the night from four of the city's gates, and thither in secret brought, 
and there deposited; and the bachelor did further (being highly excited at 
such times) deny the glory of Queen Bess, and assert the immeasurably 
greater glory of the meanest woman in her realm, who had a merciful and 
tender heart. As to the assertion that the flat stone near the door was not 
the grave of the miser who had disowned his only child and left a sum of 
money to the church to buy a peal of bells, the bachelor did readily admit 
the same, and that the place had given birth to no such man. In a word, he 
would have had every stone, and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds 
whose memory should survive. All others he was willing to forget. They 
might be buried in consecrated ground, but he would have had them buried 
deep, and never brought to light again.
It was from the lips of such a tutor, that the child learnt her easy task. 
Already impressed, beyond all telling, by the silent building and the 
peaceful beauty of the spot in which it stood - majestic age surrounded by 
perpetual youth - it seemed to her, when she heard these things, sacred to 
all goodness and virtue. It was another world, where sin and sorrow never 
came; a tranquil place of rest, where nothing evil entered.
When the bachelor had given her in connection with almost every tomb and 
flat gravestone some history of its own, he took her down into the old 
crypt, now a mere dull vault, and showed her how it had been lighted up in 
the time of the monks, and how, amid lamps depending from the roof, and 
swinging censers exhaling scented odours, and habit glittering with gold 
and silver, and pictures, and precious stuffs, and jewels all flashing and 
glistening through the low arches, the chaunt of aged voices had been many 
a time heard there, at midnight, in old days, while hooded figures knelt 
and prayed around and told their rosaries of beads. Thence, he took her 
above ground again, and showed her, high up in the old walls, small 
galleries, where the nuns had been wont to glide along - dimly seen in 
their dark dresses so far off - or to pause like gloomy shadows, listening 
to the prayers. He showed her too, how the warriors, whose figures rested 
on the tombs, had worn those rotting scraps of armour up above - how this 
had been a helmet, and that a shield, and that a gauntlet - and how they 
had wielded the great two-handed swords, and beaten men down, with yonder 
iron mace. All that he told the child she treasured in her mind; and 
sometimes, when she awoke at night from dreams of those old times, and 
rising from her bed looked out at the dark church, she almost hoped to see 
the windows lighted up, and hear the organ's swell, and sound of voices, on 
the rushing wind.
The old sexton soon got better, and was about again. From him the child 
learned many other things, though of a different kind. He was not able to 
work, but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to overlook the 
man who dug it. He was in a talkative mood; and the child, at first 
standing by his side, and afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet, with 
her thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse with him.
Now, the man who did the sexton's duty was a little older than he, though 
much more active. But he was deaf; and when the sexton (who peradventure, 
on a pinch, might have walked a mile with great difficulty in half-a-dozen 
hours) exchanged a remark with him about his work, the child could not help 
noticing that he did so with an impatient kind of pity for his infirmity, 
as if he were himself the strongest and heartiest man alive.
"I'm sorry to see there is this to do," said the child, when she 
approached. "I heard of no one having died."
"She lived in another hamlet, my dear," returned the sexton. "Three mile 
away."
"Was she young?"
"Ye - yes," said the sexton; "not more than sixty-four, I think. David, was 
she more than sixty-four?"
David, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the question. The sexton, as 
he could not reach to touch him with his crutch, and was too infirm to rise 
without assistance, called his attention by throwing a little mould upon 
his red nightcap.
"What's the matter now?" said David, looking up.
"How old was Becky Morgan?" asked the sexton.
"Becky Morgan?" repeated David.
"Yes," replied the sexton; adding in a half compassionate, half irritable 
tone, which the old man couldn't hear, "you're getting very deaf, Davy, 
very deaf to be sure!"
The old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade with a piece of 
slate he had by him for the purpose - and scraping off, in the process, the 
essence of Heaven knows how many Becky Morgans - set himself to consider 
the subject.
"Let me think," quoth he. "I saw last night what they had put upon the 
coffin - was it seventy-nine?"
"No, no," said the sexton.
"Ah yes, it was though," returned the old man with a sigh. "For I remember 
thinking she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy nine."
"Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, Davy?" asked the sexton, with 
signs of some emotion.
"What?" said the old man. "Say that again."
"He's very deaf. He's very deaf indeed," cried the sexton, petulantly; "are 
you sure you're right about the figures?"
"Oh quite," replied the old man. "Why not?"
"He's exceedingly deaf," muttered the sexton to himself. "I think he's 
getting foolish."
The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say the 
truth, the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely more 
robust. As the sexton said nothing more just then, however, she forgot it 
for the time, and spoke again.
"You were telling me," she said, "about your gardening. Do you ever plant 
things here?"
"In the churchyard?" returned the sexton, "Not I."
"I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about," the child rejoined; 
"there are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your rearing, 
though indeed they grow but poorly."
"They grow as Heaven wills," said the old man; "and it kindly ordains that 
they shall never flourish here."
"I do not understand you."
"Why, this it is," said the sexton. "They mark the graves of those who had 
very tender, loving friends."
"I was sure they did!" the child exclaimed. "I am very glad to know they 
do!"
"Aye," returned the old man, "but stay. Look at them. See how they hang 
their heads, and droop, and wither. Do you guess the reason?"
"No," the child replied.
"Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away so soon. At first 
they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come less 
frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week to once a 
month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all. Such tokens 
seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer flowers outlive 
them."
"I grieve to hear it," said the child.
"Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them," 
returned the old man, shaking his head, "but I say otherwise. 'It's a 
pretty custom you have in this part of the country,' they say to me 
sometimes, 'to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see these things 
all withering or dead.' I crave their pardon and tell them that, as I take 
it, 'tis a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so it is. It's 
nature."
"Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the 
stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves," 
said the child in an earnest voice.
"Perhaps so," replied the old man doubtfully. "It may be."
"Whether it be as I believe it is, or no," thought the child within 
herself, "I'll make this place my garden. It will be no harm at least to 
work here day by day, and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am sure."
Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who 
turned towards old David, and called him by his name. It was plain that 
Becky Morgan's age still troubled him; though why, the child could scarcely 
understand.
The second or third repetition of his name attracted the old man's 
attention. Pausing from his work, he leant on his spade, and put his hand 
to his dull ear.
"Did you call?" he said.
"I have been thinking, Davy," replied the sexton, "that she," he pointed to 
the grave, "must have been a deal older than you or me."
"Seventy-nine," answered the old man with a shake of the head, "I tell you 
that I saw it."
"Saw it?" replied the sexton; "aye, but, Davy, women don't always tell the 
truth about their age."
"That's true, indeed," said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in his 
eye. "She might have been older."
"I'm sure she must have been. Why, only think how old she looked. You and I 
seemed but boys to her."
"She did look old," rejoined David. "You're right. She did look old."
"Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year, and say if she 
could be but seventy-nine at last - only our age," said the sexton.
"Five year older at the very least!" cried the other.
"Five!" retorted the sexton. "Ten. Good eighty-nine. I call to mind the 
time her daughter died. She was eighty-nine if she was a day, and tries to 
pass upon us now for ten year younger. Oh! human vanity!"
The other old man was not behindhand with some moral reflections on this 
fruitful theme, and both adduced a mass of evidence, of such weight as to 
render it doubtful - not whether the deceased was of the age suggested, but 
whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal term of a hundred. When 
they had settled this question to their mutual satisfaction, the sexton, 
with his friend's assistance, rose to go.
"It's chilly, sitting here, and I must be careful - till the summer," he 
said, as he prepared to limp away.
"What?" asked old David.
"He's very deaf, poor fellow!" cried the sexton. "Good-bye."
"Ah!" said old David, looking after him. "He's failing very fast. He ages 
every day."
And so they parted; each persuaded that the other had less life in him than 
himself; and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little fiction they 
had agreed upon, respecting Becky Morgan, whose decease was no longer a 
precedent of uncomfortable application, and would be no business of theirs 
for half-a-score of years to come.
The child remained, for some minutes, watching the deaf old man as he threw 
out the earth with his shovel, and, often stopping to cough and fetch his 
breath, still muttered to himself, with a kind of sober chuckle, that the 
sexton was wearing fast. At length she turned away and walking thoughtfully 
through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon the schoolmaster, who was 
sitting on a green grave in the sun, reading.
"Nell here?" he said cheerfully, as he closed his book. "It does me good to 
see you in the air and light. I feared you were again in the church, where 
you so often are."
"Feared!" replied the child, sitting down beside him. "Is it not a good 
place?"
"Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster. "But you must be gay sometimes - nay, 
don't shake your head and smile so sadly."
"Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me as if you thought me 
sorrowful. There is not a happier creature on the earth, than I am now."
Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and folded it between 
her own. "It's God's will!" she said, when they had been silent for some 
time.
"What?"
"All this," she rejoined; "all this about us. But which of us is sad now? 
You see that I am smiling."
"And so am I," said the schoolmaster; "smiling to think how often we shall 
laugh in this same place. Were you not talking yonder?"
"Yes," the child rejoined.
"Of something that has made you sorrowful?"
There was a long pause.
"What was it?" said the schoolmaster, tenderly. "Come. Tell me what it 
was."
"I rather grieve - I do rather grieve to think," said the child, bursting 
into tears, "that those who die about us, are so soon forgotten."
"And do you think," said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had 
thrown around, "that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or 
two, are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect? Do you think there are no 
deeds far away from here, in which these dead may be best remembered? Nell, 
Nell, there may be people busy in the world, at this instant, in whose good 
actions and good thoughts these very graves - neglected as they look to us -
 are the chief instruments."
"Tell me no more," said the child quickly. "Tell me no more. I feel, I know 
it. How could I be unmindful of it when I thought of you?"
"There is nothing," cried her friend, "no, nothing innocent or good, that 
dies, and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith, or none. An infant, a 
prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better 
thoughts of those who loved it, and will play its part, through them, in 
the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt to ashes or 
drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to the Host of 
Heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those that loved it here. 
Forgotten! oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to 
their source, how beautiful would even death appear; for how much charity, 
mercy, and purified affection, would be seen to have their growth in dusty 
graves!"
"Yes," said the child, "it is the truth; I know it is. Who should feel its 
force so much as I, in whom your little scholar lives again! Dear, dear, 
good friend, if you knew the comfort you have given me!"
The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent over her in silence; for 
his heart was full.
They were yet seated in the same place, when the grandfather approached. 
Before they had spoken many words together, the church clock struck the 
hour of school, and their friend withdrew.
"A good man," said the grandfather, looking after him; "a kind man. Surely 
he will never harm us, Nell. We are safe here, at last - eh! We will never 
go away from here?"
The child shook her head and smiled.
"She needs rest," said the old man, patting her cheek; "too pale - too 
pale. She is not like what she was?"
"When?" asked the child.
"Ha!" said the old man, "to be sure - when? How many weeks ago? Could I 
count them on my fingers? Let them rest though; they're better gone."
"Much better, dear," replied the child. "We will forget them; or if we ever 
call them to mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream that has passed 
away."
"Hush!" said the old man, motioning hastily to her with his hand and 
looking over his shoulder; "no more talk of the dream, and all the miseries 
it brought. There are no dreams here. 'Tis a quiet place, and they keep 
away. Let us never think about them, lest they should pursue us again. 
Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks - wet, cold, and famine - and horrors before 
them all, that were even worse - we must forget such things if we would be 
tranquil here."
"Thank Heaven!" inwardly exclaimed the child, "for this most happy change!"
"I will be patient," said the old man, "humble, very thankful and obedient, 
if you will let me stay. But do not hide from me; do not steal away alone; 
let me keep beside you. Indeed, I will be very true and faithful, Nell."
"I steal away alone! why that," replied the child, with assumed gaiety, 
"would be a pleasant jest indeed. See here, dear grandfather, we'll make 
this place our garden - why not! It is a very good one - and tomorrow we'll 
begin, and work together, side by side."
"It is a brave thought!" cried her grandfather. "Mind, darling - we begin 
tomorrow!"
Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their labour! Who 
so unconscious of all associations connected with the spot, as he! They 
plucked the long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the poor shrubs 
and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of the leaves and weeds. 
They were yet in the ardour of their work, when the child, raising her head 
from the ground over which she bent, observed that the bachelor was sitting 
on the stile close by, watching them in silence.
"A kind office," said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell as she 
curtseyed to him. "Have you done all that, this morning?"
"It is very little, sir," returned the child, with down cast eyes, "to what 
we mean to do."
"Good work, good work," said the bachelor. "But do you only labour at the 
graves of children, and young people?"
"We shall come to the others in good time, sir," replied Nell, turning her 
head aside, and speaking softly.
It was a slight incident, and might have been design, or accident, or the 
child's unconscious sympathy with youth. But it seemed to strike upon her 
grandfather, though he had not noticed it before. He looked in a hurried 
manner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then pressed her to his 
side, and bade her stop to rest. Something he had long forgotten, appeared 
to struggle faintly in his mind. It did not pass away, as weightier things 
had done; but came uppermost again, and yet again, and many times that day, 
and often afterwards. Once, while they were yet at work, the child, seeing 
that he often turned and looked uneasily at her, as though he were trying 
to resolve some painful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts, urged 
him to tell the reason. But he said it was nothing - nothing - and, laying 
her head upon his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered 
that she grew stronger every day, and would be a woman, soon.


Chapter 55

From that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude about 
the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the human 
heart - strange, varying strings - which are only struck by accident; which 
will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate and earnest, 
and respond at last to the slightest casual touch. In the most insensible 
or childish minds, there is some train of reflection which art can seldom 
lead, or skill attest, but which will reveal itself, as great truths have 
done, by chance, and when the discoverer has the plainest and simplest end 
in view. From that time, the old man never, for a moment, forgot the 
weakness and devotion of the child; from the time of that slight incident, 
he, who had seen her toiling by his side through so much difficulty and 
suffering, and had scarcely thought of her otherwise than as the partner of 
miseries which he felt severely in his own person, and deplored for his own 
sake at least as much as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her, and 
what those miseries had made her. Never, no, never once, in one unguarded 
moment from that time to the end, did any care for himself, any thought of 
his own comfort, any selfish consideration or regard, distract his thoughts 
from the gentle object of his love.
He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean upon 
his arm - he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner, content to 
watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon him as of old - 
he would discharge by stealth, those household duties which tasked her 
powers too heavily - he would rise, in the cold dark nights, to listen to 
her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch for hours by her bedside 
only to touch her hand. He who knows all, can only know what hopes, and 
fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were in that one disordered brain, 
and what a change had fallen on the poor old man.
Sometimes - weeks had crept on, then - the child, exhausted, though with 
little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside the fire. At 
such times, the schoolmaster would bring in books, and read to her aloud; 
and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor came in, and took his turn 
of reading.
The old man sat and listened, - with little understanding for the words, 
but with his eyes fixed upon the child, - and if she smiled or brightened 
with the story, he would say it was a good one, and conceive a fondness for 
the very book. When, in their evening talk, the bachelor told some tale 
that pleased her (as his tales were sure to do), the old man would 
painfully try to store it in his mind; nay, when the bachelor left them, he 
would sometimes slip out after him, and humbly beg that he would tell him 
such a part again, that he might learn to win a smile from Nell.
But these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be out of 
doors, and walking in her solemn garden. Parties too, would come to see the 
church; and those who came, speaking to others of the child, sent more; so 
even at that season of the year they had visitors almost daily. The old man 
would follow them at a little distance through the building, listening to 
the voice he loved so well; and when the strangers left, and parted from 
Nell, he would mingle with them to catch up fragments of their 
conversation; or he would stand for the same purpose, with his grey head 
uncovered, at the gate, as they passed through.
They always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was proud to 
hear them! But what was that, so often added, which wrung his heart, and 
made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner! Alas! even careless 
strangers - they who had no feeling for her, but the interest of the moment 
- they who would go away and forget next week that such a being lived - 
even they saw it - even they pitied her - even they bade him good day 
compassionately, and whispered as they passed.
The people of the village, too, of whom there was not one but grew to have 
a fondness for poor Nell; even among them, there was the same feeling; a 
tenderness towards her - a compassionate regard for her, increasing every 
day. The very schoolboys light-hearted and thoughtless as they were, even 
they cared for her. The roughest among them was sorry if he missed her in 
the usual place upon his way to school, and would turn out of the path to 
ask for her at the latticed window. If she were sitting in the church, they 
perhaps might peep in softly at the open door; but they never spoke to her, 
unless she rose and went to speak to them. Some feeling was abroad which 
raised the child above them all.
So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country people in the church, for 
the castle in which the old family had lived, was an empty ruin, and there 
were none but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as elsewhere, 
they had an interest in Nell. They would gather round her in the porch, 
before and after service; young children would cluster at her skirts; and 
aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her kindly greeting. None 
of them, young or old, thought of passing the child without a friendly 
word. Many who came from three or four miles distant, brought her little 
presents; the humblest and rudest had good wishes to bestow.
She had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in the 
churchyard. One of these - he who had spoken of his brother - was her 
little favourite and friend, and often sat by her side in the church, or 
climbed with her to the tower-top. It was his delight to help her, or to 
fancy that he did so, and they soon became close companions.
It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by herself one day, 
this child came running in with his eyes full of tears, and after holding 
her from him, and looking at her eagerly for a moment, clasped his little 
arms passionately about her neck.
"What now?" said Nell, soothing him. "What is the matter?"
"She is not one yet!" cried the boy, embracing her still more closely. "No, 
no. Not yet."
She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his face, and 
kissing him, asked what he meant.
"You must not be one, dear Nell," cried the boy. "We can't see them. They 
never come to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you are. You are better 
so."
"I do not understand you," said the child. "Tell me what you mean."
"Why, they say," replied the boy, looking up into her face, "that you will 
be an Angel, before the birds sing again. But you won't be, will you? Don't 
leave us, Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us!"
The child dropped her head, and put her hands before her face.
"She cannot bear the thought!" cried the boy, exulting through his tears. 
"You will not go. You know how sorry we should be. Dear Nell, tell me that 
you'll stay amongst us. Oh! Pray, pray, tell me that you will."
The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at her feet.
"Only look at me, Nell," said the boy, "and tell me that you'll stop, and 
then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no more. Won't you say 
yes, Nell?"
Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child quite silent - save 
for her sobs.
"After a time," pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, "the kind 
angels will be glad to think that you are not among them, and that you 
stayed here to be with us. Willy went away, to join them; but if he had 
known how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never would have 
left me, I am sure."
Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed as though her heart were 
bursting.
"Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be happy when you heard 
that we were crying for your loss. They say that Willy is in Heaven now, 
and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm sure he grieves when I lie 
down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn to kiss me. But if you do go, 
Nell," said the boy, caressing her, and pressing his face to hers, "be fond 
of him for my sake. Tell him how I love him still, and how much I loved 
you; and when I think that you two are together, and are happy, I'll try to 
bear it, and never give you pain by doing wrong - indeed I never will!"
The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck. 
There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon him 
with a smile, and promised him in a very gentle quiet voice, that she would 
stay, and be his friend as long as Heaven would let her. He clapped his 
hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being charged to tell no 
person what had passed between them, gave her an earnest promise that he 
never would.
Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet companion in 
all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the theme, which he 
felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of its cause. 
Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he would often come, 
even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice outside the door to 
know if she were safe within, and being answered yes, and bade to enter, 
would take his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there patiently 
until they came to seek, and take him home. Sure as the morning came, it 
found him lingering near the house to ask if she were well; and, morning, 
noon, or night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates and his 
sports to bear her company.
"And a good little friend he is, too," said the old sexton to her once. 
"When his elder brother died - elder seems a strange word, for he was only 
seven years old - I remember this one took it sorely to heart."
The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how its 
truth was shadowed out even in this infant.
"It has given him something of a quiet way, I think," said the old man, 
"though for that he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now that you and he 
have been listening by the old well."
"Indeed we have not," the child replied. "I have been afraid to go near it; 
for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not know the 
ground."
"Come down with me," said the old man. "I have known it from a boy. Come!"
They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused among 
the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.
"This is the place," said the old man. "Give me your hand while you throw 
back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too old - I mean 
rheumatic - to stoop, myself."
"A black and dreadful place!" exclaimed the child.
"Look in," said the old man, pointing downward with his finger.
The child complied, and gazed down into the pit.
"It looks like a grave itself," said the old man.
"It does," replied the child.
"I have often had the fancy," said the sexton, "that it might have been dug 
at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old monks more 
religious. It's to be closed up, and built over."
The child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault.
"We shall see," said the sexton, "on what gay heads other earth will have 
closed, when the light is shut out from here. God knows! They'll close it 
up, next spring."

"The birds sing again in spring," thought the child, as she leaned at her 
casement window, and gazed at the declining sun. "Spring; a beautiful and 
happy time!"


Chapter 56

A day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller 
walked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone in 
that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking from his 
pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to folding and 
pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a headband. Having completed 
the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his work with great 
complacency, and put his hat on again - very much over one eye to increase 
the mournfulness of the effect. These arrangements perfected to his entire 
satisfaction, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down 
the office with measured steps.
"It has always been the same with me," said Mr Swiveller, "always. 'Twas 
ever thus, from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay, I never 
loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away; I never nursed a 
dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but when it came to know 
me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a market-gardener."
Overpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short at the 
clients' chair, and flung himself into its open arms.
"And this," said Mr Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, "is 
life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not! I'm quite satisfied. "I shall 
wear," added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard at it, as 
if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from spurning it with 
his foot, "I shall wear this emblem of woman's perfidy, in remembrance of 
her with whom I shall never again thread the windings of the mazy; whom I 
shall never more pledge in the rosy; who, during the short remainder of my 
existence, will murder the balmy. Ha, ha, ha!"
It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any incongruity in 
the close of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not wind up with a 
cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been undoubtedly at variance 
with his solemn reflections, but that being in a theatrical mood, he merely 
achieved that performance which is designated in melodramas "laughing like 
a fiend," - for it seems that your fiends always laugh in syllables, and 
always in three syllables, never more or less, which is a remarkable 
property in such gentry, and one worthy of remembrance.
The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still sitting 
in a very grim state in the clients' chair, when there came a ring, - or, 
if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell - at the office bell. 
Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the expressive countenance of Mr 
Chuckster, between whom and himself a fraternal greeting ensued.
"You're devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter-house," said that 
gentleman, poising himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an easy 
manner.
"Rather," returned Dick.
"Rather!" retorted Mr Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling which 
so well became him. "I should think so. Why, my good feller, do you know 
what o'clock it is - half-past nine a.m. in the morning?"
"Won't you come in?" said Dick. "All alone. Swiveller solus. ''Tis now the 
witching - '"
"'Hour of night!'"
"'When churchyards yawn.'"
"'And graves give up their dead.'"
At the end of this quotation in dialogue, each gentleman struck an 
attitude, and immediately subsiding into prose, walked into the office. 
Such morsels of enthusiasm were common among the Glorious Apollos, and were 
indeed the links that bound them together, and raised them above the cold 
dull earth.
"Well, and how are you my buck?" said Mr Chuckster, taking a stool. "I was 
forced to come into the city upon some little private matters of my own, 
and couldn't pass the corner of the street without looking in, but upon my 
should I didn't expect to find you. It is so everlastingly early."
Mr Swiveller expressed his acknowledgements; and it appearing on further 
conversation that he was in good health, and that Mr Chuckster was in the 
like enviable condition, both gentlemen, in compliance with a solemn custom 
of the ancient Brotherhood to which they belonged, joined in a fragment of 
a popular duet of "All's Well" with a long shake at the end.
"And what's the news?" said Richard.
"The town's as flat, my dear feller," replied Mr Chuckster, "as the surface 
of a Dutch oven. There's no news. By-the-by, that lodger of yours is a most 
extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most vigorous comprehension, you 
know. Never was such a feller!"
"What has he been doing now?" said Dick.
"By Jove, sir," returned Mr Chuckster, taking put an oblong snuff-box, the 
lid whereof was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in brass, 
"that man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man has made friends with our 
articled clerk. There's no harm in him, but he's so amazingly slow and 
soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he have one that knew a 
thing or two, and could do him some good by his manners and conversation. I 
have my faults, sir," said Mr Chuckster. -
"No, no," interposed Mr Swiveller.
"Oh yes I have, I have my faults, no man knows his faults better than I 
know mine. But," said Mr Chuckster, "I'm not meek. My worst enemies - every 
man has his enemies, sir, and I have mine - never accused me of being meek. 
And I tell you what, sir, if I hadn't more of these qualities that commonly 
endear man to man, that our articled clerk has, I'd steal a Cheshire 
cheese, tie it round my neck, and drown myself. I'd die degraded, as I had 
lived. I would upon my honour.
Mr Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head exactly on the nose with the 
knuckle of the forefinger, took a pinch of snuff and looked steadily at Mr 
Swiveller, as much as to say that if he thought he was going to sneeze, he 
would find himself mistaken.
"Not contented, sir," said Mr Chuckster, "with making friends with Abel, he 
has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother. Since he came 
home from that wild-goose chase, he has been there - actually been there. 
He patronises young Snobby besides; you'll find, sir, that he'll be 
constantly coming backwards and forwards to this place: yet I don't suppose 
that beyond the common forms of civility, he has ever exchanged half-a-
dozen words with me. Now, upon my soul, you know," said Mr Chuckster, 
shaking his head gravely, as men are wont to do when they consider things 
are going a little too far, "this is altogether such a low-minded affair, 
that if I didn't feel for the governor, and know that he could never get on 
without me, I should be obliged to cut the connection. I should have no 
alternative."
Mr Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred the 
fire in an excess of sympathy, but said nothing.
"As to young Snob, sir," pursued Mr Chuckster with a prophetic look, 
"you'll find he'll turn out bad. In our profession we know something of 
human nature, and take my word for it, that the feller that came back to 
work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in his true 
colours. He's a low thief, sir. He must be."
Mr Chuckster being roused, would probably have pursued this subject 
further, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door, which 
seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused him to 
assume a greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps quite consistent 
with his late declaration. Mr Swiveller, hearing the same sound, caused his 
stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it brought him to his desk, into 
which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of his spirits to part with 
the poker, he thrust it as he cried "Come in!"
Who should present himself but that very Kit who had been the theme of Mr 
Chuckster's wrath! Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly, or look 
so fierce, as Mr Chuckster when he found it was he. Mr Swiveller stared at 
him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool, and drawing out the 
poker from its place of concealment, performed the broad sword exercise 
with all the cuts and guards complete, in a species of frenzy.
"Is the gentleman at home?" said Kit, rather astonished by this uncommon 
reception.
Before Mr Swiveller could make any reply, Mr Chuckster took occasion to 
enter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry; which he held to 
be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the inquirer, 
seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have spoken of the 
other gentleman; or rather (for it was not impossible that the object of 
his search might be of inferior quality) should have mentioned his name, 
leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree as they thought proper. 
Mr Chuckster likewise remarked, that he had some reason to believe this 
form of address was personal to himself, and that he was not a man to be 
trifled with - as certain snobs (whom he did not more particularly mention 
or describe) might find to their cost.
"I mean the gentleman upstairs," said Kit, turning to Richard Swiveller. 
"Is he at home?"
"Why?" rejoined Dick.
"Because if he is, I have a letter for him."
"From whom?" said Dick.
"From Mr Garland."
"Oh!" said Dick, with extreme politeness. "Then you may hand it over, sir. 
And if you're to wait for an answer, sir, you may wait in the passage, sir, 
which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir."
"Thank you," returned Kit. "But I am to give it to himself if you please."
The excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered Mr Chuckster, and so 
moved his tender regard for his friend's honour, that he declared, if he 
were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly have 
annihilated Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront which he did 
consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation attending 
it, could not but have met with the proper sanction and approval of a jury 
of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a verdict of 
Justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the morals and 
character of the avenger. Mr Swiveller, without being quite so hot upon the 
matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement, and not a little 
puzzled how to act (Kit being quite cool and good humoured), when the 
single gentleman was heard to call violently down the stairs.
"Didn't I see somebody for me, come in?" cried the lodger.
"Yes, sir," replied Dick, "Certainly, sir."
"Then where is he?" roared the single gentleman.
"He's here, sir," rejoined Mr Swiveller. "Now young man, don't you hear 
you're to go up stairs? Are you deaf?"
Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any 
altercation, but hurried off and left the Glorious Apollos gazing at each 
other in silence.
"Didn't I tell you so?" said Mr Chuckster. "What do you think of that?"
Mr Swiveller being in the main a good-natured fellow and not perceiving in 
the conduct of Kit any villainy of enormous magnitude, scarcely knew what 
answer to return. He was relieved from his perplexity, however by the 
entrance of Mr Sampson and his sister, Sally, at sight of whom Mr Chuckster 
precipitately retired.
Mr Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a 
consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great 
interest and importance. On the occasion of such conferences, they 
generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual time, 
and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and designs had 
tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their toilsome way. In the 
present instance, they seemed particularly gay; Miss Sally's aspect being 
of a most oily kind, and Mr Brass rubbing his hands in an exceedingly 
jocose and light-hearted manner.
"Well, Mr Richard," said Brass. "How are we this morning? Are we pretty 
fresh and cheerful sir - eh, Mr Richard?"
"Pretty well sir," replied Dick.
"That's well," said Brass. "Ha ha! We should be as gay as larks Mr Richard -
 why not? It's a pleasant world we live in sir, a very pleasant world. 
There are bad people in it Mr Richard; but if there were no bad people, 
there would be no good lawyers. Ha ha! Any letters by the post this 
morning, Mr Richard?"
Mr Swiveller answered in the negative.
"Ha!" said Brass, "no matter. If there's little business today, there'll be 
more tomorrow. A contented spirit, Mr Richard, is the sweetness of 
existence. Anybody been here, sir?"
"Only my friend" - replied Dick. "'May we ne'er want a - '"
"'Friend,'" Brass chimed in quickly, "'or a bottle to give him.' Ha ha! 
That's the way the song runs isn't it? A very good song, Mr Richard, very 
good. I like the sentiment of it. Ha ha! Your friend's the young man from 
Witherden's office I think - yes - 'May we ne'er want a - ' Nobody else at 
all, been, Mr Richard?"
"Only somebody to the lodger," replied Mr Swiveller.
"Oh indeed!" cried Brass. "Somebody to the lodger, eh? Ha ha! 'May we ne'er 
want a friend, or a - ' Somebody to the lodger, eh Mr Richard?"
"Yes," said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of 
spirits which his employer displayed. "With him now."
"With him now!" cried Brass; "Ha ha! There let 'em be, merry and free, toor 
rul lol le. Eh, Mr Richard! Ha ha!"
"Oh certainly," replied Dick.
"And who," said Brass, shuffling among his papers, "who is the lodger's 
visitor - not a lady visitor I hope, eh Mr Richard? The morals of the Marks 
you know sir - 'when lovely woman stoops to folly' - and all that - eh Mr 
Richard?"
"Another young man who belongs to Witherden's too; or half belongs there," 
returned Richard "Kit they call him."
"Kit, eh!" said Brass. "Strange name - name of a dancing-master's fiddle, 
eh Mr Richard? Ha ha! Kit's there, is he? Oh!"
Dick looked at Miss Sally, wondering that she didn't check this uncommon 
exuberance on the part of Mr Sampson; but as she made no attempt to do so, 
and rather appeared to exhibit a tacit acquiescence in it, he concluded 
that they had just been cheating somebody, and receiving the bill.
"Will you have the goodness, Mr Richard," said Brass, taking a letter from 
his desk, "just to step over to Peckham Rye with that? There's no answer, 
but it's rather particular, and should go by hand. Charge the office with 
your coach-hire back, you know: don't spare the office; get as much out of 
it as you can - clerk's motto - eh Mr Richard? Ha ha!"
Mr Swiveller solemnly doffed the aquatic jacket, put on his coat, took down 
his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As soon as he was 
gone, uprose Miss Sally Brass, and smiling sweetly at her brother (who 
nodded and smote his nose in return) withdrew also.
Sampson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set the office-door wide 
open, and establishing himself at his desk directly opposite, so that he 
could not fail to see anybody who came downstairs and passed out at the 
street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and assiduity; 
humming as he did so, in a voice that was anything but musical, certain 
vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the union between Church 
and State, inasmuch as they were compounded of the Evening Hymn and God 
save the King.
Thus, the attorney of Bevis Marks sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a long 
time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cunning face, and 
hearing nothing, went on humming louder, and writing slower than ever. At 
length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's door opened and shut, 
and footsteps coming down the stairs. Then, Mr Brass left off writing 
entirely, and, with his pen in his hand, hummed his very loudest; shaking 
his head meanwhile from side to side, like a man whose whole soul was in 
the music, and smiling in a manner quite seraphic.
It was towards this moving spectacle that the staircase and the sweet 
sounds guided Kit: on whose arrival before his door, Mr Brass stopped his 
singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably: at the same time 
beckoning to him with his pen.
"Kit," said Mr Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, "how do you do?"
Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his 
hand upon the lock of the street door when Mr Brass called him softly back.
"You are not to go, if you please, Kit," said the attorney in a mysterious 
and yet business like way. "You are to step in here, if you please. Dear 
me, dear me! When I look at you," said the lawyer, quitting his stool, and 
standing before the fire with his back towards it, "I am reminded of the 
sweetest little face that ever my eyes beheld. I remember your coming 
there, twice or thrice, when we were in possession. Ah Kit, my dear fellow, 
gentlemen in my profession have such painful duties to perform sometimes, 
that you needn't envy us - you needn't indeed!"
"I don't sir," said Kit, "though it isn't for the like of me to judge."
"Our only consolation, Kit," pursued the lawyer, looking at him in a sort 
of pensive abstraction, "is, that although we cannot turn away the wind, we 
can soften it; we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn lambs."
"Shorn indeed!" thought Kit. "Pretty close!" But he didn't say so.
"On that occasion, Kit," said Mr Brass, "on that occasion that I have just 
alluded to, I had a hard battle with Mr Quilp (for Mr Quilp is a very hard 
man) to obtain them the indulgence they had. It might have cost me a 
client. But suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed."
"He's not so bad after all," thought honest Kit, as the attorney pursed up 
his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better feelings.
"I respect you, Kit," said Brass with emotion. "I saw enough of your 
conduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble, and 
your fortune lowly. It isn't the waistcoat that I look at. It is the heart. 
The checks in the waistcoat are but the wires of the cage. But the heart is 
the bird. Ah! How many such birds are perpetually moulting, and putting 
their beaks through the wires to peck at all mankind!"
This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in special allusion to his own 
checked waistcoat, quite overcame him; Mr Brass's voice and manner added 
not a little to its effect, for he discoursed with all the mild austerity 
of a hermit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of his rusty surtout, 
and a skull on the chimney-piece, to be completely set up in that line of 
business.
"Well, well," said Sampson, smiling as good men smile when they 
compassionate their own weakness or that of their fellow-creatures, "this 
is wide of the bull's-eye. You're to take that, if you please." As he 
spoke, he pointed to a couple of half crowns on the desk.
Kit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson, and hesitated.
"For yourself," said Brass.
"From - "
"No matter about the person they came from," replied the lawyer. "Say me, 
if you like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we musn't ask 
questions or talk too much - you understand? You're to take them, that's 
all; and between you and me, I don't think they'll be the last you'll have 
to take from the same place. I hope not. Good bye, Kit. Good bye!"
With many thanks, and many more self-reproaches for having on such slight 
grounds suspected one who in their very first conversation turned out such 
a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the money and made the 
best of his way home. Mr Brass remained airing himself at the fire, and 
resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic smile, simultaneously.
"May I come in?" said Miss Sally peeping.
"Oh yes, you may come in," returned her brother.
"Ahem?" coughed Miss Brass interrogatively.
"Why, yes," returned Sampson, "I should say as good as done."


Chapter 57

Mr Chuckster's indignant apprehensions were not without foundation. 
Certainly the friendship between the single gentleman and Mr Garland was 
not suffered to cool, but had a rapid growth and flourished exceedingly. 
They were soon in habits of constant intercourse and communication; and the 
single gentleman labouring at this time under a slight attack of illness - 
the consequence most probably of his late excited feelings and subsequent 
disappointment - furnished a reason for their holding yet more frequent 
correspondence; so, that some one of the inmates of Abel Cottage, Finchley, 
came backwards and forwards between that place and Bevis Marks, almost 
every day.
As the pony had now thrown off all disguise, and without any mincing of the 
matter or beating about the bush, sturdily refused to be driven by anybody 
but Kit, it generally happened that whether old Mr Garland came, or Mr 
Abel, Kit was of the party. Of all messages and inquiries, Kit was, in 
right of his position, the bearer; thus it came about that, while the 
single gentleman remained indisposed, Kit turned into Bevis Marks every 
morning with nearly as much regularity as the General Postman.
Mr Sampson Brass, who no doubt had his reasons for looking sharply about 
him, soon learnt to distinguish the pony's trot and the clatter of the 
little chaise at the corner of the street. Whenever this sound reached his 
ears, he would immediately lay down his pen and fall to rubbing his hands 
and exhibiting the greatest glee.
"Ha ha!" he would cry. "Here's the pony again! Most remarkable pony, 
extremely docile, eh Mr Richard eh sir?"
Dick would return some matter-of-course reply, and Mr Brass, standing on 
the bottom rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the street over the 
top of the window-blind, would take an observation of the visitors.
"The old gentleman again!" he would exclaim, "a very prepossessing old 
gentleman, Mr Richard charming countenance, sir - extremely calm - 
benevolent in every feature, sir. He quite realises my idea of King Lear, 
as he appeared when in possession of his kingdom, Mr Richard - the same 
good-humour, the same white hair and partial baldness, the same liability 
to be imposed upon. Ah! A sweet subject for contemplation sir, very sweet!"
Then, Mr Garland having alighted and gone upstairs, Sampson would nod and 
smile to Kit from the window, and presently walk out into the street to 
greet him, when some such conversation as the following would ensue.
"Admirably groomed, Kit" - Mr Brass is patting the pony - "does you great 
credit - amazingly sleek and bright to be sure. He literally looks as if he 
had been varnished all over."
Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the pony himself, and expresses his 
conviction, "that Mr Brass will not find many like him."
"A beautiful animal indeed!" cries Brass. "Sagacious too?"
"Bless you!" replies Kit, "he knows what you say to him as well as a 
Christian does."
"Does he indeed!" cries Brass, who has heard the same thing in the same 
place from the same person in the same words a dozen times, but is 
paralysed with astonishment notwithstanding. "Dear me!"
"I little thought the first time I saw him sir," says Kit, pleased with the 
attorney's strong interest in his favourite, "that I should come to be as 
intimate with him as I am now."
"Ah!" rejoins Mr Brass, brimful of moral precepts and love of virtue. "A 
charming subject of reflection for you, very charming. A subject of proper 
pride and congratulation, Christopher. Honesty is the best policy. - I 
always find it so myself. I lost forty-seven pound ten by being honest this 
morning. But it's all gain, it's gain!"
Mr Brass slyly tickles his nose with his pen, and looks at Kit with the 
water standing in his eyes. Kit thinks that if ever there was a good man 
who belied his appearance, that man is Sampson Brass.
"A man," says Sampson, "who loses forty-seven pound ten in one morning by 
his honesty, is a man to be envied. If it had been eighty pound, the 
luxuriousness of feeling would have been increased. Every pound lost, would 
have been a hundredweight of happiness gained. The still small voice, 
Christopher," cries Brass, smiling, and tapping himself on the bosom, "is a 
singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness and joy!"
Kit is so improved by the conversation, and finds it go so completely home 
to his feelings, that he is considering what he shall say, when Mr Garland 
appears. The old gentleman is helped into the chaise with great 
obsequiousness by Mr Sampson Brass; and the pony, after shaking his head 
several times, and standing for three or four minutes, with all his four 
legs planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made up his mind never to 
stir from that spot, but there to live and die, suddenly darts off, without 
the smallest notice, at the rate of twelve English miles an hour. Then, Mr 
Brass and his sister (who has joined him at the door) exchange an odd kind 
of smile - not at all a pleasant one in its expression - and return to the 
society of Mr Richard Swiveller, who, during their absence, has been 
regaling himself with various feats of pantomime, and is discovered at his 
desk, in a very flushed and heated condition, violently scratching out 
nothing with half a penknife.
Whenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened that 
Sampson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr Swiveller, if not to 
Peckham Rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place from which he 
could not be expected to return for two or three hours, or in all 
probability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not, to say the 
truth, renowned for using great expedition on such occasions, but rather 
for protracting and spinning out the time to the very utmost limit of 
possibility. Mr Swiveller out of sight, Miss Sally immediately withdrew. Mr 
Brass would then set the office-door wide open, hum his old tune with great 
gaiety of heart, and smile seraphically as before. Kit coming downstairs 
would be called in; entertained with some moral and agreeable conversation; 
perhaps entreated to mind the office for an instant while Mr Brass stepped 
over the way; and afterwards presented with one or two half crowns as the 
case might be. This occurred so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but that 
they came from the single gentleman who had already rewarded his mother 
with great liberality, could not enough admire his generosity; and bought 
so many cheap presents for her, and for little Jacob, and for the baby, and 
for Barbara to boot, that one or other of them was having some new trifle 
every day of their lives.
While these acts and deeds were in progress in and out of the office of 
Sampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein, began to 
find the time hang heavy on his hands. For the better preservation of his 
cheerfulness, therefore, and to prevent his faculties from rusting, he 
provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards, and accustomed 
himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, thirty, or sometimes 
even fifty thousand pounds a side, besides many hazardous bets to a 
considerable amount.
As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the magnitude 
of the interests involved, Mr Swiveller began to think that on those 
evenings when Mr and Miss Brass were out (and they often went out now) he 
heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the direction of the 
door, which it occurred to him, after some reflection, must proceed from 
the small servant, who always had a cold from damp living. Looking intently 
that way one night, he plainly distinguished an eye gleaming and glistening 
at the keyhole; and having now no doubt that his suspicions were correct, 
he stole softly to the door, and pounced upon her before she was aware of 
his approach.
"Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my word I didn't," cried the small 
servant, struggling like a much larger one. "It's so very dull, downstairs. 
Please don't you tell upon me, please don't."
"Tell upon you!" said Dick. "Do you mean to say you were looking through 
the keyhole for company?"
"Yes, upon my word I was," replied the small servant.
"How long have you been cooling your eye there?" said Dick.
"Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before."
Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had 
refreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which, no 
doubt, the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr Swiveller; but 
he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered himself speedily.
"Well, - come in" - he said, after a little consideration. "Here - sit 
down, and I'll teach you how to play."
"Oh! I durstn't do it," rejoined the small servant; "Miss Sally 'ud kill 
me, if she know'd I come up here."
"Have you got a fire downstairs?" said Dick.
"A very little one," replied the small servant.
"Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I'll 
come," said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. "Why, how thin you 
are! What do you mean by it?"
"It an't my fault."
"Could you eat any bread and meat?" said Dick, taking down his hat. "Yes? 
Ah! I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?"
"I had a sip of it once," said the small servant.
"Here's a state of things!" cried Mr Swiveller, raising his eyes to the 
ceiling. "She never tasted it - it can't be tasted in a sip! Why, how old 
are you?"
"I don't know."
Mr Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a 
moment; then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back, vanished 
straightway.
Presently, he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who bore 
in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great pot, filled 
with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a grateful steam, and 
was indeed choice purl, made after a particular recipe which Mr Swiveller 
had imparted to the landlord, at a period when he was deep in his books and 
desirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at 
the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to prevent 
surprise, Mr Swiveller followed her into the kitchen.
"There!" said Richard, putting the plate before her. "First of all, clear 
that off, and then you'll see what's next."
The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty.
"Next," said Dick, handing the purl, "take a pull at that; but moderate 
your transports, you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it good?"
"Oh! isn't it?" said the small servant.
Mr Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, and 
took a long draught himself: steadfastly regarding his companion while he 
did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself to teaching her 
the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being both sharp-witted and 
cunning.
"Now," said Mr Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and trimming 
the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt, "those are the 
stakes. If you win, you get 'em all. If I win, I get 'em. To make it seem 
more real and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness, do you hear?"
The small servant nodded.
"Then, Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, "fire away."
The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered 
which to play, and Mr Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air which 
such society required, took another pull at the tankard, and waited for her 
lead.


Chapter 58

Mr Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying success, 
until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the purl, and the 
striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that gentleman mindful of the 
flight of Time, and the expediency of withdrawing before Mr Sampson and 
Miss Sally Brass returned.
"With which object in view, Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller gravely, "I 
shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and to 
retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely 
observing, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care not 
how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still is 
growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, your 
health. You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is damp, and the 
marble floor, is - if I may be allowed the expression - sloppy."
As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr Swiveller had been 
sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude he now 
gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly sipped the last 
choice drops of nectar.
"The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the 
Play?" said Mr Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and 
raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a theatrical 
bandit.
The Marchioness nodded.
"Ha!" said Mr Swiveller, with a portentous frown, "'Tis well. Marchioness! -
 but no matter. Some wine there. Ho!" He illustrated these melodramatic 
morsels, by handing the tankard to himself, with great humility, receiving 
it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely.
The small servant who was not so well acquainted with theatrical 
conventionalities as Mr Swiveller (having indeed never seen a play, or 
heard one spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors and in other 
forbidden places) was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel in their 
nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that Mr Swiveller 
felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one more suitable to 
private life, as he asked,
"Do they often go where glory waits 'em and leave you here?"
"Oh, yes; I believe you they do," returned the small servant. "Miss Sally's 
such a one-er for that, she is."
"Such a what?" said Dick.
"Such a one-er," returned the Marchioness.
After a moment's reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his 
responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on; as it 
was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her opportunities 
for conversation were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of 
little consequence.
"They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp," said the small servant with a shrewd 
look; "they go to a many places, bless you!"
"Is Mr Brass a wunner?" said Dick.
"Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't," replied the small servant, shaking 
her head. "Bless you, he'd never do anything without her."
"Oh! He wouldn't, wouldn't he?" said Dick.
"Miss Sally keeps him in such order," said the small servant; he always 
asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, you 
wouldn't believe how much he catches it."
"I suppose," said Dick, "that they consult together, a good deal, and talk 
about a great many people - about me for instance, sometimes, eh, 
Marchioness?"
The Marchioness nodded amazingly.
"Complimentary?" said Mr Swiveller.
The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left off 
nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side, with a vehemence 
which threatened to dislocate her neck.
"Humph!" Dick muttered. "Would it be any breach of confidence, Marchioness, 
to relate what they say of the humble individual who has now the honour to -
?"
"Miss Sally says you're a funny chap," replied his friend.
"Well, Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, "that's not uncomplimentary. 
Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King Cole 
was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages of 
history."
"But she says," pursued his companion, "that you an't to be trusted."
"Why, really Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully; "several ladies 
and gentlemen - not exactly professional persons, but trades-people, ma'am, 
trades-people - have made the same remark. The obscure citizen who keeps 
the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to that opinion tonight when I 
ordered him to prepare the banquet. It's a popular prejudice. Marchioness; 
and yet I am sure I don't know why, for I have been trusted in my time to a 
considerable amount, and I can safely say that I never forsook my trust 
until it deserted me - never. Mr Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose!"
His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that Mr 
Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and seeming to 
recollect herself added imploringly, "But don't you ever tell upon me, or I 
shall be beat to death."
"Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, rising, "the word of a gentleman is as 
good as his bond - sometimes better, as in the present case, where his bond 
might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am your friend, and I hope 
we shall play many more rubbers together in this same saloon. But, 
Marchioness," added Richard, stopping in his way to the door, and wheeling 
slowly round upon the small servant, who was following with the candle; "it 
occurs to me that you must be in the constant habit of airing your eye at 
keyholes, to know all this."
"I only wanted," replied the trembling Marchioness, "to know where the key 
of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn't have taken much, if I had 
found it - only enough to quench my hunger."
"You didn't find it, then?" said Dick. "But of course you didn't, or you'd 
be plumper. Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for ever, then 
for ever fare thee well - and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case of 
accidents."
With this parting injunction, Mr Swiveller emerged from the house; and 
feeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as promised 
to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong and heady 
compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings, and to bed at 
once. Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments (for he still retained 
the plural fiction) being at no great distance from the office, he was soon 
seated in his own bedchamber, where, having pulled off one boot and 
forgotten the other, he fell into deep cogitation.
"This Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, folding his arms, "is a very 
extraordinary person - surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of 
beer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and taking 
a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors - can these things 
be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an opposition to the 
decrees of fate? It is a most inscrutable and unmitigated staggerer!"
When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became aware 
of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity, he proceeded to 
divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity all the time, and 
sighing deeply.
"These rubbers," said Mr Swiveller, putting on his night-cap in exactly the 
same style he wore his hat, "remind me of the matrimonial fireside. 
Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all fours likewise. She rings the changes on 
'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her, to banish her regrets, and 
when they win a smile from her, they think that she forgets - but she 
don't. By this time, I should say," added Richard getting his left cheek 
into profile, and looking complacently at the reflection of a very little 
scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; "by this time, I should say, the 
iron has entered into her soul. It serves her right!"
Melting from this stern and obdurate, into the tender and pathetic mood, Mr 
Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and even made a show 
of tearing his hair, which however he thought better of, and wrenched the 
tassel from his night-cap instead. At last, undressing himself with a 
gloomy resolution, he got into bed.
Some men in his blighted position would have taken to drinking; but as Mr 
Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the news 
that Sophy Wackles was lost to him for ever, to playing the flute; thinking 
after mature consideration that it was a good, sound, dismal occupation, 
not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but calculated to awaken a 
fellow feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours. In pursuance of this 
resolution, he now drew a little table to his bedside, and arranging the 
light and a small oblong music-book to the best advantage, took his flute 
from its box, and began to play most mournfully.
The air was, "Away with melancholy" - a composition, which, when it is 
played very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage of 
being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the 
instrument, who repeats one note a great many times, before he can find the 
next, has not a lively effect. Yet, for half the night, or more, Mr 
Swiveller lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the ceiling, and 
sometimes half out of bed to correct himself by the book, played this 
unhappy tune over and over again; never leaving off, save for a minute or 
two at a time to take breath and soliloquise about the Marchioness, and 
then beginning again with renewed vigour. It was not until he had quite 
exhausted his several subjects of meditation, and had breathed into the 
flute the whole sentiment of the purl down to its very dregs, and had 
nearly maddened the people of the house, and at both the next doors, and 
over the way, - that he shut up the music-book, extinguished the candle, 
and finding himself greatly lightened and relieved in his mind, turned 
round and fell asleep.
He awoke in the morning, much refreshed: and having taken half an hour's 
exercise at the flute, and graciously received a notice to quit from his 
landlady, who had been in waiting on the stairs for that purpose since the 
dawn of day, repaired to Bevis Marks; where the beautiful Sally was already 
at her post, bearing in her looks a radiance, mild as that which beameth 
from the virgin moon.
Mr Swiveller acknowledged her presence by a nod, and exchanged his coat for 
the aquatic jacket; which usually took some time fitting on, for in 
consequence of a tightness in the sleeves, it was only to be got into by a 
series of struggles. This difficulty overcome, he took his seat at the 
desk.
"I say" - quoth Miss Brass, abruptly breaking silence, "you haven't seen a 
silver pencil-case this morning, have you?"
"I didn't meet any in the street," rejoined Mr Swiveller. "I saw one - a 
stout pencil-case of respectable appearance - but as he was in company with 
an elderly penknife and a young toothpick with whom he was in earnest 
conversation, I felt a delicacy in speaking to him."
"No, but have you?" returned Miss Brass. "Seriously, you know."
"What a dull dog you must be to ask me such a question seriously," said Mr 
Swiveller. "Haven't I this moment come?"
"Well, all I know is," replied Miss Sally, "that it's not to be found, and 
that it disappeared one day this week, when I left it on the desk."
"Holloa!" thought Richard, "I hope the Marchioness hasn't been at work 
here."
"There was a knife too," said Miss Sally, "of the same pattern. They were 
given to me by my father years ago, and are both gone. You haven't missed 
anything yourself, have you?"
Mr Swiveller involuntarily clapped his hands to the jacket to be quite sure 
that it was a jacket and not a skirted coat; and having satisfied himself 
of the safety of this, his only moveable in Bevis Marks, made answer in the 
negative.
"It's a very unpleasant thing, Dick," said Miss Brass, pulling out the tin 
box and refreshing herself with a pinch of snuff; "but between you and me - 
between friends you know, for if Sammy knew it, I should never hear the 
last of it - some of the office-money, too, that has been left about, has 
gone in the same way. In particular, I have missed three half-crowns at 
three different times."
"You don't mean that?" cried Dick. "Be careful what you say, old boy, for 
this is a serious matter. Are you quite sure? Is there no mistake?"
"It is so, and there can't be any mistake at all," rejoined Miss Brass 
emphatically.
"Then by Jove," thought Richard, laying down his pen, "I am afraid the 
Marchioness is done for!"
The more he discussed the subject in his thoughts, the more probable it 
appeared to Dick that the miserable little servant was the culprit. When he 
considered on what a spare allowance of food she lived, how neglected and 
untaught she was, and how her natural cunning had been sharpened by 
necessity and privation, he scarcely doubted it. And yet he pitied her so 
much, and felt so unwilling to have a matter of such gravity disturbing the 
oddity of their acquaintance, that he thought, and thought truly, that 
rather than receive fifty pounds down, he would have the Marchioness proved 
innocent.
While he was plunged in very profound and serious meditation upon this 
theme, Miss Sally sat shaking her head with an air of great mystery and 
doubt; when the voice of her brother Sampson, carolling a cheerful strain, 
was heard in the passage, and that gentleman himself, beaming with virtuous 
smiles, appeared.
"Mr Richard sir, good morning! Here we are again sir, entering upon another 
day, with our bodies strengthened by slumber and breakfast, and our spirits 
fresh and flowing. Here we are, Mr Richard, rising with the sun to run our 
little course - our course of duty sir - and like him, to get through our 
day's work with credit to ourselves and advantage to our fellow creatures. 
A charming reflection sir, very charming!"
While he addressed his clerk in these words, Mr Brass was somewhat 
ostentatiously, engaged in minutely examining and holding up against the 
light a five-pound banknote, which he had brought in, in his hand.
Mr Richard not receiving his remarks with anything like enthusiasm, his 
employer turned his eyes to his face and observed that it wore a troubled 
expression.
"You're out of spirits sir," said Brass. "Mr Richard sir, we should fall to 
work cheerfully, and not in a despondent state. It becomes us, Mr Richard 
sir, to - "
Here the chaste Sarah heaved a loud sigh.
"Dear me!" said Mr Sampson, "you too! Is anything the matter? Mr Richard 
sir - "
Dick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that she was making signals to him, to 
acquaint her brother with the subject of their recent conversation. As his 
own position was not a very pleasant one until the matter was set at rest 
one way or other, he did so; and Miss Brass, plying her snuff-box at a most 
wasteful rate, corroborated his account.
The countenance of Sampson fell, and anxiety overspread his features. 
Instead of passionately bewailing the loss of his money, as Miss Sally had 
expected, he walked on tiptoe to the door, opened it, looked outside, shut 
it softly, returned on tiptoe, and said in a whisper,
"This is a most extraordinary and painful circumstance - Mr Richard sir, a 
most painful circumstance. The fact is, that I myself have missed several 
small sums from the desk, of late, and have refrained from mentioning it, 
hoping that accident would discover the offender; but it has not done so - 
it has not done so. Sally - Mr Richard sir - this is a particularly 
distressing affair!"
As Sampson spoke, he laid the banknote upon the desk among some papers, in 
an absent manner, and thrust his hands into his pockets. Richard Swiveller 
pointed to it, and admonished him to take it up.
"No, Mr Richard sir," rejoined Brass with emotion, "I will not take it up. 
I will let it lie there, sir. To take it up, Mr Richard sir, would imply a 
doubt of you; and in you sir, I have unlimited confidence. We will let it 
lie there sir, if you please, and we will not take it up by any means." 
With that, Mr Brass patted him twice or thrice on the shoulder, in a most 
friendly manner, and entreated him to believe that he had as much faith in 
his honesty as he had in his own.
Although at another time Mr Swiveller might have looked upon this as a 
doubtful compliment, he felt it, under the then-existing circumstances, a 
great relief to be assured that he was not wrongfully suspected. When he 
had made a suitable reply, Mr Brass wrung him by the hand, and fell into a 
brown study, as did Miss Sally likewise. Richard too remained in a 
thoughtful state; fearing every moment to hear the Marchioness impeached, 
and unable to resist the conviction that she must be guilty.
When they had severally remained in this condition for some minutes, Miss 
Sally all at once gave a loud rap upon the desk with her clenched fist, and 
cried, "I've hit it!" - as indeed she had, and chipped a piece out of it 
too; but that was not her meaning.
"Well," cried Brass anxiously. "Go on, will you?"
"Why," replied his sister with an air of triumph, "hasn't there been 
somebody always coming in and out of this office for the last three or four 
weeks; hasn't that somebody been left alone in it sometimes - thanks to 
you; and do you mean to tell me that that somebody isn't the thief?"
"What somebody?" blustered Brass.
"Why, what do you call him - Kit."
"Mr Garland's young man?"
"To be sure."
"Never!" cried Brass. "Never. I'll not hear of it. Don't tell me - "said 
Sampson, shaking his head, and working with both his hands as if he were 
clearing away ten thousand cobwebs. "I'll never believe it of him. Never!"
"I say," repeated Miss Brass, taking another pinch of snuff, "that he's the 
thief."
"I say," returned Sampson violently, "that he is not. What do you mean? How 
dare you? Are characters to be whispered away like this? Do you know that 
he's the honestest and faithfullest fellow that ever lived, and that he has 
an irreproachable good name? Come in, come in!"
These last words were not addressed to Miss Sally, though they partook of 
the tone in which the indignant remonstrances that preceded them had been 
uttered. They were addressed to some person who had knocked at the office-
door; and they had hardly passed the lips of Mr Brass when this very Kit 
himself looked in.
"Is the gentleman upstairs sir, if you please?"
"Yes, Kit," said Brass, still fired with an honest indignation, and 
frowning with knotted brows upon his sister; "Yes Kit, he is. I am glad to 
see you Kit, I am rejoiced to see you. Look in again, as you come 
downstairs, Kit. That lad a robber!" cried Brass when he had withdrawn, 
"with that frank and open countenance! I'd trust him with untold gold. Mr 
Richard sir, have the goodness to step directly to Wrasp and Co.'s in Broad 
Street, and inquire if they have had instructions to appear in Carkem and 
Painter. That lad a robber," sneered Sampson, flushed and heated with his 
wrath. "Am I blind, deaf, silly; do I know nothing of human nature, when I 
see it before me? Kit a robber! Bah!"
Flinging this final interjection at Miss Sally with immeasurable scorn and 
contempt, Sampson Brass thrust his head into his desk, as if to shut the 
base world from his view, and breathed defiance from under its half-closed 
lid.


Chapter 59

When Kit, having discharged his errand, came downstairs from the single 
gentleman's apartment after the lapse of a quarter of an hour or so, Mr 
Sampson Brass was alone in the office. He was not singing as usual, nor was 
he seated at his desk. The open door showed him standing before the fire 
with his back towards it, and looking so very strange that Kit supposed he 
must have been suddenly taken ill.
"Is anything the matter sir?" said Kit.
"Matter!" cried Brass. "No. Why anything the matter?"
"You are so very pale," said Kit, "that I should hardly have known you."
"Pooh pooh! mere fancy," cried Brass, stooping to throw up the cinders. 
"Never better Kit, never better in all my life. Merry too. Ha ha! How's our 
friend above-stairs, eh?"
"A great deal better," said Kit.
"I'm glad to hear it," rejoined Brass; "thankful, I may say. An excellent 
gentleman - worthy, liberal generous, gives very little trouble - an 
admirable lodger. Ha ha! Mr Garland - he's well I hope, Kit - and the pony -
 my friend, my particular friend, you know. Ha ha!"
Kit gave a satisfactory account of all the little household at Abel 
Cottage. Mr Brass, who seemed remarkably inattentive and impatient, mounted 
on his stool, and beckoning him to come nearer, took him by the buttonhole.
"I have been thinking, Kit," said the lawyer, "that I could throw some 
little emoluments into your mother's way - You have a mother, I think? If I 
recollect right, you told me - "
"Oh yes sir, yes certainly."
"A widow I think? an industrious widow?"
"A harder-working woman or a better woman never lived sir."
"Ah!" cried Brass. "That's affecting, truly affecting. A poor widow 
struggling to maintain her orphans in decency and comfort, is a delicious 
picture of human goodness. - Put down your hat, Kit."
"Thank you sir, I must be going directly."
"Put it down while you stay, at any rate," said Brass, taking it from him 
and making some confusion among the papers, in finding a place for it on 
the desk. "I was thinking, Kit, that we have often houses to let for people 
we are concerned for, and matters of that sort. Now you know we're obliged 
to put people into those houses to take care of 'em - very often 
undeserving people that we can't depend upon. What's to prevent our having 
a person that we can depend upon, and enjoying the delight of doing a good 
action at the same time? I say, what's to prevent our employing this worthy 
woman, your mother? What with one job and another, there's lodging - and 
good lodging too - pretty well all the year round, rent free, and a weekly 
allowance besides, Kit, that would provide her with a great many comforts 
she don't at present enjoy. Now what do you think of that? Do you see any 
objection? My only desire is to serve you, Kit; therefore if you do, say so 
freely."
As Brass spoke, he moved the hat twice or thrice, and shuffled among the 
papers again, as if in search of something.
"How can I see any objection to such a kind offer sir?" replied Kit with 
his whole heart. "I don't know how to thank you sir, I don't indeed."
"Why then," said Brass, suddenly turning upon him and thrusting his face 
close to Kit's with such a repulsive smile that the latter, even in the 
very height of his gratitude, drew back, quite startled. "Why then, it's 
done."
Kit looked at him in some confusion.
"Done, I say," added Sampson, rubbing his hands and veiling himself again 
in his usual oily manner. "Ha ha! and so you shall find Kit, so you shall 
find. But dear me," said Brass, "what a time Mr Richard is gone! A sad 
loiterer to be sure! Will you mind the office one minute, while I run 
upstairs? Only one minute. I'll not detain you an instant longer, on any 
account, Kit."
Talking as he went, Mr Brass bustled out of the office, and in a very short 
time returned. Mr Swiveller came back, almost at the same instant; and as 
Kit was leaving the room hastily, to make up for lost time, Miss Brass 
herself encountered him in the doorway.
"Oh?" sneered Sally, looking after him as she entered. "There goes your pet 
Sammy, eh?"
"Ah! There he goes," replied Brass. "My pet, if you please. An honest 
fellow, Mr Richard sir - a worthy fellow indeed!"
"Hem!" coughed Miss Brass.
"I tell you, you aggravating vagabond," said the angry Sampson, "that I'd 
stake my life upon his honesty. Am I never to hear the last of this? Am I 
always to be baited, and beset, by your mean suspicious? Have you no regard 
for true merit, you malignant fellow? If you come to that, I'd sooner 
suspect your honesty than his."
Miss Sally pulled out the tin snuff-box, and took a long, slow pinch: 
regarding her brother with a steady gaze at the time.
"She drives me wild, Mr Richard sir," said Brass, "she exasperates me 
beyond all bearing. I am heated and excited sir, I know I am. These are not 
business manners, sir, nor business looks, but she carries me out of 
myself."
"Why don't you leave him alone?" said Dick.
"Because she can't sir," retorted Brass; "because to chafe and vex me is a 
part of her nature sir, and she will and must do it, or I don't believe 
she'd have her health. But never mind," said Brass, "never mind. I've 
carried my point. I've shown my confidence in the lad. He has minded the 
office again. Ha ha! Ugh, you viper!"
The beautiful virgin took another pinch, and put the snuff-box in her 
pocket; still looking at her brother with perfect composure.
"He has minded the office again," said Brass triumphantly; "he has had my 
confidence, and he shall continue to have it; he - why, where's the - "
"What have you lost?" inquired Mr Swiveller.
"Dear me!" said Brass, slapping all his pockets, one after another, and 
looking into his desk, and under it, and upon it, and wildly tossing the 
papers about, "the note, Mr Richard, sir, the five-pound note - what can 
have become of it? I laid it down here - God bless me!"
"What!" cried Miss Sally, starting up, clapping her hands, and scattering 
the papers on the floor. "Gone! Now who's right? Now who's got it? Never 
mind five pounds - what's five pounds? He's honest you know, quite honest. 
It would be mean to suspect him. Don't run after him. No, no, not for the 
world!"
"Is it really gone though?" said Dick, looking at Brass with a face as pale 
as his own.
"Upon my word, Mr Richard sir," replied the lawyer, feeling in all his 
pockets with looks of the greatest agitation, "I fear this is a black 
business. It's certainly gone, sir. What's to be done?"
"Don't run after him," said Miss Sally, taking more snuff. "Don't run after 
him on any account. Give him time to get rid of it, you know. It would be 
cruel to find him out!"
Mr Swiveller and Sampson Brass looked from Miss Sally to each other, in a 
state of bewilderment, and then, as by one impulse, caught up their hats 
and rushed out into the street - darting along in the middle of the road, 
and dashing aside all obstructions, as though they were running for their 
lives.
It happened that Kit had been running too, though not so fast, and having 
the start of them by some few minutes, was a good distance ahead. As they 
were pretty certain of the road he must have taken, however, and kept on at 
a great pace, they came up with him, at the very moment when he had taken 
breath, and was breaking into a run again.
"Stop!" cried Sampson, laying his hand on one shoulder, while Mr Swiveller 
pounced upon the other. "Not so fast sir. You're in a hurry?"
"Yes, I am," said Kit, looking from one to the other in great surprise.
"I - I - can hardly believe it," panted Sampson, "but something of value is 
missing from the office. I hope you don't know what."
"Know what! good Heaven Mr Brass!" cried Kit, trembling from head to foot; 
"you don't suppose - "
"No, no," rejoined Brass quickly, "I don't suppose anything. Don't say I 
said you did. You'll come back quietly I hope?"
"Of course I will," returned Kit. "Why not?"
"To be sure!" said Brass. "Why not? I hope there may turn out to be no why 
not. If you knew the trouble I've been in, this morning, through taking 
your part, Christopher, you'd be sorry for it."
"And I am sure you'll be sorry for having suspected me sir," replied Kit. 
"Come. Let us make haste back."
"Certainly!" cried Brass, "the quicker, the better. Mr Richard - have the 
goodness sir to take that arm. I'll take this one. It's not easy walking 
three abreast, but under these circumstances it must be done sir; there's 
no help for it."
Kit did turn from white to red, and from red to white again, when they 
secured him thus, and for a moment seemed disposed to resist. But, quickly 
recollecting himself, and remembering that if he made any struggle, he 
would perhaps be dragged by the collar through the public streets, he only 
repeated, with great earnestness and with the tears standing in his eyes, 
that they would be sorry for this - and suffered them to lead him off. 
While they were on the way back, Mr Swiveller, upon whom his present 
functions sat very irksomely, took an opportunity of whispering in his ear 
that if he would confess his guilt, even by so much as a nod, and promise 
not to do so any more, he would connive at his kicking Sampson Brass on the 
shins and escaping up a court; but Kit indignantly rejecting this proposal, 
Mr Richard had nothing for it, but to hold him tight until they reached 
Bevis Marks, and ushered him into the presence of the charming Sarah, who 
immediately took the precaution of locking the door.
"Now, you know," said Brass, "if this is a case of innocence, it is a case 
of that description, Christopher, where the fullest disclosure is the best 
satisfaction for everybody. Therefore if you'll consent to an examination," 
he demonstrated what kind of examination he meant by turning back the cuffs 
of his coat, "it will be a comfortable and pleasant thing for all parties."
"Search me," said Kit, proudly holding up his arms. "But mind sir - I know 
you'll be sorry for this, to the last day of your life."
"It is certainly a very painful occurrence," said Brass with a sigh, as he 
dived into one of Kit's pockets, and fished up a miscellaneous collection 
of small articles; "very painful. Nothing here, Mr Richard, sir, all 
perfectly satisfactory. Nor here, sir. Nor in the waistcoat, Mr Richard, 
nor in the coat tails. So far, I am rejoiced, I am sure."
Richard Swiveller, holding Kit's hat in his hand, was watching the 
proceedings with great interest, and bore upon his face the slightest 
possible indication of a smile, as Brass, shutting one of his eyes, looked 
with the other up the inside of one of the poor fellow's sleeves as if it 
were a telescope - when Sampson turning hastily to him bade him search the 
hat.
"Here's a handkerchief," said Dick.
"No harm in that sir," rejoined Brass, applying his eye to the other 
sleeve, and speaking in the voice of one who was contemplating an immense 
extent of prospect. "No harm in a handkerchief sir, whatever. The faculty 
don't consider it a healthy custom, I believe, Mr Richard, to carry one's 
handkerchief in one's hat - I have heard that it keeps the head too warm - 
but in every other point of view, it's being there, is extremely 
satisfactory - extremely so."
An exclamation, at once from Richard Swiveller, Miss Sally, and Kit 
himself, cut the lawyer short. He turned his head, and saw Dick standing 
with the banknote in his hand.
"In the hat?" cried Brass, in a sort of shriek.
"Under the handkerchief, and tucked beneath the lining," said Dick, aghast 
at the discovery.
Mr Brass looked at him, at his sister, at the walls, at the ceiling, at the 
floor - everywhere but at Kit, who stood quite stupified and motionless.
"And this," cried Sampson, clasping his hands, "is the world that turns 
upon its own axis, and has Lunar influences, and revolutions round Heavenly 
Bodies, and various games of that sort! This is human natur, is it! Oh 
natur, natur! This is the miscreant that I was going to benefit with all my 
little arts, and that, even now, I feel so much for, as to wish to let him 
go! But," added Mr Brass with greater fortitude, "I am myself a lawyer, and 
bound to set an example in carrying the laws of my happy country into 
effect. Sally my dear, forgive me, and catch hold of him on the other side. 
Mr Richard sir, have the goodness to run and fetch a constable. The 
weakness is past and over sir, and moral strength returns. A constable, 
sir, if you please!"


Chapter 60

Kit stood as one entranced with his eyes opened wide and fixed upon the 
ground, regardless alike of the tremulous hold which Mr Brass maintained on 
one side of his cravat, and of the firmer grasp of Miss Sally upon the 
other; although this latter detention was in itself no small inconvenience, 
as that fascinating woman, besides screwing her knuckles inconveniently 
into his throat from time to time, had fastened upon him in the first 
instance with so tight a grip that even in the disorder and distraction of 
his thoughts he could not divest himself of an uneasy sense of choking. 
Between the brother and sister he remained in this posture, quite 
unresisting and passive, until Mr Swiveller returned, with a police 
constable at his heels.
This functionary, being, of course, well used to such scenes; looking upon 
all kinds of robbery, from petty larceny up to housebreaking or ventures on 
the highway, as matters in the regular course of business; and regarding 
the perpetrators in the light of so many customers coming to be served at 
the wholesale and retail shop of criminal law where he stood behind the 
counter; received Mr Brass's statement of facts with about as much interest 
and surprise, as an undertaker might evince if required to listen to a 
circumstantial account of the last illness of a person whom he was called 
in to wait upon professionally; and took Kit into custody with a decent 
indifference.
"We had better," said this subordinate minister of justice, "get to the 
office while there's a magistrate sitting. I shall want you to come along 
with us, Mr Brass, and the - " he looked at Miss Sally as if in some doubt 
whether she might not be a griffin or other fabulous monster.
"The lady, eh?" said Sampson.
"Ah!" replied the constable. "Yes - the lady. Likewise the young man that 
found the property."
"Mr Richard, sir," said Brass in a mournful voice. "A sad necessity. But 
the altar of our country sir - "
"You'll have a hackney coach, I suppose?" interrupted the constable, 
holding Kit (whom his captors had released) carelessly by the arm, a little 
above the elbow. "Be so good as send for one, will you?"
"But, hear me speak a word," cried Kit, raising his eyes and looking 
imploringly about him. "Hear me speak a word. I am no more guilty than any 
one of you. Upon my soul I am not. I, a thief! Oh, Mr Brass, you know me 
better. I am sure you know me better. This is not right of you, indeed."
"I give you my word, constable - " said Brass. But here the constable 
interposed with the constitutional principle "words be blowed;" observing 
that words were but spoon-meat for babes and sucklings, and that oaths were 
the food for strong men.
"Quite true, constable," assented Brass in the same mournful tone. 
"Strictly correct. I give you my oath, constable, that down to a few 
minutes ago, when this fatal discovery was made, I had such confidence in 
that lad, that I'd have trusted him with - a hackney-coach, Mr Richard sir; 
you're very slow, sir."
"Who is there that knows me," cried Kit, "that would not trust me - that 
does not? ask nobody whether they have ever doubted me; whether I have ever 
wronged them of a farthing. Was I ever once dishonest when I was poor and 
hungry, and is it likely that I would begin now! Oh consider what you do. 
How can I meet the kindest friends that ever human creature had, with this 
dreadful charge upon me!"
Mr Brass rejoined that it would have been well for the prisoner if he had 
thought of that before, and was about to make some other gloomy 
observations when the voice of the single gentleman was heard, demanding 
from above-stairs what was the matter, and what was the cause of all that 
noise and hurry. Kit made an involuntary start towards the door in his 
anxiety to answer for himself, but being speedily detained by the 
constable, had the anxiety of seeing Sampson Brass run out alone to tell 
the story in his own way.
"And he can hardly believe it, either," said Sampson, when he returned, 
"nobody will. I wish I could doubt the evidence of my senses, but their 
depositions are unimpeachable. It's of no use cross-examining my eyes," 
cried Sampson, winking and rubbing them, "they stick to their first 
account, and will. Now, Sarah, I hear the coach in the Marks; get on your 
bonnet, and we'll be off. A sad errand! a moral funeral, quite!"
"Mr Brass," said Kit, "do me one favour. Take me to Mr Witherden's first."
Sampson shook his head irresolutely.
"Do," said Kit. "My master's there. For Heaven's sake, take me there, 
first."
"Well I don't know," stammered Brass, who perhaps had his reasons for 
wishing to show as fair as possible in the eyes of the notary. "How do we 
stand in point of time, constable, eh?"
The constable, who had been chewing a straw all this while with great 
philosophy, replied that if they went away at once they would have time 
enough, but that if they stood shilly-shallying there, any longer, they 
must go straight to the Mansion House; and finally expressed his opinion 
that that was where it was, and that was all about it.
Mr Richard Swiveller having arrived inside the coach, and still remaining 
immovable in the most commodious corner with his face to the horses, Mr 
Brass instructed the officer to remove his prisoner, and declared himself 
quite ready. Therefore the constable, still holding Kit in the same manner, 
and pushing him on a little before him, so as to keep him at about three 
quarters of an arm's length in advance (which is the professional mode,) 
thrust him into the vehicle and followed himself. Miss Sally entered next; 
and there being now four inside, Sampson Brass got upon the box, and made 
the coachman drive on.
Still completely stunned by the sudden and terrible change which had taken 
place in his affairs, Kit sat gazing out of the coach window, almost hoping 
to see some monstrous phenomenon in the streets which might give him reason 
to believe he was in a dream. Alas! Everything was too real and familiar: 
the same successions of turnings the same houses the same streams of people 
running side by side in different directions upon the pavement, the same 
bustle of carts and carriages in the road, the same well remembered objects 
in the shop windows: a regularity in the very noise and hurry which no 
dream ever mirrored. Dreamlike as the story was, it was true. He stood 
charged with robbery; the note had been found upon him, though he was 
innocent in thought and deed; and they were carrying him back a prisoner.
Absorbed in these painful ruminations, thinking with a drooping heart of 
his mother and little Jacob, feeling as though even the consciousness of 
innocence would be insufficient to support him in the presence of his 
friends if they believed him guilty, and sinking in hope and courage more 
and more as they drew nearer to the notary's poor Kit was looking earnestly 
out of the window, observant of nothing, - when all at once, as though it 
had been conjured up by magic, he became aware of the face of Quilp.
And what a leer there was upon the face! It was from the open window of a 
tavern that it looked out; and the dwarf had so spread himself over it, 
with his elbows on the window-sill and his head resting on both his hands, 
that what between this attitude and his being swollen with suppressed 
laughter he looked puffed and bloated into twice his usual breadth. Mr 
Brass on recognising him, immediately stopped the coach. As it came to a 
halt directly opposite to where he stood, the dwarf pulled off his hat, and 
saluted the party with a hideous and grotesque politeness.
"Aha!" he cried. "Where now, Brass? where now? Sally with you too? Sweet 
Sally! And Dick? Pleasant Dick! And Kit? Honest Kit!"
"He's extremely cheerful!" said Brass to the coachman. "Very much so! Ah 
sir - a sad business! Never believe in honesty any more, sir."
"Why not?" returned the dwarf. "Why not, you rogue of a lawyer, why not?"
"Bank note lost in our office sir," said Brass, shaking his head. "Found it 
in his hat sir - he previously left alone there - no mistake at all sir - 
chain of evidence complete - not a link wanting."
"What!" cried the dwarf, leaning half his body out of the window, "Kit a 
thief! Kit a thief! Ha ha ha! Why, he's an uglier looking thief than can be 
seen anywhere for a penny. Eh Kit - eh? Ha ha ha! Have you taken Kit into 
custody before he had time and opportunity to beat me! Eh Kit, eh?" And 
with that he burst into a yell of laughter, manifestly to the great terror 
of the coachman and pointed to a dyer's pole hard by, where a dangling suit 
of clothes bore some resemblance to a man upon a gibbet.
"Is it coming to that, Kit!" cried the dwarf, rubbing his hands violently. 
"Ha ha ha ha! What a disappointment for little Jacob, and for his darling 
mother! Let him have the Bethel minister to comfort and console him, Brass. 
Eh Kit, eh? Drive on coachey, drive on. Bye bye Kit; all good go with you; 
keep up your spirits; my love to the Garlands - the dear old lady and 
gentleman. Say I inquired after 'em, will you? Blessings on 'em, and on 
you, and on everybody, Kit. Blessings on all the world!"
With such good wishes and farewells, poured out in a rapid torrent until 
they were out of hearing, Quilp suffered them to depart; and when he could 
see the coach no longer, drew in his head, and rolled upon the ground in an 
ecstasy of enjoyment.
When they reached the notary's, which they were not long in doing, for they 
had encountered the dwarf in a bye street at a very little distance from 
the house, Mr Brass dismounted; and opening the coach door with a 
melancholy visage, requested his sister to accompany him into the office, 
with the view of preparing the good people within for the mournful 
intelligence that awaited them. Miss Sally complying, he desired Mr 
Swiveller to accompany them. So, into the office they went; Mr Sampson and 
his sister arm-in-arm; and Mr Swiveller following alone.
The notary was standing before the fire in the outer office, talking to Mr 
Abel and the elder Mr Garland, while Mr Chuckster sat writing at the desk, 
picking up such crumbs of their conversation as happened to fall in his 
way. This posture of affairs Mr Brass observed through the glass-door as he 
was turning the handle, and seeing that the notary recognised him he began 
to shake his head and sigh deeply while that partition yet divided them.
"Sir," said Sampson, taking off his hat, and kissing the two forefingers of 
his right hand beaver glove, "my name is Brass - Brass of Bevis Marks sir. 
I have had the honour and pleasure, sir, of being concerned against you in 
some little testamentary matter. How do you do, sir!"
"My clerk will attend to any business you may have come upon, Mr Brass," 
said the notary, turning away.
"Thank you, sir," said Brass, "thank you, I am sure. Allow me, sir, to 
introduce my sister - quite one of us sir, although of the weaker sex - of 
great use in my business sir, I assure you. Mr Richard sir, have the 
goodness to come forward if you please - No really," said Brass, stepping 
between the notary and his private office (towards which he had begun to 
retreat), and speaking in the tone of an injured man, "really sir, I must, 
under favour, request a word or two with you, indeed."
"Mr Brass," said the other in a decided tone, "I am engaged. You see that I 
am occupied with these gentlemen. If you will communicate your business to 
Mr Chuckster yonder, you will receive every attention."
"Gentlemen," said Brass, laying his right hand on his waistcoat, and 
looking towards the father and son with a smooth smile - "Gentlemen, I 
appeal to you - really, gentlemen - consider, I beg of you. I am of the 
law. I am styled 'gentleman' by Act of Parliament. I maintain the title by 
the annual payment of twelve pounds sterling for a certificate. I am not 
one of your players of music, stage actors, writers of books, or painters 
of pictures, who assume a station that laws of their country don't 
recognise. I am none of your strollers or vagabonds. If any man bring his 
action against me, he must describe me as a gentleman, or his action is 
null and void. I appeal to you - is this quite respectful? Really, 
gentlemen - "
"Well, will you have the goodness to state your business then, Mr Brass?" 
said the notary.
"Sir," rejoined Brass, "I will. Ah Mr Witherden! you little know the - but 
I will not be tempted to travel from the point sir. I believe the name of 
one of these gentlemen is Garland."
"Of both," said the notary.
"Indeed!" rejoined Brass, cringing excessively. "But I might have known 
that, from the uncommon likeness. Extremely happy, I am sure, to have the 
honour of an introduction to two such gentlemen, although the occasion is a 
most painful one. One of you gentlemen has a servant called Kit?"
"Both," replied the notary.
"Two Kits?" said Brass, smiling. "Dear me!"
"One Kit, sir," returned Mr Witherden angrily, "who is employed by both 
gentlemen. What of him?"
"This of him, sir," rejoined Brass, dropping his voice impressively. "That 
young man, sir, that I have felt unbounded and unlimited confidence in, and 
always behaved to as if he was my equal - that young man has this morning 
committed a robbery in my office, and been taken almost in the fact."
"This must be some falsehood!" cried the notary.
"It is not possible," said Mr Abel.
"I'll not believe one word of it," exclaimed the old gentleman.
Mr Brass looked mildly round upon them, and rejoined.
"Mr Witherden sir, your words are actionable, and if I was a man of low and 
mean standing, who couldn't afford to be slandered, I should proceed for 
damages. Hows'ever sir, being what I am, I merely scorn such expressions. 
The honest warmth of the other gentleman I respect, and I'm truly sorry to 
be the messenger of such unpleasant news. I shouldn't have put myself in 
this painful position, I assure you, but that the lad himself desired to be 
brought here in the first instance, and I yielded to his prayers. Mr 
Chuckster sir, will you have the goodness to tap at the window for the 
constable that's waiting in the coach?"
The three gentlemen looked at each other with blank faces when these words 
were uttered, and Mr Chuckster, doing as he was desired, and leaping off 
the stool with something of the excitement of an inspired prophet whose 
foretellings had in the fulness of time been realised, held the door open 
for the entrance of the wretched captive.
Such a scene as there was, when Kit came in, and bursting into the rude 
eloquence with which Truth at length inspired him, called Heaven to witness 
that he was innocent, and that how the property came to be found on him he 
knew not! Such a confusion of tongues, before the circumstances were 
related, and the proofs disclosed! Such a dead silence when all was told, 
and his three friends exchanged looks of doubt and amazement!
"Is it not possible," said Mr Witherden, after a long pause, "that this 
note may have found its way into the hat by some accident - such as the 
removal of papers on the desk, for instance?"
But, this was clearly shown to be quite impossible. Mr Swiveller, though an 
unwilling witness, could not help proving to demonstration, from the 
position in which it was found, that it must have been designedly secreted.
"It's very distressing," said Brass, "immensely distressing, I am sure. 
When he comes to be tried, I shall be very happy to recommend him to mercy 
on account of his previous good character. I did lose money before 
certainly, but it doesn't quite follow that he took it. The presumption's 
against him - strongly against him - but we're Christians, I hope?"
"I suppose," said the constable, looking round, "that no gentleman here, 
can give evidence as to whether he's been flush of money of late. Do you 
happen to know sir?"
"He has had money from time to time, certainly," returned Mr Garland, to 
whom the man had put the question. "But that, as he always told me, was 
given him by Mr Brass himself."
"Yes to be sure," said Kit eagerly. "You can bear me out in that sir?"
"Eh?" cried Brass, looking from face to face with an expression of stupid 
amazement.
"The money you know, the half-crowns that you gave me - from the lodger," 
said Kit.
"Oh dear me!" cried Brass, shaking his head and frowning heavily. "This is 
a bad case, I find! a very bad case indeed."
"What! Did you give him no money on account of anybody, sir?" asked Mr 
Garland with great anxiety.
"I give him money, sir!" returned Sampson. "Oh, come you know, this is too 
barefaced. Constable, my good fellow, we had better be going."
"What!" shrieked Kit. "Does he deny that he did? ask him, somebody, pray. 
Ask him to tell you whether he did or not!"
"Did you, sir?" asked the notary.
"I tell you what, gentlemen," replied Brass, in a very grave manner, "he'll 
not serve his case this way, and really, if you feel any interest in him, 
you had better advise him to go upon some other tack. Did I, sir? Of course 
I never did."
"Gentlemen," cried Kit, on whom a light broke suddenly, "Master, Mr Abel, 
Mr Witherden, every one of you - he did it! What I have done to offend him, 
I don't know, but this is a plot to ruin me. Mind, gentlemen, it's a plot, 
and whatever comes of it, I will say with my dying breath that he put that 
note in my hat himself! Look at him, gentlemen! See how he changes colour. 
Which of us looks the guilty person - he or I?"
"You hear him, gentlemen?" said Brass, smiling, "you hear him. Now, does 
this case strike you as assuming rather a black complexion, or does it not? 
Is it at all a treacherous case, do you think, or is it one of mere 
ordinary guilt? Perhaps, gentlemen, if he had not said this in your 
presence, and I had reported it, you'd have held this to be impossible 
likewise, eh?"
With such pacific and bantering remarks did Mr Brass refute the foul 
aspersion on his character; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by stronger 
feelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more jealous regard for the 
honour of her family, flew from her brother's side, without any previous 
intimation of her design, and darted at the prisoner with the utmost fury. 
It would undoubtedly have gone hard with Kit's face, but that the wary 
constable, foreseeing her design, drew him aside at the critical moment, 
and thus placed Mr Chuckster in circumstances of some jeopardy; for that 
gentleman happening to be next the object of Miss Brass's wrath; and rage 
being, like love and fortune, blind; was pounced upon by the fair enslaver, 
and had a false collar plucked up by the roots, and his hair very much 
dishevelled, before the exertions of the company could make her sensible of 
her mistake.
The constable, taking warning by this desperate attack, and thinking 
perhaps that it would be more satisfactory to the ends of justice if the 
prisoner were taken before a magistrate, whole, rather than in small 
pieces, led him back to the hackney-coach without more ado, and moreover 
insisted on Miss Brass becoming an outside passenger; to which proposal the 
charming creature, after a little angry discussion, yielded her consent; 
and so took her brother Sampson's place upon the box: Mr Brass with some 
reluctance agreeing to occupy her seat inside. These arrangements 
perfected, they drove to the justice-room with all speed, followed by the 
notary and his two friends in another coach. Mr Chuckster alone was left 
behind - greatly to his indignation; for he held the evidence he could have 
given, relative to Kit's returning to work out the shilling, to be so very 
material as bearing upon his hypocritical and designing character, that he 
considered its suppression little better than a compromise of felony.
At the justice-room they found the single gentleman, who had gone straight 
there, and was expecting them with desperate impatience. But, not fifty 
single gentlemen rolled into one could have helped poor Kit, who in half an 
hour afterwards was committed for trial, and was assured by a friendly 
officer on his way to prison that there was no occasion to be cast down, 
for the sessions would soon be on, and he would, in all likelihood, get his 
little affair disposed of, and be comfortably transported, in less that a 
fortnight.


Chapter 61

Let moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is very questionable 
whether a guilty man would have felt half as much misery that night, as Kit 
did, being innocent. The world, being in the constant commission of vast 
quantities of injustice, is a little too apt to comfort itself with the 
idea that if the victim of its falsehood and malice have a clear 
conscience, he cannot fail to be sustained under his trials, and somehow or 
other to come right at last; "in which case" say they who have hunted him 
down, " - though we certainly don't expect it - nobody will be better 
pleased than we." Whereas, the world would do well to reflect, that 
injustice is in itself, to every generous and properly constituted mind, an 
injury, of all others the most insufferable, the most torturing, and the 
most hard to bear; and that many clear consciences have gone to their 
account elsewhere, and many sound hearts have broken, because of this very 
reason; the knowledge of their own deserts only aggravating their 
sufferings, and rendering them the less endurable.
The world, however, was not in fault in Kit's case. But, Kit was innocent; 
and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends deemed him guilty, - 
that Mr and Mrs Garland would look upon him as a monster of ingratitude - 
that Barbara would associate him with all that was bad and criminal - that 
the pony would consider himself forsaken - and that even his own mother 
might perhaps yield to the strong appearances against him, and believe him 
to be the wretch he seemed - knowing and feeling all this, he experienced, 
at first, an agony of mind which no words can describe, and walked up and 
down the little cell in which he was locked up for the night, almost beside 
himself with grief.
Even when the violence of these emotions had in some degree subsided, and 
he was beginning to grow more calm, there came into his mind a new thought, 
the anguish of which was scarcely less. The child - the bright star of the 
simple fellow's life - she, who always came back upon him like a beautiful 
dream, - who had made the poorest part of his existence the happiest and 
best, - who had ever been so gentle, and considerate, and good - if she 
were ever to hear of this, what would she think! As this idea occurred to 
him, the walls of the prison seemed to melt away, and the old place to 
reveal itself in their stead, as it was wont to be on winter nights - the 
fireside, the little supper-table, the old man's hat, and coat, and stick - 
the half opened door leading to her little room - they were all there. And 
Nell herself was there, and he - both laughing heartily as they had often 
done - and when he had got as far as this, Kit could go no farther, but 
flung himself upon his poor bedstead and wept.
It was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no end; but he 
slept too, and dreamed - always of being at liberty, and roving about, now 
with one person and now with another, but ever with a vague dread of being 
recalled to prison; not that prison, but one which was in itself a dim idea 
- not of a place, but of a care and sorrow: of something oppressive and 
always present, and yet impossible to define. At last, the morning dawned, 
and there was the jail itself - cold, black, and dreary, and very real 
indeed.
He was left to himself, however, and there was comfort in that. He had 
liberty to walk in that small paved yard at a certain hour, and learnt from 
the turnkey, who came to unlock his cell and show him where to wash, that 
there was a regular time for visiting every day, and that if any of his 
friends came to see him, he would be fetched down to the grate. When he had 
given him this information, and a tin porringer containing his breakfast, 
the man locked him up again; and went clattering along the stone passage, 
opening and shutting a great many other doors, and raising numberless loud 
echoes which resounded through the building for a long time, as if they 
were in prison too, and unable to get out.
This turnkey had given him to understand that he was lodged, like some few 
others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners; because he was not 
supposed to be utterly depraved and irreclaimable, and had never occupied 
apartments in that mansion. Kit was thankful for this indulgence, and sat 
reading the church catechism very attentively (though he had known it by 
heart from a little child), until he heard the key in the lock, and the man 
entered again.
"Now then," he said, "come on!"
"Where to, sir?" asked Kit.
The man contented himself by briefly replying "Wisitors;" and taking him by 
the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable had done the day 
before, led him, through several winding ways and strong gates, into a 
passage, where he placed him at a grating, and turned upon his heel. Beyond 
this grating, at the distance of about four or five feet, was another, 
exactly like it. In the space between, sat a turnkey reading a newspaper; 
and outside the further railing, Kit saw, with a palpitating heart, his 
mother with the baby in her arms; Barbara's mother with her never-failing 
umbrella; and poor little Jacob, staring in with all his might, as though 
he were looking for the bird, or the wild beast, and thought the men were 
mere accidents with whom the bars could have no possible concern.
But, when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms between the 
rails to hug him, found that he came no nearer, but still stood afar off 
with his head resting on the arm by which he held to one of the bars, he 
began to cry most piteously; whereupon, Kit's mother and Barbara's mother, 
who had restrained themselves as much as possible, burst out sobbing and 
weeping afresh. Poor Kit could not help joining them, and not one of them 
could speak a word.
During this melancholy pause, the turnkey read his newspaper with a waggish 
look (he had evidently got among the facetious paragraphs) until, happening 
to take his eyes off it for an instant, as if to get by dint of 
contemplation at the very marrow of some joke of a deeper sort than the 
rest, it appeared to occur to him, for the first time, that somebody was 
crying.
"Now, ladies, ladies," he said, looking round with surprise, "I'd advise 
you not to waste time like this. It's allowanced here, you know. You 
mustn't let that child make that noise either. It's against all rules."
"I'm his poor mother, sir," sobbed Mrs Nubbles, curtseying humbly, "And 
this is his brother, sir. Oh dear me, dear me!"
"Well!" replied the turnkey, folding his paper on his knee, so as to get 
with greater convenience at the top of the next column. "It can't be 
helped, you know. He ain't the only one in the same fix. You mustn't make a 
noise about it!"
With that, he went on reading. The man was not naturally cruel or hard-
hearted. He had come to look upon felony as a kind of disorder, like the 
scarlet fever or erysipelas: some people had it - some hadn't - just as it 
might be.
"Oh! my darling Kit," said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had charitably 
relieved of the baby, "that I should see my poor boy here!"
"You don't believe I did what they accuse me of, mother dear?" cried Kit, 
in a choking voice.
"I believe it!" exclaimed the poor woman, "I, that never knew you tell a 
lie, or do a bad action from your cradle - that have never had a moment's 
sorrow on your account, except it was for the poor meals that you have 
taken with such good-humour and content, that I forgot how little there 
was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful you were, though you were but a 
child! - I believe it of the son that's been a comfort to me from the hour 
of his birth to this time, and that I never laid down one night in anger 
with! I believe it of you, Kit - "
"Why then, thank God!" said Kit, clutching the bars with an earnestness 
that shook them, "and I can bear it mother! Come what may, I shall always 
have one drop of happiness in my heart when I think that you said that."
At this, the poor woman fell a crying again, and Barbara's mother too. And 
little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time resolved 
themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit couldn't go out for a 
walk if he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions; tigers, or other 
natural curiosities behind those bars - nothing indeed, but a caged brother 
- added his tears to theirs with as little noise as possible.
Kit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more than 
she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and submissively 
addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he please to listen to her 
for a minute? The turnkey, being in the very crisis and passion of a joke, 
motioned to her with his hand to keep silent one minute longer, for her 
life. Nor did he remove his hand into its former posture, but kept it in 
the same warning attitude until he had finished the paragraph, when he 
paused for a few seconds, with a smile upon his face, as who should say, 
"this editor is a comical blade - a funny dog," and then asked her what she 
wanted.
"I have brought him a little something to eat," said the good woman. "If 
you please, sir, might he have it?"
"Yes - he may have it. There's no rule against that. Give it to me when you 
go, and I'll take care he has it."
"No, but if you please sir - don't be angry with me, sir - I am his mother, 
and you had a mother once - if I might only see him eat a little bit, I 
should go away, so much more satisfied that he was all comfortable."
And again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of Barbara's mother, 
and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was crowing and laughing with all 
its might - under the idea, apparently, that the whole scene had been 
invented and got up for its particular satisfaction.
The turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one and rather 
out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his paper, and coming 
round to where Kit's mother stood, took the basket from her, and after 
inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and went back to his place. It 
may be easily conceived that the prisoner had no great appetite, but he sat 
down on the ground, and ate as hard as he could, while, at every morsel he 
put into his mouth, his mother sobbed and wept afresh, though with a 
softened grief that bespoke the satisfaction the sight afforded her.
While he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about his 
employers, and whether they had expressed any opinion concerning him; but 
all he could learn was, that Mr Abel had himself broken the intelligence to 
his mother, with great kindness and delicacy, late on the previous night, 
but had himself expressed no opinion of his innocence or guilt. Kit was on 
the point of mustering courage to ask Barbara's mother about Barbara, when 
the turnkey who had conducted him reappeared, a second turnkey appeared 
behind his visitors, and the third turnkey with the newspaper cried "Time's 
up!" - adding in the same breath "Now for the next party!" and then 
plunging deep into his newspaper again. Kit was taken off in an instant, 
with a blessing from his mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing in 
his ears. As he was crossing the next yard with the basket in his hand, 
under the guidance of his former conductor, another officer called to them 
to stop, and came up with a pint-pot of porter in his hand.
"This is Christopher Nubbles isn't it, that come in last night for felony?" 
said the man.
His comrade replied that this was the chicken in question.
"Then here's your beer," said the other man to Christopher. "What are you 
looking at? There ain't a discharge in it."
"I beg your pardon," said Kit. "Who sent it me?"
"Why, your friend," replied the man. "You're to have it every day, he says. 
And so you will, if he pays for it."
"My friend!" repeated Kit.
"You're all abroad, seemingly," returned the other man. "There's his 
letter. Take hold!"
Kit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as follows.
"Drink of this cup, you'll find there's a spell in its every drop 'gainst 
the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup 
was a fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and Co.'s). If they ever send 
it in a flat state, complain to the Governor. Yours R. S."
"R. S.!" said Kit, after some consideration. "It must be Mr Richard 
Swiveller. Well, it's very kind of him, and I thank him heartily!"


Chapter 62

A faint light, twinkling from the window of the counting-house on Quilp's 
wharf, and looking inflamed and red through the night-fog, as though it 
suffered from it like an eye, forewarned Mr Sampson Brass, as he approached 
the wooden cabin with a cautious step, that the excellent proprietor, his 
esteemed client, was inside, and probably waiting with his accustomed 
patience and sweetness of temper the fulfilment of the appointment which 
now brought Mr Brass within his fair domain.
"A treacherous place to pick one's steps in, of a dark night," muttered 
Sampson, as he stumbled for the twentieth time over some stray lumber, and 
limped in pain. "I believe that boy strews the ground differently every 
day, on purpose to bruise and maim one; unless his master does it with his 
own hands, which is more than likely. I hate to come to this place without 
Sally. She's more protection than a dozen men."
As he paid this compliment to the merit of the absent charmer, Mr Brass 
came to a halt; looking doubtfully towards the light, and over his 
shoulder.
"What's he about, I wonder?" murmured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe and 
endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of what was passing inside, which at that 
distance was impossible - "drinking, I suppose, - making himself more fiery 
and furious, and heating his malice and mischievousness till they boil. I'm 
always afraid to come here by myself, when his account's a pretty large 
one. I don't believe he'd mind throttling me, and dropping me softly into 
the river, when the tide was at its strongest, any more than he'd mind 
killing a rat - indeed I don't know whether he wouldn't consider it a 
pleasant joke. Hark! Now he's singing!"
Mr Quilp was certainly entertaining himself with vocal exercise, but it was 
rather a kind of chant than a song; being a monotonous repetition of one 
sentence in a very rapid manner, with a long stress upon the last word, 
which he swelled into a dismal roar. Nor did the burden of this performance 
bear any reference to love, or war, or wine, or loyalty, or any other, of 
the standard topics of song, but to a subject not often set to music or 
generally known in ballads; the words being these: - "The worthy 
magistrate, after remarking that the prisoner would find some difficulty in 
persuading a jury to believe his tale, committed him to take his trial at 
the approaching sessions; and directed the customary recognisances to be 
entered into for the pros-e-cu-tion."
Every time he came to this concluding word, and had exhausted all possible 
stress upon it, Quilp burst into a shriek of laughter, and began again.
"He's dreadfully imprudent," muttered Brass, after he had listened to two 
or three repetitions of the chant. "Horribly imprudent. I wish he was dumb. 
I wish he was deaf. I wish he was blind. Hang him," cried Brass, as the 
chant began again. "I wish he was dead!"
Giving utterance to these friendly aspirations in behalf of his client, Mr 
Sampson composed his face into its usual state of smoothness, and waiting 
until the shriek came again and was dying away, went up to the wooden 
house, and knocked at the door.
"Come in!" cried the dwarf.
"How do you do tonight sir?" said Sampson, peeping in. "Ha ha ha! How do 
you do sir? Oh dear me, how very whimsical! Amazingly whimsical to be 
sure!"
"Come in, you fool!" returned the dwarf, "and don't stand there shaking 
your head and showing your teeth. Come in, you false witness, you perjurer, 
you suborner of evidence, come in!"
"He has the richest humour!" cried Brass, shutting the door behind him; 
"the most amusing vein of comicality! But isn't it rather injudicious sir -
?"
"What?" demanded Quilp, "What, Judas?"
"Judas! cried Brass. "He has such extraordinary spirits! His humour is so 
extremely playful! Judas! Oh yes - dear me, how very good! Ha, ha, ha!"
All this time, Sampson was rubbing his hands, and staring, with ludicrous 
surprise and dismay, at a great, goggle-eyed, blunt-nosed figurehead of 
some old ship, which was reared up against the wall in a corner near the 
stove, looking like a goblin or hideous idol whom the dwarf worshipped. A 
mass of timber on its head, carved into the dim and distant semblance of a 
cocked hat, together with a representation of a star on the left breast and 
epaulettes on the shoulders, denoted that it was intended for the effigy of 
some famous admiral; but, without those helps, any observer might have 
supposed it the authentic portrait of a distinguished merman, or great sea-
monster. Being originally much too large for the apartment which it was now 
employed to decorate, it had been sawn short off at the waist. Even in this 
state it reached from floor to ceiling; and thrusting itself forward, with 
that excessively wide-awake aspect, and air of somewhat obtrusive 
politeness, by which figureheads are usually characterised, seemed to 
reduce everything else to mere pigmy proportions.
"Do you know it?" said the dwarf, watching Sampson's eyes. "Do you see the 
likeness?"
"Eh?" said Brass, holding his head on one side, and throwing it a little 
back, as connoisseurs do. "Now I look at it again, I fancy I see a - yes, 
there certainly is something in the smile that reminds me of - and yet upon 
my word I - "
Now, the fact was, that Sampson, having never seen anything in the smallest 
degree resembling this substantial phantom, was much perplexed; being 
uncertain whether Mr Quilp considered it like himself, and had therefore 
bought it for a family portrait; or whether he was pleased to consider it 
as the likeness of some enemy. He was not very long in doubt; for, while he 
was surveying it with that knowing look which people assume when they are 
contemplating for the first time portraits which they ought to recognise 
but don't, the dwarf threw down the newspaper from which he had been 
chanting the words already quoted, and seizing a rusty iron bar, which he 
used in lieu of poker, dealt the figure such a stroke on the nose that it 
rocked again.
"Is it like Kit - is it his picture, his image, his very self?" cried the 
dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the insensible countenance, and covering 
it with deep dimples. "Is it the exact model and counterpart of the dog - 
is it - is it - is it?" And with every repetition of the question, he 
battered the great image, until the perspiration streamed down his face 
with the violence of the exercise.
Although this might have been a very comical thing to look at from a secure 
gallery, as a bull-fight is found to be a comfortable spectacle by those 
who are not in the arena, and a house on fire is better than a play to 
people who don't live near it, there was something in the earnestness of Mr 
Quilp's manner which made his legal adviser feel that the counting-house 
was a little too small, and a deal too lonely for the complete enjoyment of 
these humours. Therefore he stood as far off as he could, while the dwarf 
was thus engaged; whimpering out but feeble applause; and when Quilp left 
off and sat down again from pure exhaustion, approached with more 
obsequiousness than ever.
"Excellent indeed!" cried Brass. "He he! Oh, very good sir. You know," said 
Sampson, looking round as if in appeal to the bruised admiral, "he's quite 
a remarkable man - quite!"
"Sit down," said the dwarf. "I bought the dog yesterday. I've been screwing 
gimlets into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and cutting my name on 
him. I mean to burn him at last."
"Ha ha!" cried Brass. "Extremely entertaining, indeed!"
"Come here!" said Quilp, beckoning him to draw near. "What's injudicious, 
hey?"
"Nothing sir - nothing. Scarcely worth mentioning sir; but I thought that 
song - admirably humorous in itself you know - was perhaps rather - "
"Yes," said Quilp, "rather what?"
"Just bordering, or as one may say remotely verging, upon the confines of 
injudiciousness perhaps sir," returned Brass, looking timidly at the 
dwarf's cunning eyes, which were turned towards the fire and reflected its 
red light.
"Why?" inquired Quilp, without looking up.
"Why, you know sir," returned Brass, venturing to be more familiar: " - the 
fact is, sir, that any allusion to these little combinings together, of 
friends, for objects in themselves extremely laudable, but which the law 
terms conspiracies, are - you take me sir? - best kept snug among friends, 
you know."
"Eh!" said Quilp, looking up with a perfectly vacant countenance. "What do 
you mean?"
"Cautious, exceedingly cautious, very right and proper!" cried Brass, 
nodding his head. "Mum, sir, even here - my meaning sir, exactly."
"Your meaning exactly, you brazen scarecrow, - what's your meaning?" 
retorted Quilp. "Why do you talk to me of combining together? Do I combine? 
Do I know anything about your combinings?"
"No, no, sir - certainly not; not by any means," returned Brass.
"If you so wink and nod at me," said the dwarf, looking about him as if for 
his poker, "I'll spoil the expression of your monkey's face, I will."
"Don't put yourself out of the way I beg sir," rejoined Brass, checking 
himself with great alacrity. "You're quite right sir, quite right. I 
shouldn't have mentioned the subject sir. It's much better not to. You're 
quite right sir. Let us change it, if you please. You were asking, sir, 
Sally told me, about our lodger. He has not returned sir."
"No?" said Quilp, heating some rum in a little saucepan, and watching it to 
prevent its boiling over. "Why not?"
"Why sir," returned Brass, "he - dear me, Mr Quilp sir" -
"What's the matter?" said the dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of 
carrying the saucepan to his mouth.
"You have forgotten the water, sir," said Brass. "And - excuse me sir - but 
it's burning hot."
Deigning no other than a practical answer to this remonstrance, Mr Quilp 
raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off all the 
spirit it contained, which might have been in quantity about half a pint, 
and had been but a moment before, when he took it off the fire, bubbling 
and hissing fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle stimulant and shaken his 
fist at the admiral, he bade Mr Brass proceed.
"But first," said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, "have a drop yourself - 
a nice drop - a good, warm, fiery drop."
"Why sir," replied Brass, "if there was such a thing as a mouthful of water 
that could be got without trouble - "
"There's no such thing to be had here," cried the dwarf. "Water for 
lawyers! Melted lead and brimstone, you mean, nice hot blistering pitch and 
tar - that's the thing for them - eh Brass, eh?"
"Ha ha ha!" laughed Mr Brass. "Oh very biting! and yet it's like being 
tickled - there's a pleasure in it too, sir!"
"Drink that," said the dwarf, who had by this time heated some more. "Toss 
it off, don't leave any heel-tap, scorch your throat and be happy!"
The wretched Sampson took a few short sips of the liquor, which immediately 
distilled itself into burning tears, and in that form came rolling down his 
cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour of his face and eyelids to 
a deep red, and giving rise to a violent fit of coughing, in the midst of 
which he was still heard to declare, with the constancy of a martyr, that 
it was "beautiful indeed!" While he was yet in unspeakable agonies, the 
dwarf renewed their conversation.
"The lodger," said Quilp, - "what about him?"
"He is still sir," returned Brass, with intervals of coughing, "stopping 
with the Garland family. He has only been home once, sir, since the day of 
the examination of that culprit. He informed Mr Richard sir, that he 
couldn't bear the house after what had taken place; that he was wretched in 
it; and that he looked upon himself as being in a certain kind of way the 
cause of the occurrence. - A very excellent lodger sir. I hope we may not 
lose him."
"Yah!" cried the dwarf. "Never thinking of anybody but yourself - why don't 
you retrench then - scrape up, hoard, economise, eh?"
"Why sir," replied Brass, "upon my word I think Sarah's as good an 
economiser as any going. I do indeed, Mr Quilp."
"Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, drink man!" cried the dwarf. "You 
took a clerk to oblige me."
"Delighted sir, I am sure at any time," replied Sampson. "Yes sir, I did."
"Then, now you may discharge him," said Quilp. "There's a means of 
retrenchment for you at once."
"Discharge Mr Richard sir?" cried Brass.
"Have you more than one clerk, you parrot, that you ask the question? Yes."
"Upon my word sir," said Brass, "I wasn't prepared for this - "
"How could you be?" sneered the dwarf, "when I wasn't? How often am I to 
tell you that I brought him to you that I might always have my eye on him 
and know where he was, and that I had a plot, a scheme, a little quiet 
piece of enjoyment afoot, of which the very cream and essence was, that 
this old man and grandchild (who have sunk underground I think) should be, 
while he and his precious friend believed them rich, in reality as poor as 
frozen rats?"
"I quite understood that sir," rejoined Brass. "Thoroughly."
"Well sir," retorted Quilp, "and do you understand now, that they're not 
poor - that they can't be, if they have such men as your lodger searching 
for them, and scouring the country far and wide."
"Of course I do sir," said Sampson.
"Of course you do," retorted the dwarf, viciously snapping at his words. 
"Of course do you understand then, that's it's no matter what comes of this 
fellow? of course do you understand that for any other purpose he's no man 
for me, nor for you?"
"I have frequently said to Sarah sir," returned Brass, "that he was of no 
use at all in the business. You can't put any confidence in him sir. If 
you'll believe me I've found that fellow, in the commonest little matters 
of the office that have been trusted to him, blurting out the truth, though 
expressly cautioned. The aggravation of that chap sir, has exceeded 
anything you can imagine, it has indeed. Nothing but the respect and 
obligation I owe to you sir - "
As it was plain that Sampson was bent on a complimentary harangue, unless 
he received a timely interruption, Mr Quilp politely tapped him on the 
crown of the head with the little saucepan, and requested that he would be 
so obliging as to hold his peace.

"Practical, sir, practical," said Brass, rubbing the place and smiling; 
"but still extremely pleasant - immensely so!"
"Hearken to me, will you?" returned Quilp, "or I'll be a little more 
pleasant, presently. There's no chance of his comrade and friend returning. 
The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I learn, for some knavery, and has 
found his way abroad. Let him rot there."
"Certainly sir. Quite proper. - Forcible!" cried Brass, glancing at the 
admiral again, as if he made a third in company. "Extremely forcible!"
"I hate him," said Quilp between his teeth, "and have always hated him, for 
family reasons. Besides, he was an intractable ruffian; otherwise he would 
have been of use. This fellow is pigeon-hearted, and light-headed. I don't 
want him any longer. Let him hang or drown - starve - go to the devil."
"By all means, sir," returned Brass. "When would you wish him sir, to - ha, 
ha! - to make that little excursion?"
"When this trial's over," said Quilp. "As soon as that's ended, send him 
about his business."
"It shall be done, sir," returned Brass; "by all means. It will be rather a 
blow to Sarah, sir, but she has all her feelings under control. Ah, Mr 
Quilp, I often think sir, if it had only pleased Providence to bring you 
and Sarah together, in earlier life, what blessed results would have flowed 
from such a union! You never saw our dear father, sir? - A charming 
gentleman. Sarah was his pride and joy, sir. He would have closed his eyes 
in bliss, would Foxey, Mr Quilp, if he could have found her such a partner. 
You esteem her, sir?"
"I love her," croaked the dwarf.
"You're very good, sir," returned Brass, "I am sure. Is there any other 
order, sir, that I can take a note of, besides this little matter of Mr 
Richard?"
"None," replied the dwarf, seizing the saucepan. "Let us drink the lovely 
Sarah."
"If we could do it in something, sir, that wasn't quite boiling," suggested 
Brass humbly, "perhaps it would be better. I think it will be more 
agreeable to Sarah's feelings when she comes to hear from me of the honour 
you have done her, if she learns it was in liquor rather cooler than the 
last, sir."
But to these remonstrances, Mr Quilp turned a deaf ear. Sampson Brass, who 
was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled to take further 
draughts of the same strong bowl, found that, instead of at all 
contributing to his recovery, they had the novel effect of making the 
counting-house spin round and round with extreme velocity, and causing the 
floor and ceiling to heave in a very distressing manner. After a brief 
stupor, he awoke to a consciousness of being partly under the table and 
partly under the grate. This position not being the most comfortable one he 
could have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger to his feet, and, 
holding on by the admiral, looked round for his host.
Mr Brass's first impression was, that his host was gone and had left him 
there alone - perhaps locked him in for the night. A strong smell of 
tobacco, however, suggesting a new train of ideas, he looked upwards, and 
saw that the dwarf was smoking in his hammock.
"Good bye, sir," cried Brass faintly. "Good bye, sir."
"Won't you stop all night?" said the dwarf, peeping out. "Do stop all 
night!"
"I couldn't indeed, sir," replied Brass, who was almost dead from nausea 
and the closeness of the room. "If you'd have the goodness to show me a 
light, so that I may see my way across the yard, sir - "
Quilp was out in an instant; not with his legs first, or his head first, or 
his arms first, but bodily - altogether.
"To be sure," he said, taking up a lantern, which was now the only light in 
the place. "Be careful how you go, my dear friend. Be sure to pick your way 
among the timber, for all the rusty nails are upwards. There's a dog in the 
lane. He bit a man last night, and a woman the night before, and last 
Tuesday he killed a child - but that was in play. Don't go too near him."
"Which side of the road is he, sir?" asked Brass, in great dismay.
"He lives on the right hand," said Quilp, "but sometimes he hides on the 
left, ready for a spring. He's uncertain in that respect. Mind you take 
care of your self. I'll never forgive you if you don't. There's the light 
out - never mind - you know the way - straight on!"
Quilp had slyly shaded the light by holding it against his breast, and now 
stood chuckling and shaking from head to foot in a rapture of delight, as 
he heard the lawyer stumbling up the yard, and now and then falling heavily 
down. At length, however, he got quit of the place, and was out of hearing.
The dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang once more into his hammock.


Chapter 63

The professional gentleman who had given Kit that consolatory piece of 
information relative to the settlement of his trifle of business at the Old 
Bailey, and the probability of its being very soon disposed of, turned out 
to be quite correct in his prognostications. In eight days' time, the 
sessions commenced. In one day afterwards, the Grand Jury found a True Bill 
against Christopher Nubbles for felony; and in two days from that finding 
the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was called upon to plead Guilty or Not 
Guilty to an indictment for that he the said Christopher did feloniously 
abstract and steal from the dwelling-house and office of one Sampson Brass, 
gentleman, one Bank Note for Five Pounds issued by the Governor and Company 
of the Bank of England; in contravention of the Statutes in that case made 
and provided, and against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his 
crown, and dignity.
To this indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in a low and trembling voice, 
pleaded Not Guilty; and here, let those who are in the habit of forming 
hasty judgments from appearances, and who would have had Christopher, if 
innocent, speak out very strong and loud, observe, that confinement and 
anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts; and that to one who has been close 
shut up, though it be only for ten or eleven days, seeing but stone walls 
and a very few stony faces, the sudden entrance into a great hall filled 
with life, is a rather disconcerting and startling circumstance. To this, 
it must be added, that life in a wig, is, to a large class of people, much 
more terrifying and impressive than life with its own head of hair; and if, 
in addition to these considerations, there be taken into account Kit's 
natural emotion on seeing the two Mr Garlands and the little Notary looking 
on with pale and anxious faces, it will perhaps seem matter of no very 
great wonder that he should have been rather out of sorts, and unable to 
make himself quite at home.
Although he had never seen either of the Mr Garlands, or Mr Witherden, 
since the time of his arrest, he had been given to understand that they had 
employed counsel for him. Therefore, when one of the gentlemen in wigs got 
up and said "I am for the prisoner my Lord," Kit made him a bow; and when 
another gentleman in a wig got up and said "And I'm against him my Lord," 
Kit trembled very much and bowed to him too. And didn't he hope in his own 
heart that his gentleman was a match for the other gentleman, and would 
make him ashamed of himself in no time!
The gentleman who was against him had to speak first, and being in 
dreadfully good spirits (for he had, in the last trial, very nearly 
procured the acquittal of a young gentleman who had had the misfortune to 
murder his father) he spoke up, you may be sure; telling the Jury that if 
they acquitted this prisoner they must expect to suffer no less pangs and 
agonies than he had told the other Jury they would certainly undergo if 
they convicted that prisoner. And when he had told him all about the case, 
and that he had never known a worse case, he stopped a little while, like a 
man who had something terrible to tell them, and then said that he 
understood an attempt would be made by his learned friend (and here he 
looked sideways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the testimony of those 
immaculate witnesses whom he should call before them; but he did hope and 
trust that his learned friend would have a greater respect and veneration 
for the character of the prosecutor; than whom, as he well knew, there did 
not exist, and never had existed, a more honourable member of that most 
honourable profession to which he was attached. And then he said, did the 
Jury know Bevis Marks? And if they did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted, for 
their own characters, they did) did they know the historical and elevating 
associations connected with that most remarkable spot? Did they believe 
that a man like Brass could reside in a place like Bevis Marks, and not be 
a virtuous and most upright character? And when he had said a great deal to 
them on this point, he remembered that it was an insult to their 
understandings to make any remarks on what they must have felt so strongly 
without him, and therefore called Sampson Brass into the witness-box, 
straightway.
Then up comes Mr Brass, very brisk and fresh; and, having bowed to the 
judge, like a man who has had the pleasure of seeing him before, and who 
hopes he has been pretty well since their last meeting, folds his arms, and 
looks at his gentleman as much as to say "Here I am - full of evidence - 
Tap me!" And the gentleman does tap him presently, and with great 
discretion too; drawing off the evidence by little and little, and making 
it run quite clear and bright in the eyes of all present. Then, Kit's 
gentleman takes him in hand, but can make nothing of him; and after a great 
many very long questions and very short answers, Mr Sampson Brass goes down 
in glory.
To him succeeds Sarah, who like in manner is easy to be managed by Mr 
Brass's gentleman, but very obdurate to Kit's. In short, Kit's gentleman 
can get nothing out of her but a repetition of what she has said before 
(only a little stronger this time, as against his client), and therefore 
lets her go, in some confusion. Then, Mr Brass's gentleman calls Richard 
Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller appears accordingly.
Now, Mr Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this witness is 
disposed to be friendly to the prisoner - which, to say the truth, he is 
rather glad to hear, as his strength is considered to lie in what is 
familiarly termed badgering. Wherefore he begins by requesting the officer 
to be quite sure that this witness kisses the book, and then goes to work 
at him, tooth and nail.
"Mr Swiveller," says this gentleman to Dick, when he has told his tale with 
evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it: "Pray sir, where 
did you dine yesterday?" - "Where did I dine yesterday?" - "Aye sir, where 
did you dine yesterday - was it near here sir?" - "Oh to be sure - yes - 
just over the way" - "To be sure. Yes. Just over the way," repeats Mr 
Brass's gentleman, with a glance at the court - "Alone sir?" - "I beg your 
pardon," says Mr Swiveller, who has not caught the question - "Alone sir?" 
repeats Mr Brass's gentleman in a voice of thunder, "did you dine alone? 
Did you treat anybody sir? Come!" - "Oh yes to be sure - yes, I did," says 
Mr Swiveller with a smile. "Have the goodness to banish a levity, sir, 
which is very ill-suited to the place in which you stand (though perhaps 
you have reason to be thankful that it's only that place)," says Mr Brass's 
gentleman, with a nod of the head, insinuating that the dock is Mr 
Swiveller's legitimate sphere of action; "and attend to me. You were 
waiting about here, yesterday, in expectation that this trial was coming 
on. You dined over the way. You treated somebody. Now, was that somebody 
brother to the prisoner at the bar?" - Mr Swiveller is proceeding to 
explain - "Yes or No sir," cries Mr Brass's gentleman - "But will you allow 
me - " - "Yes or No sir" - "Yes it was, but -" - "Yes it was," cries the 
gentleman, taking him up short - "And a very pretty witness you are!"
Down sits Mr Brass's gentleman. Kit's gentleman, not knowing how the matter 
really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard Swiveller retires 
abashed. Judge, jury, and spectators, have visions of his lounging about, 
with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute young fellow of six feet 
high. The reality is, little Jacob, with the calves of his legs exposed to 
the open air, and himself tied up in a shawl. Nobody knows the truth; 
everybody believes a falsehood; and all because of the ingenuity of Mr 
Brass's gentleman.
Then come the witnesses to character, and here Mr Brass's gentleman shines 
again. It turns out that Mr Garland has had no character with Kit, no 
recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was suddenly 
dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons. "Really Mr Garland," 
says Mr Brass's gentleman, "for a person who has arrived at your time of 
life, you are, to say the least of it, singularly indiscreet, I think." The 
Jury think so too, and find Kit guilty. He is taken off, humbly protesting 
his innocence. The spectators settle themselves in their places with 
renewed attention, for there are several female witnesses to be examined in 
the next case, and it has been rumoured that Mr Brass's gentleman will make 
great fun in cross-examining them for the prisoner.
Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs, accompanies 
by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul! never does anything but cry and hold 
the baby), and a sad interview ensues. The newspaper-reading turnkey has 
told them all. He don't think it will be transportation for life, because 
there's time to prove the good character yet, and that is sure to serve 
him. He wonders what he did it for. "He never did it!" cries Kit's mother. 
"Well," says the turnkey, "I won't contradict you. It's all one now, 
whether he did it or not."
Kit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it - God, 
and those to whom He has given such tenderness, only know in how much 
agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart, and, under pretence of having the 
children lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara's mother in a whisper to take 
her home.
"Some friend will rise up for us, mother," cries Kit, "I am sure. If not 
now, before long. My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall be 
brought back again; I feel a confidence in that. You must teach little 
Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had ever been 
dishonest, when they grew old enough to understand, it would break my heart 
to know it, if I was thousands of miles away. - Oh! is there no good 
gentleman here, who will take care of her!"
The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the earth, 
insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the bystanders out 
of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm after the manner of 
theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and commanding Barbara's mother 
to follow, for he has a coach waiting, bears her swiftly off.
Well; Richard took her home. And what astonishing absurdities in the way of 
quotation from song and poem, he perpetrated on the road, no man knows. He 
took her home, and stayed till she was recovered; and, having no money to 
pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks, bidding the driver (for 
it was Saturday night) wait at the door while he went in for "change."
"Mr Richard sir," said Brass cheerfully, "Good evening!"
Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr Richard did, that night, 
half suspect his affable employer of some deep villainy. Perhaps it was but 
the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless nature this 
impulse; but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon him, and he said 
in as few words as possible, what he wanted.
"Money?" cried Brass, taking out his purse. "Ha ha! To be sure Mr Richard, 
to be sure sir. All men must live. You haven't change for a five pound 
note, have you sir?"
"No," returned Dick, shortly.
"Oh!" said Brass, "here's the very sum. That saves trouble. You're very 
welcome I'm sure - Mr Richard sir - "
Dick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round.
"You needn't," said Brass, "trouble yourself to come back any more sir."
"Eh?"
"You see, Mr Richard," said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and 
rocking himself to and fro on his stool, "the fact is, that a man of your 
abilities is lost, sir, quite lost, in our dry and mouldy line. It's 
terrible drudgery - shocking. I should say, now, that the stage, or the - 
or the army Mr Richard - or something very superior in the licensed 
victualling way - was the kind of thing that would call out the genius of 
such a man as you. I hope you'll look in to see us now and then. Sally, 
sir, will be delighted I'm sure. She's extremely sorry to lose you Mr 
Richard, but a sense of her duty to society reconciles her. An amazing 
creature that, sir! You'll find the money quite correct, I think. There's a 
cracked window sir, but I've not made any deduction on that account. 
Whenever we part with friends, Mr Richard, let us part liberally. A 
delightful sentiment sir!"
To all these rambling observations, Mr Swiveller answered not one word, 
but, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round ball: 
looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some intention of bowling 
him down with it. He only took it under his arm, however, and marched out 
of the office in profound silence. When he had closed the door, he reopened 
it, stared in again for a few moments with the same portentous gravity, and 
nodding his head once, in a slow and ghostlike manner, vanished.
He paid the coachman, and turned his back on Bevis Marks, big with great 
designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit himself.
But, the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard Swiveller, 
are extremely precarious. The spiritual excitement of the last fortnight, 
working upon a system affected in no slight degree by the spirituous 
excitement of some years, proved a little too much for him. That very 
night, Mr Richard was seized with an alarming illness, and in twenty-four 
hours was stricken with a raging fever.


Chapter 64

Tossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce thirst 
which nothing could appease; unable to find, in any change of posture, a 
moment's peace or ease; and rambling, ever, through deserts of thought 
where there was no resting place, no sight or sound suggestive of 
refreshment or repose, nothing but a dull eternal weariness, with no change 
but the restless shiftings of his miserable body, and the weary wanderings 
of his mind, constant still to one ever-present anxiety - to a sense of 
something left undone, of some fearful obstacle, to be surmounted, of some 
carking care that would not be driven away, and which haunted the 
distempered brain, now in this form, now in that, always shadowy and dim, 
but recognisable for the same phantom in every shape it took; darkening 
every vision like an evil conscience, and making slumber horrible - in 
these slow tortures of his dread disease, the unfortunate Richard lay 
wasting and consuming inch by inch, until, at last, when he seemed to fight 
and struggle to rise up, and to be held down by devils, he sank into a deep 
sleep, and dreamed no more.
He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than sleep itself, 
he began gradually to remember something of these sufferings, and to think 
what a long night it had been, and whether he had not been delirious twice 
or thrice. Happening, in the midst of these cogitations, to raise his hand, 
he was astonished to find how heavy it seemed, and yet how thin and light 
it really was. Still, he felt indifferent and happy, and having no 
curiosity to pursue the subject, remained in the same waking slumber until 
his attention was attracted by a cough. This made him doubt, whether he had 
locked his door last night, and feel a little surprised at having a 
companion in the room. Still he lacked energy to follow up this train of 
thought; and unconsciously fell, in a luxury of repose, to staring at some 
green stripes on the bed-furniture, and associating them strangely with 
patches of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between, made gravel-walks, 
and so helped out a long perspective of trim gardens.
He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite lost 
himself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more. The walks 
shrunk into stripes again at the sound; and raising himself a little in the 
bed, and holding the curtain open with one hand, he looked out.
The same room certainly, and still by candlelight; but with what unbounded 
astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins, and articles of 
linen airing by the fire, and suchlike furniture of a sick chamber - all 
very clean and neat, but all quite different from anything he had left 
there, when he went to bed! The atmosphere, too, filled with a cool smell 
of herbs and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled; the - the what? The 
Marchioness?
Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat, intent upon 
her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner, as if she feared to 
disturb him - shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, playing, counting, 
pegging - going through all the mysteries of cribbage as if she had been in 
full practice from her cradle!
Mr Swiveller contemplated these things for a short time, and suffering the 
curtain to fall into its former position, laid his head on the pillow 
again.
"I'm dreaming," thought Richard, "that's clear. When I went to bed, my 
hands were not made of eggshells: and now I can almost see through 'em. If 
this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian Night, 
instead of a London one. But I have no doubt I'm asleep. Not the least."
Here the small servant had another cough.
"Very remarkable!" thought Mr Swiveller. "I never dreamt such a real cough 
as that, before. I don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either a cough or 
a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams that one never 
does. There's another - and another - I say! - I'm dreaming rather fast!"
For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after some 
reflection, pinched himself in the arm.
"Queerer still!" he thought. "I came to bed rather plump than otherwise, 
and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I'll take another survey."
The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr Swiveller that 
the objects by which he was surrounded were real, and that he saw them, 
beyond all question, with his waking eyes.
"It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is," said Richard. "I'm in Damascus 
or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a wager with 
another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive, and the 
worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of China, has brought me away, 
room and all, to compare us together. Perhaps," said Mr Swiveller, turning 
languidly round on his pillow, and looking on that side of his bed which 
was next to the wall, "the Princess may be still - No, she's gone."
Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking it to be 
the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr Swiveller 
raised the curtain again, determined to take the first favourable 
opportunity of addressing his companion. An occasion soon presented itself. 
The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and omitted to take the usual 
advantage; upon which, Mr Swiveller called out as loud as he could - "Two 
for his heels!"
The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped her hands. "Arabian Night, 
certainly," thought Mr Swiveller; "they always clap their hands instead of 
ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black slaves, with jars of 
jewels on their heads!"
It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy; as, 
directly afterwards she began to laugh, and then to cry; declaring, not in 
choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she was "so glad, she didn't 
know what to do."
"Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, "be pleased to draw nearer. 
First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me where I shall find my 
voice; and secondly, what has become of my flesh?"
The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again; whereupon 
Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected likewise.
"I begin to infer from your manner, and these appearances, Marchioness," 
said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a trembling lip, "that I have 
been ill."
"You just have!" replied the small servant, wiping her eyes. "And haven't 
you been a talking nonsense!"
"Oh!" said Dick. "Very ill, Marchioness, have I been?"
"Dead, all but," replied the small servant. "I never thought you'd get 
better. Thank Heaven you have!"
"Mr Swiveller was silent for a long while. Bye and bye, he began to talk 
again: inquiring how long he had been there.
"Three weeks tomorrow," replied the small servant.
"Three what?" said Dick.
"Weeks," returned the Marchioness emphatically; "three long, slow, weeks."
The bare thought of having been in such extremity, caused Richard to fall 
into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his full length. The 
Marchioness, having arranged the bedclothes more comfortably and felt that 
his hands and forehead were quite cool - a discovery that filled her with 
delight - cried a little more, and then applied herself to getting tea 
ready, and making some thin dry toast.
While she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful heart, 
very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made herself, and 
attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass, whom, in his own 
mind, he could not thank enough. When the Marchioness had finished her 
toasting, she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and brought him some crisp 
slices and a great basin of weak tea, with which (she said) the doctor had 
left word he might refresh himself when he awoke. She propped him up with 
pillows, if not as skilfully as if she had been a professional nurse all 
her life, at least as tenderly; and looked on with unutterable satisfaction 
while the patient - stopping every now and then to shake her by the hand - 
took his poor meal with an appetite and relish, which the greatest dainties 
of the earth, under any other circumstances, would have failed to provoke. 
Having cleared away, and disposed everything comfortably about him again, 
she sat down at the table to take her own tea.
"Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, "how's Sally?"
The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very uttermost 
entanglement of slyness, and shook her head.
"What, haven't you seen her lately?" said Dick.
"Seen her!" cried the small servant. "Bless you, I've run away!"
Mr Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so 
remained for about five minutes. By slow degrees he resumed his sitting 
posture after that lapse of time, and inquired:
"And where do you live, Marchioness?"
"Live?" cried the small servant. "Here!"
"Oh!" said Mr Swiveller.
And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had been shot. 
Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech, until she had finished 
her meal, put everything in its place, and swept the hearth; when he 
motioned her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being propped up again, 
opened a farther conversation.
"And so," said Dick, "you have run away?"
"Yes," said the Marchioness, "and they've been a-tizing of me."
"Been - I beg your pardon," said Dick - "what have they been doing?"
"Been a-tizing of me - tizing you know - in the newspapers," rejoined the 
Marchioness.
"Aye, aye," said Dick, "advertising?"
The small servant nodded, and winked. Her eyes were so red with waking and 
crying, that the Tragic Muse might have winked with greater consistency. 
And so Dick felt.
"Tell me," said he, "how it was that you thought of coming here.
"Why, you see," returned the Marchioness, "when you was gone, I hadn't any 
friend at all, because the lodger he never come back, and I didn't know 
where either him or you was to be found, you know. But one morning, when I 
was - "
"Was near a keyhole?" suggested Mr Swiveller, observing that she faltered.
"Well then," said the small servant, nodding; "when I was near the office 
keyhole - as you see me through, you know - I heard somebody saying that 
she lived here, and was the lady whose house you lodged at, and that you 
was took very bad, and wouldn't nobody come and take care of you. Mr Brass, 
he says, 'It's no business of mine,' and Miss Sally, she says, 'He's a 
funny chap, but it's no business of mine;' and the lady went away, and 
slammed the door to, when she went out, I can tell you. So I ran away that 
night, and come here, and told 'em you was my brother, and they believed 
me, and I've been here ever since."
"This poor little Marchioness has been wearing herself to death!" cried 
Dick.
"No I haven't," she returned, "not a bit of it. Don't you mind about me. I 
like sitting up, and I've often had a sleep, bless you, in one of them 
chairs. But if you could have seen how you tried to jump out o' winder, and 
if you could have heard how you used to keep on singing and making 
speeches, you wouldn't have believed it - I'm so glad you're better, Mr 
Liverer."
"Liverer indeed!" said Dick thoughtfully. "It's well I am a liverer. I 
strongly suspect I should have died, Marchioness, but for you."
At this point, Mr Swiveller took the small servant's hand in his, again, 
and being, as we have seen, but poorly, might in struggling to express his 
thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that she quickly changed the 
theme by making him lie down, and urging him to keep very quiet.
"The doctor," she told him, "said you was to be kept quite still, and there 
was to be no noise nor nothing. Now, take a rest, and then we'll talk 
again. I'll sit by you, you know. If you shut your eyes, perhaps you'll go 
to sleep. "You'll be all the better for it, if you do."
The Marchioness, in saying these words, brought a little table to the 
bedside, took her seat at it, and began to work away at the concoction of 
some cooling drink, with the address of a score of chemists. Richard 
Swiveller, being indeed fatigued, fell into a slumber, and waking in about 
half an hour, inquired what time it was.
"Just gone half after six," replied his small friend, helping him to sit up 
again.
"Marchioness," said Richard, passing his hand over his forehead and turning 
suddenly round, as though the subject but that moment flashed upon him, 
"what has become of Kit?"
He had been sentenced to transportation for a great many years, she said.
"Has he gone?" asked Dick - "his mother - how is she, - what has become of 
her?"
His nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothing about them. 
"But if I thought," said she, very slowly, "that you'd keep quiet, and not 
put yourself into another fever, I could tell you - but I won't now."
"Yes do," said Dick. "It will amuse me."
"Oh! would it though!" rejoined the small servant, with a horrified look. 
"I know better than that. Wait till you're better, and then I'll tell you."
Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend; and his eyes being large 
and hollow from illness, assisted the expression so much, that she was 
quite frightened, and besought him not to think any more about it. What had 
already fallen from her, however, had not only piqued his curiosity, but 
seriously alarmed him, wherefore he urged her to tell him the worst at 
once.
"Oh! there's no worst in it," said the small servant. "It hasn't anything 
to do with you."
"Has it anything to do with - is it anything you heard through chinks or 
keyholes - and that you were not intended to hear?" asked Dick, in a 
breathless state.
"Yes," replied the small servant.
"In - in Bevis Marks?" pursued Dick hastily. "Conversations between Brass 
and Sally?"
"Yes," cried the small servant again.
Richard Swiveller thrust his lank arm out of bed, and, griping her by the 
wrist and drawing her close to him, bade her out with it, and freely too, 
or he would not answer for the consequences; being wholly unable to endure 
that state of excitement and expectation. She, seeing that he was greatly 
agitated, and that the effects of postponing her revelation might be much 
more injurious than any that were likely to ensue from its being made at 
once, promised compliance, on condition that the patient kept himself 
perfectly quiet, and abstained from starting up or tossing about.
"But if you begin to do that," said the small servant, "I'll leave off. And 
so I tell you."
"You can't leave off, till you have gone on," said Dick. "And do go on, 
there's a darling. Speak, sister, speak. Pretty Polly say. Oh tell me when, 
and tell me where, pray Marchioness, I beseech you!"
Unable to resist these fervent adjurations, which Richard Swiveller poured 
out as passionately as if they had been of the most solemn and tremendous 
nature, his companion spoke thus:
"Well! Before I run away, I used to sleep in the kitchen - where we played 
cards, you know. Miss Sally used to keep the key of the kitchen door in her 
pocket, and she always come down at night to take away the candle and rake 
out the fire. When she had done that, she left me go to bed in the dark, 
locked the door on the outside, put the key in her pocket again, and kept 
me locked up till she came down in the morning - very early I can tell you -
 and let me out. I was terrible afraid of being kept like this, because if 
there was a fire, I thought they might forget me and only take care of 
themselves you know. So, whenever I see an old rusty key anywhere, I picked 
it up, and tried if it would fit the door, and at last I found in the dust 
cellar, a key that did fit it."
Here, Mr Swiveller made a violent demonstration with his legs. But the 
small servant immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided again, and 
pleading a momentary forgetfulness of their compact, entreated her to 
proceed.
"They kept me very short," said the small servant. "Oh! you can't think how 
short they kept me! So I used to come out at night after they'd gone to 
bed, and feel about in the dark for bits of biscuit, or sangwitches that 
you'd left in the office, or even pieces of orange peel to put into cold 
water and make believe it was wine. Did you ever taste orange peel and 
water?"
Mr Swiveller replied that he had never tasted that ardent liquor; and once 
more urged his friend to resume the thread of her narrative.
"If you make believe very much, it's quite nice," said the small servant; 
"but if you don't, you know, it seems as if it would bear a little more 
seasoning, certainly. Well, sometimes I used to come out after they'd gone 
to bed, and sometimes before, you know; and one or two nights before there 
was all that precious noise in the office - when the young man was took, I 
mean - I come upstairs while Mr Brass and Miss Sally was a-sittin' at the 
office fire; and I'll tell you the truth, that I come to listen again, 
about the key of the safe."
Mr Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to make a great cone of the 
bedclothes, and conveyed into his countenance an expression of the utmost 
concern. But, the small servant pausing, and holding up her finger, the 
cone gently disappeared, though the look of concern did not.
"There was him and her," said the small servant, "a-sittin' by the fire, 
and talking softly together. Mr Brass says to Miss Sally. 'Upon my word,' 
he says, 'it's a dangerous thing, and it might get us into a world of 
trouble, and I don't half like it.' She says - you know her way - she says, 
'You're the chickenest-hearted, feeblest, faintest man I ever see, and I 
think,' she says, 'that I ought to have been the brother, and you the 
sister. Isn't Quilp,' she says, 'our principal support?' 'He certainly is,' 
says Mr Brass. 'And an't we,' she says, 'constantly ruining somebody or 
other in the way of business?' 'We certainly are,' says Mr Brass. 'Then 
does it signify,' she says 'about ruining this Kit when Quilp desires it?' 
'It certainly does not signify,' says Mr Brass. Then, they whispered and 
laughed for a long time about there being no danger if it was well done, 
and then Mr Brass pulls out his pocket-book, and says, 'Well,' he says, 
'here it is - Quilp's own five-pound note. We'll agree that way, then,' he 
says. 'Kit's coming tomorrow morning, I know. While he's upstairs, you'll 
get out of the way, and I'll clear off Mr Richard. Having Kit alone, I'll 
hold him in conversation, and put this property in his hat. I'll manage so, 
besides,' he says, 'that Mr Richard shall find it there, and be the 
evidence. And if that don't get Christopher out of Mr Quilp's way, and 
satisfy Mr Quilp's grudges,' he says, 'the Devil's in it,' Miss Sally 
laughed, and said that was the plan, and as they seemed to be moving away, 
and I was afraid to stop any longer, I went down stairs again. - There!"
The small servant had gradually worked herself into as much agitation as Mr 
Swiveller, and therefore made no effort to restrain him when he sat up in 
bed and hastily demanded whether the story had been told to anybody.
"How could it be?" replied his nurse. "I was almost afraid to think about 
it, and hoped the young man would be let off. When I heard 'em say they had 
found him guilty of what he didn't do, you was gone, and so was the lodger -
 though I think I should have been frightened to tell him, even if he'd 
been there. Ever since I come here, you've been out of your senses, and 
what would have been the good of telling you then?"
"Marchioness," said Mr Swiveller, plucking off his night-cap and flinging 
it to the other end of the room; "if you'll do me the favour to retire for 
a few minutes and see what sort of a night it is, I'll get up."
"You mustn't think of such a thing," cried his nurse.
"I must indeed," said the patient, looking round the room. "Whereabouts are 
my clothes?"
"Oh I'm so glad - you haven't got any," replied the Marchioness.
"Ma'am!" said Mr Swiveller, in great astonishment.
"I've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that was 
ordered for you. But don't take on about that," urged the Marchioness, as 
Dick fell back upon his pillow. "You're too weak to stand, indeed."
"I am afraid," said Richard dolefully, "that you're right. What ought I to 
do! what is to be done!"
It naturally occurred to him on very little reflection, that the first step 
to take would be to communicate with one of the Mr Garlands instantly. It 
was very possible that Mr Abel had not yet left the office. In as little 
time as it takes to tell it, the small servant had the address in pencil on 
a piece of paper; a verbal description of father and son, which would 
enable her to recognise either without difficulty; and a special caution to 
be shy of Mr Chuckster, in consequence of that gentleman's known antipathy 
to Kit. Armed with these slender powers, she hurried away, commissioned to 
bring either old Mr Garland or Mr Abel, bodily, to that apartment.
"I suppose," said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into the 
room again, to make sure that he was comfortable, "I suppose there's 
nothing left - not so much as a waistcoat even?"
"No, nothing."
"It's embarrassing," said Mr Swiveller, "in case of fire - even an umbrella 
would be something - but you did quite right, dear Marchioness. I should 
have died without you!"


Chapter 65

It was well for the small servant that she was of a sharp, quick nature, or 
the consequence of sending her out alone, from the very neighbourhood in 
which it was most dangerous for her to appear, would probably have been the 
restoration of Miss Sally Brass to the supreme authority over her person. 
Not unmindful of the risk she ran, however, the Marchioness no sooner left 
the house than she dived into the first dark byway that presented itself, 
and, without any present reference to the point to which her journey 
tended, made it her first business to put two good miles of brick and 
mortar between herself and Bevis Marks.
When she had accomplished this object, she began to shape her course for 
the notary's office, to which - shrewdly inquiring of apple-women and 
oyster-sellers at street corners, rather than in lighted shops or of well-
dressed people, at the hazard of attracting notice - she easily procured a 
direction. As carrier-pigeons, on being first let loose in a strange place, 
beat the air at random for a short time, before darting off towards the 
spot for which they are designed, so did the Marchioness flutter round and 
round until she believed herself in safety, and then bear swiftly down upon 
the port for which she was bound.
She had no bonnet - nothing on her head but a great cap which, in some old 
time, had been worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in head-dresses was, as we 
have seen, peculiar - and her speed was rather retarded than assisted by 
her shoes, which being extremely large and slipshod, flew off every now 
then, and were difficult to find again, among the crowd of passengers. 
Indeed, the poor little creature experienced so much trouble and delay from 
having to grope for these articles of dress in mud and kennel, and suffered 
in these researches so much jostling, pushing, squeezing, and bandying from 
hand to hand, that by the time she reached the street in which the notary 
lived, she was fairly worn out and exhausted, and could not refrain from 
tears.
But to have got there at last was a great comfort, especially as there were 
lights still burning in the office window, and therefore some hope that she 
was not too late. So, the Marchioness dried her eyes with the backs of her 
hands, and, stealing softly up the steps, peeped in through the glass door.
Mr Chuckster was standing behind the lid of his desk making such 
preparations towards finishing off for the night, as pulling down his 
wristbands and pulling up his shirt-collar, settling his neck more 
gracefully in his stock, and secretly arranging his whiskers by the aid of 
a little triangular bit of looking glass. Before the ashes of the fire, 
stood two gentlemen, one of whom she rightly judged to be the notary, and 
the other (who was buttoning his greatcoat, and was evidently about to 
depart immediately) Mr Abel Garland.
Having made these observations, the small spy took counsel with herself, 
and resolved to wait in the street until Mr Abel came out, as there would 
be then no fear of having to speak before Mr Chuckster, and less difficulty 
in delivering her message. With this purpose she slipped out again, and, 
crossing the road, sat down upon a doorstep just opposite.
She had hardly taken this position, when there came dancing up the street, 
with his legs all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns, a pony. This 
pony had a little phaeton behind him, and a man in it; but neither man nor 
phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the least, as he reared up on his hind 
legs, or stopped, or went on, or stood still again, or backed, or went 
sideways, without the smallest reference to them, - just as the fancy 
seized him, and as if he were the freest animal in creation. When they came 
to the notary's door, the man called out in a very respectful manner, "Woa 
then," - intimating that if he might venture to express a wish, it would be 
that they stopped there. The pony made a moment's pause; but, as if it 
occurred to him that to stop when he was required might be to establish an 
inconvenient and dangerous precedent, he immediately started off again, 
rattled at a fast trot to the street corner, wheeled round, came back, and 
then stopped of his own accord.
"Oh! you're a precious creatur!" said the man - who didn't venture by the 
bye to come out in his true colours until he was safe on the pavement. "I 
wish I had the rewarding of you, - I do."
"What has he been doing?" said Mr Abel, tying a shawl round his neck as he 
came down the steps.
"He's enough to fret a man's heart out," replied the hostler. "He is the 
most wicious rascal - woa then, will you?"
"He'll never stand still, if you call him names," said Mr Abel, getting in, 
and taking the reins. "He's a very good fellow if you know how to manage 
him. This is the first time he has been out, this long while, for he has 
lost his old driver and wouldn't stir for anybody else, till this morning. 
The lamps are right, are they? That's well. Be here to take him tomorrow, 
if you please. Good night!"
And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention, the pony 
yielded to Mr Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off.
All this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the small 
servant had been afraid to approach. She had nothing for it now, therefore, 
but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel to stop. Being out of 
breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make him hear. The case 
was desperate; for the pony was quickening his pace. The Marchioness hung 
on behind for a few moments, and, feeling that she could go no farther, and 
must soon yield, clambered by a vigorous effort into the hinder seat, and 
in so doing lost one of the shoes for ever.
Mr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to do 
to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round: little 
dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until the 
Marchioness, having in some degree recovered her breath, and the loss of 
her shoe, and the novelty of her position, uttered close into his ear, the 
words -
"I say, sir" -
He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried, with 
some trepidation, "God bless me, what is this!"
"Don't be frightened, sir," replied the still panting messenger. "Oh I've 
run such a way after you!"
"What do you want with me?" said Mr Abel. "How did you come here?"
"I got in behind," replied the Marchioness. "Oh please drive on, sir - 
don't stop - and go towards the city will you? And oh do please make haste, 
because it's of consequence. There's somebody wants to see you there. He 
sent me to say would you come directly, and that he knowed all about Kit, 
and could save him yet, and prove his innocence."
"What do you tell me, child?"
"The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please to drive on - quick, 
please! I've been such a time gone, he'll think I'm lost."
Mr Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled by some 
secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and neither 
slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until they 
arrived at the door of Mr Swiveller's lodging, where, marvellous to relate, 
he consented to stop when Mr Abel checked him.
"See! It's that room up there," said the Marchioness, pointing to one where 
there was a faint light. "Come!"
Mr Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in 
existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard of 
people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and murdered, under 
circumstances very like the present, and, for anything he knew to the 
contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness. His regard for Kit, however, 
overcame every other consideration. So, intrusting Whisker to the charge of 
a man who was lingering hard by in expectation of the job, he suffered his 
companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the dark and narrow stairs.
He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a dimly-
lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.
"An't it nice to see him lying there so quiet?" said his guide, in an 
earnest whisper. "Oh! you'd say it was, if you had only seen him two or 
three days ago."
Mr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the bed 
and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his 
reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached the 
bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in the wasted 
face the features of Richard Swiveller.
"Why, how is this?" said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him. "You 
have been ill?"
"Very," replied Dick. "Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of your 
Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you. Another shake 
of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, sir."
Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide, and 
took a chair by the bedside.
"I have sent for you, sir," said Dick - "but she told you on what account?"
"She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know what to 
say or think," replied Mr Abel.
"You'll say that, presently," retorted Dick. "Marchioness, take a seat on 
the bed, will you? Now, tell this this gentleman all that you told me; and 
be particular. Don't you speak another word, sir."
The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before, 
without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes fixed on 
his visitor during its narration, and directly it was concluded, took the 
word again.
"You have heard it all, and you'll not forget it. I'm too giddy and too 
queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what to do. 
After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you went home fast 
in your life, go home fast tonight. Don't stop to say one word to me, but 
go. She will be found here, whenever she's wanted; and as to me, you're 
pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two. There are more reasons 
than one for that. Marchioness, a light! If you lose another minute in 
looking at me, sir, I'll never forgive you!"
Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an 
instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him downstairs, 
reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had 
dashed away at full gallop.
"That's right!" said Dick; "and hearty of him; and I honour him from this 
time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you must be 
tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to see you take it 
as if I might drink it myself."
Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to 
indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller's extreme 
contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat order, she 
wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug before the 
fire.
Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, "Strew then, oh 
strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good 
night, Marchioness!"


Chapter 66

On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow 
degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the curtains 
he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary and the single gentleman, 
gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with great earnestness 
but in very subdued tones - fearing, no doubt, to disturb him. He lost no 
time in letting them know that this precaution was unnecessary, and all 
four gentlemen directly approached his bedside. Old Mr Garland was the 
first to stretch out his hand and inquire how he felt.
Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak as 
need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and pressing up 
to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set his breakfast 
before him, and insisted on his taking it before he underwent the fatigue 
of speaking or of being spoken to. Mr Swiveller who was perfectly ravenous, 
and had had, all night, amazingly distinct and consistent dreams of mutton 
chops, double stout, and similar delicacies, felt even the weak tea and dry 
toast such irresistible temptations, that he consented to eat and drink on 
one condition.
"And that is," said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland's hand, 
"that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop. Is it 
too late?"
"For completing the work you began so well last night?" returned the old 
gentleman. "No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not, I assure 
you."
Comforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food 
with a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the 
eating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing him eat. The manner of his 
meal was this: - Mr Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup of tea in 
his left hand, and taking a bite or drink, as the case might be, constantly 
kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight locked; and to shake 
or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would stop every now and then, in 
the very act of swallowing, with perfect seriousness of intention, and the 
utmost gravity. As often as he put anything into his mouth, whether for 
eating or drinking, the face of the Marchioness lighted up beyond all 
description; but, whenever he gave her one or other of these tokens of 
recognition, her countenance became overshadowed, and she began to sob. 
Now, whether she was in her laughing joy, or in her crying one, the 
Marchioness could not help turning to the visitors with an appealing look, 
which seemed to say, "You see this fellow - can I help this?" - and they, 
being thus made, as it were, parties to the scene, as regularly answered by 
another look, "No. Certainly not." This dumb-show, taking place during the 
whole time of the invalid's breakfast, and the invalid himself, pale and 
emaciated, performing no small part in the same, it may be fairly 
questioned whether at any meal, where no word, good or bad, was spoken from 
beginning to end, so much was expressed by gestures in themselves so slight 
and unimportant.
At length - and to say the truth before very long - Mr Swiveller had 
despatched as much toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it was 
discreet to let him have. But, the cares of the Marchioness did not stop 
here; for, disappearing for an instant and presently returning with a basin 
of fair water, she laved his face and hands, brushed his hair, and in short 
made him as spruce and smart as anybody under such circumstances could be 
made; and all this, in as brisk and businesslike a manner, as if he were a 
very little boy, and she his grown-up nurse. To these various attentions, 
Mr Swiveller submitted in a kind of grateful astonishment beyond the reach 
of language. When they were at last brought to an end, and the Marchioness 
had withdrawn into a distant corner to take her own poor breakfast (cold 
enough by that time), he turned his face away for some few moments, and 
shook hands heartily with the air.
"Gentlemen," said Dick, rousing himself from this pause, and turning round 
again, "you'll excuse me. Men who have been brought so low as I have been, 
are easily fatigued. I am fresh again now, and fit for talking. We're short 
of chairs here, among other trifles, but if you'll do me the favour to sit 
upon the bed - "
"What can we do for you?" said Mr Garland kindly.
"If you could make the Marchioness yonder, a Marchioness, in real, sober 
earnest," returned Dick, "I'd thank you to get it done offhand. But as you 
can't, and as the question is not what you will do for me, but what you 
will do for somebody else, who has a better claim upon you, pray sir let me 
know what you intend doing."
"It's chiefly on that account that we have come just now," said the single 
gentleman, "for you will have another visitor presently. We feared you 
would be anxious unless you knew from ourselves what steps we intended to 
take, and therefore came to you before we stirred in the matter."
"Gentlemen," returned Dick, "I thank you. Anybody in the helpless state 
that you see me in, is naturally anxious. Don't let me interrupt you, sir."
"Then, you see, my good fellow," said the single gentleman, "that while we 
have no doubt whatever of the truth of this disclosure, which has so 
providentially come to light - "
" - Meaning hers?" said Dick, pointing towards the Marchioness.
"Meaning hers, of course. While we have no doubt of that, or that a proper 
use of it would procure the poor lad's immediate pardon and liberation, we 
have a great doubt whether it would, by itself, enable us to reach Quilp, 
the chief agent in this villany. I should tell you that this doubt has been 
confirmed into something very nearly approaching certainty by the best 
opinions we have been enabled, in this short space of time, to take upon 
the subject. You'll agree with us, that to give him even the most distant 
chance of escape, if we could help it, would be monstrous. You say with us, 
no doubt, if somebody must escape, let it be any one but he."
"Yes," returned Dick, "certainly. That is, if somebody must - but upon my 
word, I'm unwilling that anybody should. Since laws were made for every 
degree, to curb vice in others as well as in me - and so forth you know - 
doesn't it strike you in that light?"
The single gentleman smiled as if the light in which Mr Swiveller had put 
the question were not the clearest in the world, and proceeded to explain 
that they contemplated proceeding by stratagem in the first instance; and 
that their design was, to endeavour to extort a confession from the gentle 
Sarah.
"When she finds how much we know, and how we know it," he said, "and that 
she is clearly compromised already, we are not without strong hopes that we 
may be enabled through her means to punish the other two effectually. If we 
could do that, she might go scot-free for aught I cared."
Dick received this project in anything but a gracious manner, representing 
with as much warmth as he was then capable of showing, that they would find 
the old buck (meaning Sarah) more difficult to manage than Quilp himself - 
that, for any tampering, terrifying, or cajolery, she was a very 
unpromising and unyielding subject - that she was of a kind of brass not 
easily melted or moulded into shape - in short, that they were no match for 
her, and would be signally defeated. But, it was in vain to urge them to 
adopt some other course. The single gentleman has been described as 
explaining their joint intentions, but it should have been written that 
they all spoke together; that if any one of them by chance held his peace 
for a moment, he stood gasping and panting for an opportunity to strike in 
again; in a word, that they had reached that pitch of impatience and 
anxiety where men can neither be persuaded nor reasoned with; and that it 
would have been as easy to turn the most impetuous wind that ever blew, as 
to prevail on them to reconsider their determination. So, after telling Mr 
Swiveller how they had not lost sight of Kit's mother and the children; how 
they had never once even lost sight of Kit himself, but had been 
unremitting in their endeavours to procure a mitigation of his sentence; 
how they had been perfectly distracted between the strong proofs of his 
guilt, and their own fading hopes of his innocence; and how he, Richard 
Swiveller, might keep his mind at rest, for everything should be happily 
adjusted between that time and night; - after telling him all this, and 
adding a great many kind and cordial expressions, personal to himself, 
which it is unnecessary to recite, Mr Garland, the notary, and the single 
gentleman, took their leaves at a very critical time, or Richard Swiveller 
must assuredly have been driven into another fever, whereof the results 
might have been fatal.
Mr Abel remained behind, very often looking at his watch and at the room 
door, until Mr Swiveller was roused from a short nap, by the setting-down 
on the landing-place outside, as from the shoulders of a porter, of some 
giant load, which seemed to shake the house, and make the little physic 
bottles on the mantel-shelf ring again. Directly this sound reached his 
ears, Mr Abel started up, and hobbled to the door, and opened it; and 
behold! there stood a strong man, with a mighty hamper, which, being hauled 
into the room and presently unpacked, disgorged such treasures of tea, and 
coffee, and wine, and rusks, and oranges, and grapes, and fowls ready 
trussed for boiling, and calves'-foot jelly, and arrowroot, and sago, and 
other delicate restoratives, that the small servant who had never thought 
it possible that such things could be, except in shops, stood rooted to the 
spot in her one shoe, with her mouth and eyes watering in unison, and her 
power of speech quite gone. But not so Mr Abel; or the strong man who 
emptied the hamper, big as it was, in a twinkling; and not so the nice old 
lady, who appeared so suddenly that she might have come out of the hamper 
too (it was quite large enough), and who bustling about on tiptoe and 
without noise - now here, now there, now everywhere at once - began to fill 
out the jelly in teacups, and to make chicken broth in small saucepans, and 
to peel oranges for the sick man and to cut them up in little pieces, and 
to ply the small servant with glasses of wine and choice bits of everything 
until more substantial meat could be prepared for her refreshment. The 
whole of which appearances were so unexpected and bewildering, that Mr 
Swiveller when he had taken two oranges and a little jelly, and had seen 
the strong man walk off with the empty basket, plainly leaving all that 
abundance for his use and benefit, was fain to lie down and fall asleep 
again, from sheer inability to entertain such wonders in his mind.
Meanwhile the single gentleman, the Notary, and Mr Garland, repaired to a 
certain coffee house, and from that place indited and sent a letter to Miss 
Sally Brass, requesting her, in terms mysterious and brief, to favour an 
unknown friend who wished to consult her, with her company there, as 
speedily as possible. The communication performed its errand so well, that 
within ten minutes of the messenger's return and report of its delivery, 
Miss Brass herself was announced.
"Pray ma'am," said the single gentleman, whom she found alone in the room, 
"take a chair."
Miss Brass sat herself down in a very stiff and frigid state, and seemed - 
as indeed she was - not a little astonished to find that the lodger and her 
mysterious correspondent were one and the same person.
"You did not expect to see me?" said the single gentleman.
"I didn't think much about it," returned the beauty. "I supposed it was 
business of some kind or other. If it's about the apartments, of course 
you'll give my brother regular notice, you know - or money. That's very 
easily settled. You're a responsible party, and in such a case lawful money 
and lawful notice are pretty much the same."
"I am obliged to you for your good opinion," retorted the single gentleman, 
"and quite concur in those sentiments. But, that is not the subject on 
which I wish to speak with you."
"Oh!" said Sally. "Then just state the particulars, will you? I suppose 
it's professional business?"
"Why it is connected with the law, certainly."
"Very well," returned Miss Brass. "My brother and I are just the same. I 
can take any instructions or give you any advice."
"As there are other parties interested besides myself," said the single 
gentleman, rising and opening the door of an inner room, "we had better 
confer together. Miss Brass is here, gentlemen!"
Mr Garland and the Notary walked in, looking very grave; and, drawing up 
two chairs, one on each side of the single gentleman, formed a kind of 
fence round the gentle Sarah, and penned her into a corner. Her brother 
Sampson under such circumstances would certainly have evinced some 
confusion or anxiety, but she - all composure - pulled out the tin box and 
calmly took a pinch of snuff.
"Miss Brass," said the Notary, taking the word at this crisis, "we 
professional people understand each other, and, when we choose, can say 
what we have to say, in very few words. You advertised a runaway servant, 
the other day?"
"Well," returned Miss Sally, with a sudden flush overspreading her 
features, "what of that?"
"She is found, ma'am," said the Notary, pulling out his pocket-handkerchief 
with a flourish. "She is found."
"Who found her?" demanded Sarah hastily.
"We did ma'am - we three. Only last night, or you would have heard from us 
before."
"And now I have heard from you," said Miss Brass, folding her arms as 
though she were about to deny something to the death, "what have you got to 
say? Something you have got into your heads about her, of course. Prove it, 
will you - that's all. Prove it. You have found her, you say. I can tell 
you (if you don't know it) that you have found the most artful, lying, 
pilfering, devilish little minx that was ever born. - Have you got her 
here?" she added, looking sharply round.
"No, she is not here at present," returned the Notary. "But she is quite 
safe."
"Ha!" cried Sally, twitching a pinch of snuff out of her box, as spitefully 
as if she were in the very act of wrenching off the small servant's nose; 
"she shall be safe enough from this time, I warrant you."
"I hope so," replied the Notary. - "Did it occur to you for the first time, 
when you found she had run away, that there were two keys to your kitchen 
door?"
Miss Sally took another pinch, and, putting her head on one side, looked at 
her questioner, with a curious kind of spasm about her mouth, but with a 
cunning aspect of immense expression.
"Two keys," repeated the Notary; "one of which gave her the opportunities 
of roaming through the house at nights when you supposed her fast locked 
up, and of overhearing confidential consultations - among others, that 
particular conference, to be described today before a justice, which you 
will have an opportunity of hearing her relate; that conference which you 
and Mr Brass held together, on the night before that most unfortunate and 
innocent young man was accused of robbery, by a horrible device of which I 
will only say that it may be characterised by the epithets you have applied 
to this wretched little witness, and by a few stronger ones besides."
Sally took another pinch. Although her face was wonderfully composed, it 
was apparent that she was wholly taken by surprise, and that what she 
expected to be taxed with, in connection with her small servant, was 
something very different from this.
"Come, come, Miss Brass," said the Notary, "you have great command of 
feature, but you feel, I see, that by a chance which never entered your 
imagination, this base design is revealed, and two of its plotters must be 
brought to justice. Now, you know the pains and penalties you are liable 
to, and so I need not dilate upon them, but I have a proposal to make to 
you. You have the honour of being sister to one of the greatest scoundrels 
unhung; and, if I may venture to say so to a lady, you are in every respect 
quite worthy of him. But, connected with you two is a third party, a 
villain of the name of Quilp, the prime mover of the whole diabolical 
device, who I believe to be worse than either. For his sake, Miss Brass, do 
us the favour to reveal the whole history of this affair. Let me remind you 
that your doing so, at our instance, will place you in a safe and 
comfortable position - your present one is not desirable - and cannot 
injure your brother; for against him and you we have quite sufficient 
evidence (as you hear) already. I will not say to you that we suggest this 
course in mercy (for, to tell you the truth, we do not entertain any regard 
for you), but it is a necessity to which we are reduced, and I recommend it 
to you as a matter of the very best policy. Time," said Mr Witherden, 
pulling out his watch, "in a business like this, is exceedingly precious. 
Favour us with your decision as speedily as possible, ma'am."
With a smile upon her face, and looking at each of the three by turns, Miss 
Brass took two or three more pinches of snuff, and having by this time very 
little left, travelled round and round the box with her forefinger and 
thumb, scraping up another. Having disposed of this likewise and put the 
box carefully in her pocket, she said, -
"I am to accept or reject at once, am I?"
"Yes," said Mr Witherden.
The charming creature was opening her lips to speak in reply, when the door 
was hastily opened too, and the head of Sampson Brass was thrust into the 
room.
"Excuse me," said the gentleman hastily. "Wait a bit!"
So saying, and quite indifferent to the astonishment his presence 
occasioned, he crept in, shut the door, kissed his greasy glove as 
servilely as if it were the dust, and made a most abject bow.
"Sarah," said Brass, "hold your tongue if you please, and let me speak. 
Gentlemen, if I could express the pleasure it gives me to see three such 
men in a happy unity of feeling and concord of sentiment, I think you would 
hardly believe me. But though I am unfortunate - nay gentlemen, criminal, 
if we are to use harsh expressions in company like this - still, I have my 
feelings like other men. I have heard of a poet, who remarked that feelings 
were the common lot of all. If he could have been a pig, gentlemen, and 
have uttered that sentiment, he would still have been immortal."
"If you're not an idiot," said Miss Brass harshly, "hold your peace."
"Sarah, my dear," returned her brother, "thank you. But I know what I am 
about, my love, and will take the liberty of expressing myself accordingly. 
Mr Witherden, sir, your handkerchief is hanging out of your pocket - would 
you allow me to - "
As Mr Brass advanced to remedy this accident, the Notary shrunk from him 
with an air of disgust. Brass, who over and above his usual prepossessing 
qualities, had a scratched face, a green shade over one eye, and a hat 
grievously crushed, stopped short, and looked round with a pitiful smile.
"He shuns me," said Sampson, "even when I would, as I may say, heap coals 
of fire upon his head. Well! Ah! But I am a falling house, and the rats (if 
I may be allowed the expression in reference to a gentleman I respect and 
love beyond everything) fly from me! Gentlemen - regarding your 
conversation just now, I happened to see my sister on her way here, and 
wondering where she could be going to, and being - may I venture to say? - 
naturally of a suspicious turn, followed her. Since then, I have been 
listening."
"If you're not mad," interposed Miss Sally, "stop there, and say no more."
"Sarah, my dear," rejoined Brass with undiminished politeness, "I thank you 
kindly, but will still proceed. Mr Witherden, sir, as we have the honour to 
be members of the same profession - to say nothing of that other gentleman 
having been my lodger, and having partaken, as one may say, of the 
hospitality of my roof - I think you might have given me the refusal of 
this offer in the first instance. I do indeed. Now, my dear sir," cried 
Brass, seeing that the Notary was about to interrupt him, "suffer me to 
speak, I beg."
Mr Witherden was silent, and Brass went on.
"If you will do me the favour," he said, holding up the green shade, and 
revealing an eye most horribly discoloured, "to look at this, you will 
naturally inquire, in your own minds, how did I get it. If you look from 
that, to my face, you will wonder what could have been the cause of all 
these scratches. And if from them to my hat, how it came into the state in 
which you see it. Gentlemen," said Brass, striking the hat fiercely with 
his clenched hand, "to all these questions I answer - Quilp!"
The three gentlemen looked at each other, but said nothing.
"I say," pursued Brass, glancing aside at his sister, as though he were 
talking for her information, and speaking with a snarling malignity, in 
violent contrast to his usual smoothness, "that I answer to all these 
questions - Quilp - Quilp, who deludes me into his infernal den, and takes 
a delight in looking on and chuckling while I scorch, and burn, and bruise, 
and maim myself - Quilp, who never once, no never once, in all our 
communications together, has treated me otherwise than as a dog - Quilp, 
whom I have always hated with my whole heart, but never so much as lately. 
He gives me the cold shoulder on this very matter as if he had nothing to 
do with it, instead of being the first to propose it. I can't trust him. In 
one of his howling, raving, blazing humours, I believe he'd let it out, if 
it was murder, and never think of himself so long as he could terrify me. 
Now," said Brass, picking up his hat again, replacing the shade over his 
eye, and actually crouching down, in the excess of his servility, "what 
does all this lead me to? - what should you say it led me to, gentlemen? - 
could you guess at all near the mark?"
"Nobody spoke. Brass stood smirking for a little while, as if he had 
propounded some choice conundrum; and then said:
"To be short with you, then, it leads me to this. If the truth has come 
out, as it plainly has in a manner that there's no standing up against - 
and a very sublime and grand thing is Truth, gentlemen in its way, though 
like other sublime and grand things, such as thunderstorms and that, we're 
not always over and above glad to see it - I had better turn upon this man, 
than let this man turn upon me. It's clear to me that I am done for. 
Therefore, if anybody is to split, I had better be the person, and have the 
advantage of it. Sarah, my dear, comparatively speaking you're safe. I 
relate these circumstances for my own profit."
With that, Mr Brass, in a great hurry, revealed the whole story; bearing as 
heavily as possible on his amiable employer, and making himself out to be 
rather a saintlike and holy character, though subject - he acknowledged - 
to human weaknesses. He concluded thus:
"Now, gentlemen, I am not a man who does things by halves. Being in for a 
penny, I am ready, as the saying is, to be in for a pound. You must do with 
me as you please, and take me where you please. If you wish to have this in 
writing, we'll reduce it into manuscript immediately. You will be tender 
with me, I am sure. I am quite confident you will be tender with me. You 
are men of honour, and have feeling hearts. I yielded from necessity to 
Quilp, for though necessity has no law, she has her lawyers. I yield to you 
from necessity too; from policy besides; and because of feelings that have 
been a pretty long time working within me. Punish Quilp, gentlemen. Weigh 
heavily upon him. Grind him down. Tread him under foot. He has done as much 
by me, for many and many a day."
Having now arrived at the conclusion of his discourse, Sampson checked the 
current of his wrath, kissed his glove again, and smiled as only parasites 
and cowards can.
"And this," said Miss Brass, raising her head, with which she had hitherto 
sat resting on her hands, and surveying him from head to foot with a bitter 
sneer, "this is my brother, is it! This is my brother, that I have worked 
and toiled for, and believed to have had something of the man in him!"
"Sarah, my dear," returned Sampson, rubbing his hands feebly; "you disturb 
our friends. Besides you - you're disappointed, Sarah, and not knowing what 
you say, expose yourself."
"Yes, you pitiful dastard," retorted the lovely damsel, "I understand you. 
You feared that I should be beforehand with you. But do you think that I 
would have been enticed to say a word! I'd have scorned it, if they had 
tried and tempted me for twenty years."
"He, he!" simpered Brass, who, in his deep debasement, really seemed to 
have changed sexes with his sister, and to have made over to her any spark 
of manliness he might have possessed. "You think so, Sarah, you think so 
perhaps; but you would have acted quite different, my good fellow. You will 
not have forgotten that it was a maxim with Foxey - our revered father, 
gentlemen - 'Always suspect everybody.' That's the maxim to go through life 
with! If you were not actually about to purchase your own safety when I 
showed myself, I suspect you'd have done it by this time. And therefore 
I've done it myself, and spared you the trouble as well as the shame. The 
shame, gentlemen," added Brass, allowing himself to be slightly overcome, 
"if there is any, is mine. It's better that a female should be spared it."
With deference to the better opinion of Mr Brass, and more particularly to 
the authority of his Great Ancestor it may be doubted, with humility, 
whether the elevating principle laid down by the latter gentleman, and 
acted upon by his descendant, is always a prudent one, or attended in 
practice with the desired results. This is, beyond question, a bold and 
presumptuous doubt, inasmuch as many distinguished characters, called men 
of the world, long-headed customers, knowing dogs, shrewd fellows, capital 
hands at business, and the like, have made, and do daily make, this axiom 
their polar star and compass. Still, the doubt may be gently insinuated. 
And in illustration it may be observed that if Mr Brass, not being over-
suspicious, had, without prying and listening, left his sister to manage 
the conference on their joint behalf, or, prying and listening, had not 
been in such a mighty hurry to anticipate her (which he would not have 
been, but for his distrust and jealousy), he would probably have found 
himself much better off in the end. Thus, it will always happen that these 
men of the world, who go through it in armour, defend themselves from quite 
as much good as evil; to say nothing of the inconvenience and absurdity of 
mounting guard with a microscope at all times, and of wearing a coat of 
mail on the most innocent occasions.
The three gentlemen spoke together apart, for a few moments. At the end of 
their consultation, which was very brief, the Notary pointed to the writing 
materials on the table, and informed Mr Brass that if he wished to make any 
statement in writing, he had the opportunity of doing so. At the same time 
he felt bound to tell him that they would require his attendance, 
presently, before a justice of the peace, and that in what he did or said, 
he was guided entirely by his own discretion.
"Gentlemen." said Brass, drawing off his gloves, and crawling in spirit 
upon the ground before them, "I will justify the tenderness with which I 
know I shall be treated; and as, without tenderness, I should, now that 
this discovery has been made, stand in the worst position of the three, you 
may depend upon it I will make a clean breast. Mr Witherden, sir, a kind of 
faintness is upon my spirits - if you would do me the favour to ring the 
bell and order up a glass of something warm and spicy, I shall, 
notwithstanding what has passed, have a melancholy pleasure in drinking 
your good health. I had hoped," said Brass, looking round with a mournful 
smile, "to have seen you three gentlemen, one day or another, with your 
legs under the mahogany in my humble parlour in the Marks. But hopes are 
fleeting. Dear me!"
Mr Brass found himself so exceedingly affected, at this point, that he 
could say or do nothing more until some refreshment arrived. Having 
partaken of it, pretty freely for one in his agitated state, he sat down to 
write.
The lovely Sarah, now with her arms folded, and now with her hands clasped 
behind her, paced the room with many strides, while her brother was thus 
employed, and sometimes stopped to pull out her snuff-box and bite the lid. 
She continued to pace up and down until she was quite tired, and then fell 
asleep on a chair near the door.
It has been since supposed, with some reason, that this slumber was a sham 
or feint, as she contrived to slip away unobserved in the dusk of the 
afternoon. Whether this was an intentional and waking departure, or a 
somnambulistic leave-taking and walking in her sleep, may remain a subject 
of contention; but, on one point (and indeed the main one) all parties are 
agreed. In whatever state she walked away, she certainly did not walk back 
again.
Mention having been made of the dusk of the afternoon, it will be inferred 
that Mr Brass's task occupied some time in the completion. It was not 
finished until evening; but, being done at last, that worthy person and the 
three friends adjourned in a hackney-coach to the private office of a 
Justice, who, giving Mr Brass a warm reception and detaining him in a 
secure place that he might insure to himself the pleasure of seeing him on 
the morrow, dismissed the others with the cheering assurance that a warrant 
could not fail to be granted next day for the apprehension of Mr Quilp, and 
that a proper application and statement of all the circumstances to the 
secretary of state (who was fortunately in town), would no doubt procure 
Kit's free pardon and liberation without delay.
And now, indeed, it seemed that Quilp's malignant career was drawing to a 
close, and that retribution, which often travels slowly - especially when 
heaviest - had tracked his footsteps with a sure and certain scent, and was 
gaining on him fast. Unmindful of her stealthy tread, her victim holds his 
course in fancied triumph. Still at his heels she comes, and once afoot, is 
never turned aside!
Their business ended, the three gentleman hastened back to the lodgings of 
Mr Swiveller, whom they found progressing so favourably in his recovery as 
to have been able to sit up for half an hour, and to have conversed with 
cheerfulness. Mrs Garland had gone home some time since, but Mr Abel was 
still sitting with him. After telling him all they had done, the two Mr 
Garlands and the single gentleman, as if by some previous understanding, 
took their leaves for the night, leaving the invalid alone with the Notary 
and the small servant.
"As you are so much better," said Mr Witherden, sitting down at the 
bedside, "I may venture to communicate to you a piece of news which has 
come to me professionally."
The idea of any professional intelligence from a gentleman connected with 
legal matters, appeared to afford Richard anything but a pleasing 
anticipation. Perhaps he connected it in his own mind with one or two 
outstanding accounts, in reference to which he had already received divers 
threatening letters. His countenance fell as he replied,
"Certainly, sir. I hope it's not anything of a very disagreeable nature, 
though?"
"If I thought it so, I should choose some better time for communicating 
it," replied the Notary. "Let me tell you, first, that my friends who have 
been here today know nothing of it, and that their kindness to you has been 
quite spontaneous and with no hope of return. It may do a thoughtless, 
careless man, good, to know that."
Dick thanked him, and said he hoped it would.
"I have been making some inquiries about you," said Mr Witherden, "little 
thinking that I should find you under such circumstances as those which 
have brought us together. You are the nephew of Rebecca Swiveller, 
spinster, deceased, of Cheselbourne, in Dorsetshire."
"Deceased!" cried Dick.
"Deceased. If you had been another sort of nephew, you would have come into 
possession (so says the will, and I see no reason to doubt it) of five-and-
twenty thousand pounds. As it is, you have fallen into an annuity of one 
hundred and fifty pounds a year; but I think I may congratulate you even 
upon that."
"Sir," said Dick, sobbing and laughing together, "you may. For, please God, 
we'll make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet! And she shall walk in 
silk attire, and siller have to spare, or may I never rise from this bed 
again!"


Chapter 67

Unconscious of the proceedings faithfully narrated in the last chapter, and 
little dreaming of the mine which had been sprung beneath him (for, to the 
end that he should have no warning of the business a foot, the profoundest 
secrecy was observed in the whole transaction), Mr Quilp remained shut up 
in his hermitage, undisturbed by any suspicion, and extremely well 
satisfied with the result of his machinations. Being engaged in the 
adjustment of some accounts - an occupation to which the silence and 
solitude of his retreat were very favourable - he had not strayed from his 
den for two whole days. The third day of his devotion to this pursuit found 
him still hard at work, and little disposed to stir abroad.
It was the day next after Mr Brass's confession, and, consequently, that 
which threatened the restriction of Mr Quilp's liberty, and the abrupt 
communication to him of some very unpleasant and unwelcome facts. Having no 
intuitive perception of the cloud which lowered upon his house, the dwarf 
was in his ordinary state of cheerfulness; and when he found he was 
becoming too much engrossed by business with a due regard to his health and 
spirits, he varied its monotonous routine with a little screeching, or 
howling, or some other innocent relaxation of that nature.
He was attended, as usual, by Tom Scott, who sat crouching over the fire 
after the manner of a toad, and, from time to time, when his master's back 
was turned, imitated his grimaces with a fearful exactness. The figurehead 
had not yet disappeared, but remained in its old place. The face, horribly 
seared by the frequent application of the red-hot poker, and further 
ornamented by the insertion, in the tip of the nose, of a tenpenny nail, 
yet smiled blandly in its less lacerated parts; and seemed, like a sturdy 
martyr, to provoke its tormentor to the commission of new outrages and 
insults.
The day, in the highest and brightest quarters of the town, was damp, dark, 
cold, and gloomy. In that low and marshy spot, the fog filled every nook 
and corner with a thick dense cloud. Every object was obscured at one or 
two yards' distance. The warning lights and fires upon the river were 
powerless beneath this pall, and, but for a raw and piercing chilness in 
the air, and now and then the cry of some bewildered boatman as he rested 
on his oars and tried to make out where he was, the river itself might have 
been miles away.
The mist, though sluggish and slow to move, was of a keenly searching kind. 
No muffling up in furs and broadcloth kept it out. It seemed to penetrate 
into the very bones of the shrinking wayfarers, and to rack them with cold 
and pains. Everything was wet and clammy to the touch. The warm blaze alone 
defied it, and leaped and sparkled merrily. It was a day to be at home, 
crowding about the fire, telling stories of travellers who had lost their 
way in such weather on heaths and moors; and to love a warm hearth more 
than ever.
The dwarf's humour, as we know, was to have a fireside to himself; and when 
he was disposed to be convivial, to enjoy himself alone. By no means 
insensible to the comfort of being within doors, he ordered Tom Scott to 
pile the little stove with coals, and, dismissing his work for that day, 
determined to be jovial.
To this end, he lighted up fresh candles and heaped more fuel on the fire; 
and having dined off a beefsteak, which he cooked himself in somewhat of a 
savage and cannibal-like manner, brewed a great bowl of hot punch, lighted 
his pipe, and sat down to spend the evening.
At this moment a low knocking at the cabin-door arrested his attention. 
When it had been twice or thrice repeated, he softly opened the little 
window, and thrusting his head out, demanded who was there.
"Only me, Quilp," replied a woman's voice.
"Only you!" cried the dwarf, stretching his neck to obtain a better view of 
his visitor. "And what brings you here, you jade? How dare you approach the 
ogre's castle, eh?"
"I have come with some news," rejoined his spouse. "Don't be angry with 
me."
"Is it good news, pleasant news, news to make a man skip and snap his 
fingers?" said the dwarf. "Is the dear old lady dead?"
"I don't know what news it is, or whether it's good or bad," rejoined his 
wife.
"Then she's alive," said Quilp, and there's nothing the matter with her. Go 
home again, you bird of evil note, go home!"
"I have brought a letter" - cried the meek little woman.
"Toss it in at the window here, and go your ways," said Quilp, interrupting 
her, "or I'll come out and scratch you."
"No, but please, Quilp - do hear me speak," urged his submissive wife, in 
tears. "Please do!"
"Speak then," growled the dwarf, with a malicious grin. "Be quick and short 
about it. Speak, will you?"
"It was left at our house this afternoon," said Mrs Quilp, trembling, "by a 
boy who said he didn't know from whom it came, but that it was given to him 
to leave, and that he was told to say it must be brought on to you 
directly, for it was of the very greatest consequence. - But please" she 
added, as her husband stretched out his hand for it, "please let me in. You 
don't know how wet and cold I am, or how many times I have lost my way in 
coming here through this thick fog. Let me dry myself at the fire for five 
minutes. I'll go away directly you tell me to, Quilp. Upon my word I will."
Her amiable husband hesitated for a few moments; but, bethinking himself 
that the letter might require some answer, of which she could be the 
bearer, closed the window, opened the door, and bade her enter. Mrs Quilp 
obeyed right willingly, and, kneeling down before the fire to warm her 
hands, delivered into his, a little packet.
"I'm glad you're wet," said Quilp, snatching it, and squinting at her. "I'm 
glad you're cold. I'm glad you've lost your way. I'm glad your eyes are red 
with crying. It does my heart good to see your little nose so pinched and 
frosty."
"Oh Quilp!" sobbed his wife. "How cruel it is of you!"
"Did she think I was dead!" said Quilp, wrinkling his face into a most 
extraordinary series of grimaces. "Did she think she was going to have all 
the money, and to marry somebody she liked? Ha ha ha! Did she?"
These taunts elicited no reply from the poor little woman, who remained on 
her knees, warming her hands and sobbing, to Mr Quilp's great delight. But, 
just as he was contemplating her and chuckling excessively, he happened to 
observe that Tom Scott was delighted too; wherefore, that he might have no 
presumptuous partner in his glee, the dwarf instantly collared him, dragged 
him to the door, and after a short scuffle, kicked him into the yard. In 
return for this mark of attention, Tom immediately walked upon his hands to 
the window, and - if the expression be allowable - looked in with his 
shoes: besides rattling his feet upon the window like a Banshee upside 
down. As a matter of course, Mr Quilp lost no time in resorting to the 
infallible poker, with which, after some dodging and lying in ambush, he 
paid his young friend one or two such unequivocal compliments that he 
vanished precipitately, and left him in quiet possession of the field.
"So! That little job being disposed of," said the dwarf, coolly. "I'll read 
my letter. Humph!" he muttered, looking at the direction. "I ought to know 
this writing. Beautiful Sally!"
Opening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal hand, as follows:
"Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confidence. It has all come 
out. You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to call upon 
you. They have been very quiet as yet, because they mean to surprise you. 
Don't lose time. I didn't. I am not to be found anywhere. If I was you, I 
wouldn't be, either. S. B., late of B. M.
To describe the changes that passed over Quilp's face, as he read this 
letter half-a-dozen times, would require some new language: such, for power 
of expression, as was never written, read, or spoken. For a long time he 
did not utter one word: but, after a considerable interval, during which 
Mrs Quilp was almost paralysed with the alarm his looks engendered, he 
contrived to gasp out,
" - If I had him here. If I only had him here - "
"Oh Quilp!" said his wife, "what's the matter? Who are you angry with?"
"I should drown him," said the dwarf, not heeding her. "Too easy a death, 
too short, too quick - but the river runs close at hand. Oh! If I had him 
here! Just to take him to the brink, coaxingly and pleasantly, - holding 
him by the buttonhole - joking with him, - and, with a sudden push, to send 
him splashing down! Drowning men come to surface three times they say. Ah! 
To see him those three times, and mock him as his face came bobbing up, - 
oh, what a rich treat that would be!"
"Quilp!" stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on the 
shoulder: "what has gone wrong?"
She was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure to 
himself, that she could scarcely make herself intelligible.
"Such a bloodless cur!" said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and 
pressing them tight together. "I thought his cowardice and servility were 
the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass - my dear, 
good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend - if I only 
had you here!"
His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these 
mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak, when he 
hurried to the door and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his late gentle 
admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.
"There!" said the dwarf, pulling him in. "Take her home. Don't come here 
tomorrow, for this place will be shut up. Come back no more till you hear 
from me or see me. Do you mind?"
Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs Quilp to lead the way.
"As for you," said the dwarf, addressing himself to her, "ask no questions 
about me, make no search for me, say nothing concerning me. I shall not be 
dead, mistress, and that'll comfort you. He'll take care of you."
"But Quilp? What is the matter? Where are you going? Do say something 
more."
"I'll say that," said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, "and do that too, 
which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go directly."
"Has anything happened?" cried his wife. "Oh! Do tell me that."
"Yes," snarled the dwarf. "No. What matter which? I have told you what to 
do. Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a hair's breath. 
Will you go!"
"I am going, I'll go directly; but," faltered his wife, "answer me one 
question first. Has this letter any connection with dear little Nell? I 
must ask you that - I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot think what days and 
nights of sorrow I have had through having once deceived that child. I 
don't know what harm I may have brought about, but, great or little, I did 
it for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me when I did. Do answer me this 
question, if you please."
The exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and caught up 
his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott dragged his charge 
away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could. It was well he did so, for 
Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the neighbouring lane, 
and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense mist which obscured 
them from his view, and appeared to thicken every moment.
"It will be a good night for travelling anonymously," he said, as he 
returned slowly: being pretty well breathed with his run. "Stay. We may 
look better here. This is too hospitable and free."
By a great exertion of strength he closed the two old gates, which were 
deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam. That done, he 
shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried them. - Strong and 
fast.
"The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed," said the 
dwarf, when he had taken these precautions. "There's a back lane, too, from 
there. That shall be my way out. A man need know his road well, to find it 
in this lovely place tonight. I need fear no unwelcome visitors while this 
lasts, I think."
Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it had 
grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to his lair; 
and, after musing for some time over the fire, busied himself in 
preparations for a speedy departure.
While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his 
pockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or 
unclenched his teeth: which he had ground together on finishing Miss 
Brass's note.
"Oh Sampson!" he muttered, "good, worthy creature - if I could but hug you! 
If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I could 
squeeze them if I once had you tight - what a meeting there would be 
between us! If we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we'll have a 
greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me. This time, Sampson, this 
moment when all had gone on so well, was so nicely chosen! It was so 
thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good. Oh, if we were face to face in 
this room again, my white-livered man of law, how well contented one of us 
would be!"
There he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank a long 
deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched mouth. 
Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he went on with 
his soliloquy.
"There's Sally," he said, with flashing eyes; "the woman has spirit, 
determination, purpose - was she asleep, or petrified? She could have 
stabbed him - poisoned him safely. She might have seen this, coming on. Why 
does she give me notice when it's too late? When he sat there, - yonder 
there, over there, - with his white face, and red head, and sickly smile, 
why didn't I know what was passing in his heart? It should have stopped 
beating, that night, if I had been in his secret, or there are no drugs to 
lull a man to sleep, and no fire to burn him!"
Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a ferocious 
aspect, he muttered to himself again.
"And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late times, 
springs from that old dotard and his darling child - two wretched feeble 
wanderers! I'll be their evil genius yet. And you, sweet Kit, honest Kit, 
virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I bite. I hate you, 
my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as you are tonight, I'll have 
my turn. - What's that!"
A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking. Then, a 
pause; as if those who knocked, had stopped to listen. Then, the noise 
again, more clamorous and importunate than before.
"So soon!" said the dwarf. "And so eager! I am afraid I shall disappoint 
you. It's well I'm quite prepared. Sally, I thank you!"
As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In his impetuous attempts to 
subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came 
tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning embers it had shot 
forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitchy darkness. The noise at the 
gate still continuing, he felt his way to the door, and stepped into the 
open air.
At that moment the knocking ceased. It was about eight o'clock; but the 
dead of the darkest night would have been as noon-day, in comparison with 
the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded everything 
from view. He darted forward for a few paces, as if into the mouth of some 
dim, yawning cavern; then, thinking he had gone wrong, changed the 
direction of his steps; then, stood still, not knowing where to turn.
"If they would knock again," said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom by 
which he was surrounded, "the sound might guide me! Come! Batter the gate 
once more!"
He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed. Nothing was to 
be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals, the distant barkings of 
dogs. The sound was far away - now in one quarter, now answered in another -
 nor was it any guide, for it often came from shipboard, as he knew.
"If I could find a wall or fence," said the dwarf, stretching out his arms, 
and walking slowly on, "I should know which way to turn. A good, black, 
devil's night this, to have my dear friend here! If I had but that wish, it 
might, for anything I cared, never be day again."
As the words passed his lips, he staggered and fell - and next moment was 
fighting with the cold dark water!
For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the knocking 
at the gate again - could hear a shout that followed it - could recognise 
the voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he could understand that 
they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the point from which they 
started; that they were all but looking on, while he was drowned; that they 
were close at hand, but could not make an effort to save him; that he 
himself had shut and barred them out. He answered the shout - with a yell, 
which seemed to make the hundred fires that danced before his eyes, tremble 
and flicker as if a gust of wind had stirred them. It was of no avail. The 
strong tide filled his throat, and bore him on, upon its rapid current.
Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with his 
hands, and looking out, with wild and glaring eyes that showed him some 
black object he was drifting close upon. The hull of a ship! He could touch 
its smooth and slippery surface with his hand. One loud cry now - but the 
resistless water bore him down before he could give it utterance, and, 
driving him under, it carried away a corpse.
It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against the 
slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging it 
heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to its own 
element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of the ugly 
plaything, it flung it on a swamp - a dismal place where pirates had swung 
in chains, through many a wintry night - and left it there to bleach.
And there it lay, alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water that 
bore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along. The 
place, the deserted carcass had left so recently, a living man, was now a 
blazing ruin. There was something of the glare upon its face. The hair, 
stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of death - such a 
mockery as the dead man himself would have delighted in when alive - about 
its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night wind.


Chapter 68

Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices, 
words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness - what a 
change is this! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening. They are 
awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will die of joy, before he gets among 
them.
They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off 
tomorrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him know 
that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and perhaps he may 
be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come, they bring him to a 
room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost among them is his good 
old master, who comes and takes him by the hand. He hears that his 
innocence is established, and that he is pardoned. He cannot see the 
speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in trying to answer, falls 
down insensible.
They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear this 
like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is because 
he does think of her so much, that the happy news has overpowered him. They 
crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has gone abroad, and that all 
the town and country ring with sympathy for his misfortunes. He has no ears 
for this. His thoughts, as yet, have no wider range than home. Does she 
know it? what did she say? who told her? He can speak of nothing else.
They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while, 
until he is more collected and can listen, and thank them. He is free to 
go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went away. The 
gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him. He feels very 
grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for the kind 
promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and he has much 
ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's arm.
As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who are 
in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his release. The 
newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite hearty - there is 
something of surliness in his compliments. He looks upon Kit as an 
intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that place on false 
pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without being duly qualified. He may 
be a very good sort of young man, he thinks, but he has no business there, 
and the sooner he is gone the better.
The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and stand 
in the open air - in the street he has so often pictured to himself when 
hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all his dreams. It 
seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The night is bad, and yet how 
cheerful and gay in his eyes! One of the gentlemen, in taking leave of him, 
pressed some money into his hand. He has not counted it; but when they have 
gone a few paces beyond the box for poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and 
drops it in.
Mr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and, taking Kit 
inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first, they can only travel at 
a foot pace, and then with torches going on before, because of the heavy 
fog. But, as they get farther from the river, and leave the closer portions 
of the town behind, they are able to dispense with this precaution and to 
proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard galloping would be too slow 
for Kit; but when they are drawing near their journey's end, he begs they 
may go more slowly, and, when the house appears in sight, that they may 
stop - only for a minute or two, to give him time to breathe.
But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to him, 
the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the garden-gate. Next 
minute they are at the door. There is a noise of tongues, and tread of feet 
inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and finds his mother clinging round his 
neck.
And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still holding the 
baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day when they little 
hoped to have such joy as this - there she is, Heaven bless her, crying her 
eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and there is little 
Barbara - poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so much paler, and yet 
so very pretty - trembling like a leaf and supporting herself against the 
wall; and there is Mrs Garland, neater and nicer than ever, fainting away 
stone dead with nobody to help her; and there is Mr Abel, violently blowing 
his nose, and wanting to embrace everybody; and there is the single 
gentleman hovering round them all, and constant to nothing for an instant; 
and there is that good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone by 
himself on the bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an old man, 
roaring fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all 
of them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and 
severally commit all manner of follies.
And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again, and 
can find words and smiles, Barbara - that soft-hearted, gentle, foolish 
little Barbara - is suddenly missed, and found to be in a swoon by herself 
in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls into hysterics, and from 
which hysterics into a swoon again, and is, indeed, so bad, that despite a 
mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water she is hardly a bit better at 
last than she was at first. Then, Kit's mother comes in and says, will he 
come and speak to her: and Kit says "Yes," and goes; and he says in a kind 
voice, "Barbara!" and Barbara's mother tells her that "it's only Kit;" and 
Barbara says (with her eyes closed all the time) "Oh! but is it him 
indeed?" and Barbara's mother says, "To be sure it is, my dear; there's 
nothing the matter now." And in further assurance that he's safe and sound, 
Kit speaks to her again; and then Barbara goes off into another fit of 
laughter, and then into another fit of crying; and then Barbara's mother 
and Kit's mother nod to each other and pretend to scold her - but only to 
bring her to herself the faster, bless you! - and being experienced 
matrons, and acute at perceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery, 
they comfort Kit with the assurance that "she'll do now," and so dismiss 
him to the place from whence he came.
Well! In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters of wine, 
and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and his friends were 
first-rate company; and there is little Jacob, walking, as the popular 
phrase is, into a homemade plum-cake, at a most surprising pace, and 
keeping his eye on the figs and oranges which are to follow, and making the 
best use of his time, you may believe. Kit no sooner comes in, than that 
single gentleman (never was such a busy gentleman) charges all the glasses -
 bumpers - and drinks his health, and tells him he shall never want a 
friend while he lives; and so does Mr Garland, and so does Mrs Garland and 
so does Mr Abel. But even this honour and distinction is not all, for the 
single gentleman forthwith pulls out of his pocket, a massive silver watch -
 going hard, and right to half a second - and upon the back of this watch 
is engraved Kit's name, with flourishes all over; and in short it is Kit's 
watch, bought expressly for him, and presented to him on the spot. You may 
rest assured that Mr and Mrs Garland can't help hinting about their present 
in store, and that Mr Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is 
the happiest of the happy.
There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be conveniently 
introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being an iron-shod 
quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of slipping away and hurrying to 
the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the latch, the pony neighs the 
loudest pony's greeting; before he has crossed the threshold, the pony is 
capering about his loose box (for he brooks not the indignity of a halter), 
mad to give him welcome; and when Kit goes up to caress and pat him, the 
pony rubs his nose against his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than 
ever pony fondled man. It is the crowning circumstance of his earnest, 
heartfelt reception; and Kit fairly puts his arm round Whisker's neck and 
hugs him.
But how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is again! she has 
been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in the stable, of 
all the places in the world? Why, since Kit has been away, the pony would 
take his food from nobody but her, and Barbara, you see, not dreaming 
Christopher was there, and just looking in, to see that everything was 
right, has come upon his unawares. Blushing little Barbara!
It may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough; it may be that there are 
even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him for Barbara at any 
rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a great deal better. She is 
afraid - and here Barbara looks down and blushes more - that he must have 
thought her very foolish. "Not at all," says Kit. Barbara is glad of that, 
and coughs - Hem! - just the slightest cough possible - not more than that.
"What a discreet pony, when he chooses! He is as quiet now, as if he were 
of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. "We have 
hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara," says Kit. Barbara gives him hers. 
Why, she is trembling now! Foolish, fluttering Barbara!
Arm's length? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was a not long 
arm, by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out straight, but bent a 
little. Kit was so near her when they shook hands that he could see a small 
tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash. It was natural that he should look 
at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural that Barbara should raise her 
eyes unconsciously, and find him out. Was it natural that at that instant, 
without any previous impulse or design, Kit should kiss Barbara! He did it, 
whether or no. Barbara said "for shame," but let him do it too - twice. He 
might have done it thrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his 
head, as if he were suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara 
being frightened, ran away - not straight to where her mother and Kit's 
mother were, though, lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and 
should ask her why. Sly little Barbara!
When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and his 
mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby to boot, 
had had their suppers together - which there was no hurrying over, for they 
were going to stop there all night - Mr Garland called Kit to him, and 
taking him into a room where they could be alone, told him that he had 
something yet to say, which would surprise him greatly. Kit looked so 
anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old gentleman hastened 
to add, he would be agreeably surprised; and asked-him if he would be ready 
next morning for a journey.
"For a journey, sir!" cried Kit.
"In company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess it's 
purpose?"
Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.
"Oh yes. I think you do already," said his master. "Try."
Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he plainly 
pronounced the words "Miss Nell," three or four times - shaking his head 
while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of that.
But Mr Garland, instead of saying "Try again," as Kit had made sure he 
would, told him, very seriously, that he had guessed right.
"The place of their retreat is indeed discovered," he said, "at last. And 
that is our journey's end."
Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it been 
found, and how long since, and was she well, and happy?
Happy she is, beyond all doubt," said Mr Garland. "And well, I - I trust 
she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but she was 
better when I heard this morning, and they were full of hope. Sit you down, 
and you shall hear the rest."

Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told. Mr Garland 
then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would remember to 
have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young man, 
hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a long way off, in a 
country-place with an old clergyman who had been his early friend. How, 
although they loved each other as brothers should, they had not met for 
many years, but had communicated by letter from time to time, always 
looking forward to some period when they would take each other by the hand 
once more, and still letting the Present time steal on, as it was the habit 
of men to do, and suffering the Future to melt into the Past. How this 
brother, whose temper was very mild and quiet and retiring - such as Mr 
Abel's - was greatly beloved by the simple people among whom he dwelt, who 
quite revered the Bachelor (for so they called him), and how every one 
experienced his charity and benevolence. How, even those slight 
circumstances had come to his knowledge, very slowly and in course of 
years, for the Bachelor was one of those whose goodness shuns the light, 
and who have more pleasure in discovering and extolling the good deeds of 
others, than in trumpeting their own, be they never so commendable. How, 
for that reason, he seldom told them of his village friends; but how, for 
all that, his mind had become so full of two among them - a child and an 
old man, to whom he had been very kind - that, in a letter received a few 
days before, he had dwelt upon them from first to last, and had told such a 
tale of their wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it without 
being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter, was directly 
led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers for whom so much 
search had been made, and whom Heaven had directed to his brother's care. 
How he had written for such further information as would put the fact 
beyond all doubt; how it had that morning arrived; had confirmed his first 
impression into a certainty; and was the immediate cause of that journey 
being planned, which they were to take tomorrow.
"In the mean time," said the old gentleman rising, and laying his hand on 
Kit's shoulder, "you have great need of rest; for such a day as this, would 
wear out the strongest man. Good night, and Heaven send our journey may 
have a prosperous ending!"


Chapter 69

Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed sometime 
before day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of 
spirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected 
intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the long 
dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that it was 
rest to rise.
But had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end in 
view - had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be performed on 
foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued under every 
privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great distress, 
fatigue, and suffering - had it been the dawn of some painful enterprise, 
and certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and endurance, and to 
need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if happily achieved, in 
good fortune and delight to Nell - Kit's cheerful zeal would have been as 
highly roused: Kit's ardour and impatience would have been, at least, the 
same.
Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of an 
hour the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do something 
towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, it is true, 
could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else and was more 
locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making ready went briskly 
on, and by daybreak every preparation for the journey was completed. Then, 
Kit began to wish they had not been quite so nimble; for the travelling-
carriage which had been hired for the occasion was not to arrive until nine 
o'clock, and there was nothing but breakfast to fill up the intervening 
blank of one hour and a half.
Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara was busy, to be sure, but 
so much the better - Kit could help her, and that would pass away the time 
better than any means that could be devised. Barbara had no objection to 
this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which had come upon him so 
suddenly overnight, began to think that surely Barbara was fond of him, and 
surely he was fond of Barbara.
Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told - as it must and ought to be - 
Barbara seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure in the 
bustle of the occasion; and when Kit, in the openness of his heart, told 
her how glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more downcast still, 
and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before!
"You have not been home so long, Christopher," said Barbara - and it is 
impossible to tell how carelessly she said it - "You have not been home so 
long, that you need be glad to go away again, I should think."
"But for such a purpose," returned Kit. "To bring back Miss Nell! To see 
her again! Only think of that! I am so pleased too, to think that you will 
see her, Barbara, at last."
Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no great gratification on this 
point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of her 
head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his simplicity, why 
she was so cool about it.
"You'll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I 
know," said Kit, rubbing his hands. "I'm sure you'll say that!"
Barbara tossed her head again.
"What's the matter, Barbara?" said Kit.
"Nothing," cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted - not sulkily, or in an ugly 
manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than ever.
There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which Kit 
became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what Barbara meant 
now - he had his lesson by heart all at once - she was the book - there it 
was before him, as plain as print.
"Barbara," said Kit, "you're not cross with me?"
Oh dear no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be 
cross? And what did it matter whether she was cross or no? Who minded her!
"Why, I do," said Kit. "Of course I do."
Barbara didn't see why it was of course, at all.
Kit was sure she must. Would she think again?
Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn't see why it was of 
course. She didn't understand what Christopher meant. And besides she was 
sure they wanted her upstairs by this time, and she must go, indeed -
"No, but Barbara," said Kit, detaining her gently, "let us part friends. I 
was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have been a great deal 
more miserable than I was, if it hadn't been for you."
Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured - and when she 
trembled, like a little shrinking bird!
"I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so strong 
as I could wish," said Kit. "When I want you to be pleased to see Miss 
Nell, it's only because I should like you to be pleased, with what pleases 
me - that's all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die to do her 
service, but you would think so too, if you knew her as I do. I am sure you 
would."
Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent.
"I have been used, you see," said Kit, "to talk and think of her, almost as 
if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her again, I think of 
her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting out 
her hand and saying, 'It's my own old Kit,' or some such words as those - 
like what she used to say. I think of seeing her happy, with friends about 
her, and brought up as she deserves, and as she ought to be. When I think 
of myself, it's as her old servant, and one that loved her dearly, as his 
kind, good, gentle mistress; and who would have gone - yes, and still would 
go - through any harm to serve her. Once, I couldn't help being afraid that 
if she came back with friends about her might she might forget, or be 
ashamed of having known a humble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, 
which would have cut me, Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I came 
to think again, I felt sure that I was doing her wrong in this; and so I 
went on, as I did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used 
to be. Hoping this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I 
would always try to please her, and always be what I should like to seem to 
her if I was still her servant. If I'm the better for that - and I don't 
think I'm the worse - I am grateful to her for it, and love and honour her 
the more. That's the plain honest truth, dear Barbara, upon my word it is!"
Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being full 
of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this might have 
led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the carriage were heard 
at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring at the garden gate, 
caused the bustle in the house, which had lain dormant for a short time, to 
burst again into tenfold life and vigour.
Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr Chuckster in a 
hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single 
gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, he 
subsided into the bosom of the family; and, entertaining himself with a 
strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched with a genteel indifference, 
the process of loading the carriage.
"Snobby's in this, I see, sir?" he said to Mr Abel Garland. "I thought he 
wasn't in the last trip because it was expected that his presence wouldn't 
be acceptable to the ancient buffalo."
"To whom, sir," demanded Mr Abel.
"To the old gentleman," returned Mr Chuckster, slightly abashed.
"Our client prefers to take him now," said Mr Abel, drily. "There is no 
longer any need for that precaution, as my father's relationship to a 
gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence, will be a 
sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand."
"Ah!" thought Mr Chuckster, looking out of window, "anybody but me! Snobby 
before me, of course. He didn't happen to take that particular five-pound 
note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he's always up to something of 
that sort. I always said it, long before this came out. Devilish pretty 
girl that! 'Pon my soul, an amazing little creature!"
Barbara was the subject of Mr Chuckster's commendations; and as she was 
lingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure), that 
gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the proceedings 
which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take up his position at 
a convenient ogling distance. Having had great experience of the sex, and 
being perfectly acquainted with all those little artifices which find the 
readiest road to their hearts, Mr Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted 
one hand on his hip, and with the other adjusted his flowing hair. This is 
a favourite attitude in the polite circles, and, accompanied with a 
graceful whistling, has been known to do immense execution.
Such, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody took 
the smallest notice of this insinuating figure; the wretches being wholly 
engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to each other, 
waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar practices. For, now, the 
single gentleman, and Mr Garland were in the carriage, and the postboy was 
in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and muffled up, was in the rumble 
behind; and Mrs Garland was there, and Mr Abel was there, and Kit's mother 
was there, and little Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother was visible in 
remote perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby; and all were nodding, 
beckoning, curtseying, or crying out "Good-bye!" with all the energy they 
could express. In another minute, the carriage was out of sight; and Mr 
Chuckster remained alone on the spot where it had lately been, with a 
vision of Kit standing up in the rumble waving his hand to Barbara, and of 
Barbara in the full light and lustre of his eyes - his eyes - Chuckster's - 
Chuckster the successful - on whom ladies of quality had looked with favour 
from phaetons in the parks on Sundays - waving hers to Kit!
How Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact stood for some time 
rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the Prince of 
felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul of Snobs, and how he 
clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old villany of the 
shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose; which is to track the rolling 
wheels, and bear the travellers company on their cold, bleak journey.
It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against them 
fiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost from the trees 
and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But, little cared Kit for 
weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind as it came howling 
by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome. As it swept on with its 
cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves, 
and carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though some general sympathy 
had got abroad, and everything was in a hurry, like themselves. The harder 
the gusts, the better progress they appeared to make. It was a good thing 
to go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them one by one; to 
watch them driving up, gathering strength and fury as they came along; to 
bend for a moment, as they whistled past; and then, to look back and see 
them speed away, their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the stout 
trees cowering down before them.
All day long, it blew without cessation. The night was clear and starlight, 
but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing. Sometimes - towards 
the end of a long stage - Kit could not help wishing it were a little 
warmer: but when they stopped to change horses, and he had had a good run, 
and what with that, and the bustle of paying the old postilion, and rousing 
the new one, and running to and for again until the horses were put to, he 
was so warm that the blood tingled and smarted in his fingers' ends - then, 
he felt as if to have it one degree less cold would be to lose half the 
delight and glory of the journey: and up he jumped again, right cheerily, 
singing to the merry music of the wheels as they rolled away, and, leaving 
the townspeople in their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely 
road.
Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to sleep, 
beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious and expectant, it 
naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on the manner in 
which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and fears they 
entertained respecting it. Of the former they had many, of the latter few - 
none perhaps beyond that indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from 
suddenly awakened hope, and protracted expectation.
In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night had worn 
away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more and more silent 
and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said abruptly:
"Are you a good listener?"
"Like most other men, I suppose," returned Mr Garland, smiling. "I can be, 
if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still try to appear so. 
Why do you ask?"
"I have a short narrative on my lips," rejoined his friend, "and will try 
you with it. It is very brief."
Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's sleeve, and 
proceeded thus:
"There was once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There was a 
disparity in their ages - some twelve years. I am not sure but they may 
insensibly have loved each other the better for that reason. Wide as the 
interval between them was, however, they became rivals, too soon. The 
deepest and strongest affection of both their hearts settled upon one 
object.
"The youngest - there were reasons for his being sensitive and watchful - 
was the first to find this out. I will not tell you what misery he 
underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his mental struggle was. 
He had been a sickly child. His brother, patient and considerate in the 
midst of his own high health and strength had many and many a day denied 
himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his couch, telling him old 
stories till his pale face lighted up with an unwonted glow; to carry him 
in his arms to some green spot, where he could tend the poor pensive boy as 
he looked upon the bright summer day, and saw all nature healthy but 
himself; to be, in anyway, his fond and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on 
all he did, to make the poor, weak creature love him, or my tale would have 
no end. But when the time of trial came, the younger brother's heart was 
full of those old days. Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of 
inconsiderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood.
He left his brother to be happy. The truth never passed his lips, and he 
quitted the country, hoping to die abroad.
"The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven before long, and left him 
with an infant daughter.
"If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you will 
remember how the same face and figure - often the fairest and slightest of 
them all - come upon you in different generations; and how you trace the 
same sweet girl through a long line of portraits - never growing old or 
changing - the Good Angel of the race - abiding by them in all reverses - 
redeeming all their sins -
"In this daughter, the mother lived again. You may judge with what devotion 
he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to this girl, her 
breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart to one who could 
not know its worth. Well! Her fond father could not see her pine and droop. 
He might be more deserving than he thought him. He surely might become so, 
with a wife like her. He joined their hands, and they were married.
"Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the cold 
neglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he brought upon 
her; through all the struggles of their daily life, too mean and pitiful to 
tell, but dreadful to endure, she toiled on, in the deep devotion of her 
spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can. Her means and 
substance wasted; her father nearly beggared by her husband's hand, and the 
hourly witness (for they lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage and 
unhappiness, - she never, but for him, bewailed her fate. Patient, and 
upheld by strong affection to the last, she died a widow of some three 
weeks' date, leaving to her father's care two orphans: one a son of ten or 
twelve years old: the other a girl - such another infant child - the same 
in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature - as she had been herself when 
her young mother died.
"The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken 
man; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years than by the heavy 
hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his possessions, he began to trade - in 
pictures first, and then in curious ancient things. He had entertained a 
fondness for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated were 
now to yield him an anxious and precarious subsistence.
"The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like her 
mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her mild 
blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his daughter 
were a little child again. The wayward boy soon spurned the shelter of his 
roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste. The old man and 
the child dwelt alone together.
"It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and 
dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature; when her 
face, constantly before him, reminded him, from hour to hour, of the too 
early change he had seen in such another - of all the sufferings he had 
watched and known, and all his child had undergone; when the young man's 
profligate and hardened course drained him of money as his father's had, 
and even sometimes occasioned them temporary privation and distress, it was 
then that there began to beset him, and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy 
dread of poverty and want. He had no thought for himself in this. His fear 
was for the child. It was a spectre in his house, and haunted him night and 
day.
"The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and had made 
his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary banishment had been 
misconstrued, and he had borne (not without pain) reproach and slight, for 
doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful shadow on his 
path. Apart from this, communication between him and the elder was 
difficult, and uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not so wholly 
broken off but that he learnt - with long blanks and gaps between each 
interval of information - all that I have told you now.
"Then, dreams of their young, happy life - happy to him though laden with 
pain and early care - visited his pillow yet oftener than before; and every 
night, a boy again, he was at his brother's side. With the utmost speed he 
could exert, he settled his affairs; converted into money all the goods he 
had; and, with honourable wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, 
with limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with emotion such as men can 
hardly bear and live, arrived one evening at his brother's door!"
The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped. "The rest," said Mr 
Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, "I know."
"Yes," rejoined his friend, "we may spare ourselves the sequel. You know 
the poor result of all my search. Even when, by dint of such inquiries as 
the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we found they had been 
seen with two poor travelling showmen - and in time, discovered the men 
themselves - and in time, the actual place of their retreat; even then, we 
were too late. Pray God we are not too late again!"
"We cannot be," said Mr Garland. "This time we must succeed."
"I have believed and hoped so," returned the other. "I try to believe and 
hope so still. But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my good friend, 
and the sadness that gathers over me, will yield to neither hope nor 
reason."
"That does not surprise me," said Mr Garland; "it is a natural consequence 
of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time and place; and above 
all, of this wild and dismal night. A dismal night, indeed. Hark how the 
wind is howling!"


Chapter 70

Day broke, and found them still upon their way. Since leaving home, they 
had halted here and there for necessary refreshment, and had frequently 
been delayed, especially in the night time, by waiting for fresh horses. 
They had made no other stoppages, but the weather continued rough, and the 
roads were often steep and heavy. It would be night again before they 
reached their place of destination.
Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on manfully; and having 
enough to do to keep his blood circulating, to picture to himself the happy 
end of this adventurous journey, and to look about him and be amazed at 
everything, had little spare time for thinking of discomforts. Though his 
impatience, and that of his fellow-travellers, rapidly increased as the day 
waned, the hours did not stand still. The short daylight of winter soon 
faded away, and it was dark again when they had yet many miles to travel.
As it grew dusk, the wind fell; its distant moanings were more low and 
mournful; and as it came creeping up the road, and rattling covertly among 
the dry brambles on either hand, it seemed like some great phantom for whom 
the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it stalked along. By degrees 
it lulled and died away; and then it came on to snow.
The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches deep, 
and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling wheels were noiseless; 
and the sharp ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs, became a dull, muffled 
tramp. The life of their progress seemed to be slowly hushed, and something 
deathlike to usurp its place.
Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze upon their lashes and 
obscured his sight, Kit often tried to catch the earliest glimpse of 
twinkling lights denoting their approach to some not distant town. He could 
descry objects enough at such times, but none correctly. Now a tall church-
spire appeared in view, which presently became a tree, a barn, a shadow on 
the ground, thrown on it by their own bright lamps. Now there were 
horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before, or meeting them in 
narrow ways; which, when they were close upon them, turned to shadows too. 
A wall, a ruin, a sturdy gable-end, would rise up in the road; and when 
they were plunging headlong at it, would be the road itself. Strange 
turnings too, bridges, and sheets of water, appeared to start up here and 
there, making the way doubtful and uncertain; and yet they were on the same 
bare road, and these things, like the others, as they were passed, turned 
into dim illusions.
He descended slowly from his seat - for his limbs were numbed - when they 
arrived at a lone posting-house, and inquired how far they had to go to 
reach their journey's end. It was a late hour in such by-places, and the 
people were abed; but a voice answered from an upper window, Ten miles. The 
ten minutes that ensued appeared an hour, but at the end of that time, a 
shivering figure led out the horses they required, and after another brief 
delay they were again in motion.
It was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or four miles, of 
holes and cart-ruts, which, being covered by the snow, were so many 
pitfalls to the trembling horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace. As 
it was next to impossible for men so much agitated as they were by this 
time, to sit still and move so slowly, all three got out and plodded on 
behind the carriage. The distance seemed interminable, and the walk was 
most laborious. As each was thinking within himself that the driver must 
have lost his way, a church bell, close at hand, struck the hour of 
midnight, and the carriage stopped. It had moved softly enough, but when it 
ceased to crunch the snow, the silence was as startling as if some great 
noise had been replaced by perfect stillness.
"This is the place, gentlemen," said the driver, dismounting from his 
horse, and knocking at the door of a little inn. "Halloa! Past twelve 
o'clock is the dead of night here."
The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse the drowsy inmates. 
All continued dark and silent as before. They fell back a little, and 
looked up at the windows, which were mere black patches in the whitened 
house front. No light appeared. The house might have been deserted, or the 
sleepers dead, for any air of life it had about it.
They spoke together, with a strange inconsistency, in whispers; unwilling 
to disturb again the dreary echoes they had just now raised.
"Let us go on," said the younger brother, "and leave this good fellow to 
wake them, if he can. I cannot rest until I know that we are not too late. 
Let us go on, in the name of Heaven!"
They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accommodation as the house 
afforded, and to renew his knocking. Kit accompanied them with a little 
bundle, which he had hung in the carriage when they left home, and had not 
forgotten since - the bird in his old cage - just as she had left him. She 
would be glad to see her bird, he knew.
The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded, they lost sight of the 
church whose clock they had heard, and of the small village clustering 
round it. The knocking, which was now renewed, and which in that stillness 
they could plainly hear, troubled them. They wished the man would forbear, 
or that they had told him not to break the silence until they returned.
The old church-tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure cold white, again rose 
up before them, and a few moments brought them close beside it. A venerable 
building - grey, even in the midst of the hoary landscape. An ancient 
sundial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by the snowdrift, and scarcely 
to be known for what it was. Time itself seemed to have grown dull and old, 
as if no day were ever to displace the melancholy night.
A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more than one path across 
the churchyard to which it led, and, uncertain which to take, they came to 
a stand again.
The village street - if street that could be called which was an irregular 
cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some with their fronts, 
some with their backs, and some with gable-ends towards the road, with here 
and there a signpost, or a shed encroaching on the path - was close at 
hand. There was a faint light in a chamber window not far off, and Kit ran 
towards that house to ask their way.
His first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently appeared 
at the casement, wrapping some garment round his throat as a protection 
from the cold, and demanded who was abroad at that unseasonable hour, 
wanting him.
" 'Tis hard weather this," he grumbled, "and not a night to call me up in. 
My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from bed. The business 
on which folks want me, will keep cold, especially at this season. What do 
you want?"
"I would not have roused you, if I had known you were old and ill," said 
Kit.
"Old!" repeated the other peevishly. "How do you know I am old? Not so old 
as you think, friend, perhaps. As to being ill, you will find many young 
people in worse case than I am. More's the pity that it should be so -not 
that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I mean, but that they 
should be weak and tender. I ask your pardon though," said the old man, "if 
I spoke rather rough at first. My eyes are not good at night - that's 
neither age nor illness; they never were - and I didn't see you were a 
stranger."
"I am sorry to call you from your bed," said Kit, "but those gentlemen you 
may see by the churchyard gate, are strangers too, who have just arrived 
from a long journey, and seek the parsonage-house. You can direct us?"
"I should be able to," answered the old man, in a trembling voice, "for 
come next summer I have been sexton here good fifty years. The right-hand 
path, friend, is the road. - There is no ill news for our good gentleman, I 
hope?"
Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the negative; he was 
turning back, when his attention was caught by the voice of a child. 
Looking up, he saw a very little creature at a neighbouring window.
"What is that?" cried the child, earnestly. "Has my dream come true? Pray 
speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up."
"Poor boy!" said the sexton, before Kit could answer, "how goes it, 
darling?"
"Has my dream come true?" exclaimed the child again, in a voice so fervent 
that it might have thrilled to the heart of any listener. "But no, that can 
never be. How could it be - Oh! how could it!"
"I guess his meaning," said the sexton. "To thy bed again, dear boy!"
"Ay!" cried the child, in a burst of despair, "I knew it could never be, I 
felt too sure of that, before I asked. But, all tonight and last night too, 
it was the same. I never fall asleep, but that cruel dream comes back."
"Try to sleep again," said the old man, soothingly. "It will go, in time."
"No no, I would rather that it staid - cruel as it is, I would rather that 
it staid," rejoined the child. "I am not afraid to have it in my sleep, but 
I am so sad - so very, very sad."
The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and Kit was 
again alone.
He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the child's 
manner than by anything he had said, as his meaning was hidden from him. 
They took the path indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived before the 
parsonage wall. Turning round to look about them when they had got thus 
far, they saw, among some ruined buildings at a distance, one single 
solitary light.
It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being surrounded 
by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like a star. Bright and 
glimmering as the stars above their heads, lonely and motionless as they, 
it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal lamps of Heaven, and to 
burn in fellowship with them.
"What light is that!" exclaimed the younger brother.
"It is surely," said Mr Garland, "in the ruin where they live. I see no 
other ruin hereabouts."
"They cannot," returned the brother hastily, "be waking at this late hour -
"
Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and waited at the 
gate, they would let him make his way to where this light was shining and 
try to ascertain if any people were about. Obtaining the permission he 
desired, he darted off with breathless eagerness, and, still carrying the 
birdcage in his hand, made straight towards the spot.
It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another time he 
might have gone more slowly, or round by the path. Unmindful of all 
obstacles, however, he pressed forward without slackening his speed, and 
soon arrived within a few yards of the window.
He approached as softly as he could, and advancing so near the wall as to 
brush the whitened ivy with his dress, listened. There was no sound inside. 
The church itself was not more quiet. Touching the glass with his cheek, he 
listened again. No. And yet there was such a silence all around, that he 
felt sure he could have heard even the breathing of a sleeper, if there had 
been one there.
A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of night, with 
no one near it.
A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he could 
not see into the room. But there was no shadow thrown upon it from within. 
To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in from above, would 
have been attended with some danger - certainly with some noise, and the 
chance of terrifying the child, if that really were her habitation. Again 
and again he listened; again and again the same wearisome blank.
Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and skirting the ruin for a 
few paces, he came at length to a door. He knocked. No answer. But there 
was a curious noise inside. It was difficult to determine what it was. It 
bore a resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain, but it was not that, 
being far too regular and constant. Now it seemed a kind of song, now a 
wail - seemed, that is, to his changing fancy, for the sound itself was 
never changed or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever heard, and in 
its tone there was something fearful, chilling, and unearthly.
The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost and 
snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound went on 
without any interruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and put 
his knee against the door. It was not secured on the inside, but yielded to 
the pressure, and turned upon its hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire 
upon the old walls, and entered.


Chapter 71

The dull, red glow of a wood fire - for no lamp or candle burnt within the 
room - showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back towards him, 
bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of one who sought the 
heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture and the cowering form 
were there, but no hands were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no 
shrug or shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With 
limbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and 
fingers tightly clenched, it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a 
moment's pause, accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had 
heard.
The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that 
made him start. The figure neither spoke nor turned to look, nor gave in 
any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was 
that of an old man, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering embers 
upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-
worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in 
fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin!
Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were he 
scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on - still the same 
rocking in the chair - the same stricken figure was there, unchanged and 
heedless of his presence.
He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form - distinctly 
seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up - arrested it. 
He returned to where he had stood before - advanced a pace - another -
another still. Another, and he saw the face. Yes! Changed as it was, he 
knew it well. "Master!" he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his 
hand. "Dear master. Speak to me!"
The old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered, in a hollow voice,
"This is another! - How many of these spirits there have been tonight!"
"No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now, I am 
sure? Miss Nell - where is she - where is she?"
"They all say that!" cried the old man. "They all ask the same question. A 
spirit!"
"Where is she?" demanded Kit. "Oh tell me but that - but that, dear 
master!"
"She is asleep - yonder - in there."
"Thank God!"
"Ay! Thank God!" returned the old man. "I have prayed to Him, many, and 
many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark! 
Did she call?"
"I heard no voice."
"You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear that?"
He started up, and listened again.
"Nor that?" he cried, with a triumphant smile. "Can anybody know that voice 
so well as I! Hush! hush!"
Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber. After a 
short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in a softened 
soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.
"She is still asleep," he whispered. "You were right. She did not call - 
unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her sleep before 
now, Sir; as I sat by, watching, I have seen her lips move, and have known, 
though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the light 
might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so I brought it here."
He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put the 
lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary 
recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face. Then, as if 
forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned away and put it down 
again.
"She is sleeping soundly," he said; "but no wonder. Angel hands have strewn 
the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be lighter yet; 
and the very birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She used to feed 
them, Sir. Though never so cold and hungry, the timid things would fly from 
us. They never flew from her!"
Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened for a 
long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out some 
clothes as fondly as if they had been living things, and began to smooth 
and brush them with his hand. "Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," 
he murmured, "when there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for 
thee to pluck them! Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little 
friends come creeping to the door, crying 'where is Nell - sweet Nell?' - 
and sob, and weep, because they do not see thee. She was always gentle with 
children. The wildest would do her bidding - she had a tender way with 
them, indeed she had!"
Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.
"Her little homely dress, - her favourite!" cried the old man, pressing it 
to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand. "She will miss it 
when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport, but she shall have it - she 
shall have it. I would not vex my darling, for the wide world's riches. See 
here - these shoes - how worn they are - she kept them to remind her of our 
last long journey. You see where the little feet were bare upon the ground. 
They told me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and bruised them. She 
never told me that. No, no, God bless her! and, I have remembered since, 
she walked behind me, Sir, that I might not see how lame she was - but yet 
she had my hand in hers, and seemed to lead me still."
He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back again, went 
on communing with himself - looking wistfully from time to time towards the 
chamber he had lately visited.
"She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must have 
patience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she used to do, 
and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often tried to track the 
way she had gone, but her small fairy footstep left no print upon the dewy 
ground, to guide me. Who is that? Shut the door. Quick! - Have we not 
enough to do to drive away that marble cold, and keep her warm!"
The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his friend, 
accompanied by two other persons. These were the schoolmaster, and the 
bachelor. The former held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone 
to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit 
came up and found the old man alone.
He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside the 
angry manner - if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can be applied -
in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed his former seat, and 
subsided, by little and little, into the old action, and the old, dull, 
wandering sound.
Of the strangers he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but appeared 
quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger brother stood apart. 
The bachelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close beside 
him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak.
"Another night, and not in bed!" he said softly; "I hoped you would be more 
mindful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some rest?"
"Sleep has left me," returned the old man. "It is all with her!"
"It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus," said the 
bachelor. "You would not give her pain?"
"I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has slept so 
very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and happy sleep - eh?"
"Indeed it is," returned the bachelor. "Indeed, indeed, it is!"
"That's well! - and the waking," - faltered the old man.
"Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive."
They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber where 
the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he spoke again within its 
silent walls. They looked into the faces of each other, and no man's cheek 
was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she was still asleep, 
but that he thought she had moved. It was her hand, he said - a little - a 
very, very little - but he was pretty sure she had moved it - perhaps in 
seeking his. He had known her do that before now, though in the deepest 
sleep the while. And when he had said this, he dropped into his chair 
again, and clasping his hands above his head, uttered a cry never to be 
forgotten.
The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come upon the 
other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers, which he 
had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in their own.
"He will hear me," said the schoolmaster, "I am sure. He will hear either 
me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times."
"I will hear any voice she liked to hear," cried the old man. "I love all 
she loved!"
"I know you do," returned the schoolmaster. "I am certain of it. Think of 
her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared together; of 
all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have jointly known."
"I do. I do. I think of nothing else."
"I would have you think of nothing else tonight - of nothing but those 
things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old 
affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to you herself, and 
in her name it is that I speak now."
"You do well to speak softly," said the old man. 'We will not wake her. I 
should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile. There is a 
smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and changeless. I would have 
it come and go. That shall be in Heaven's good time. We will not wake her."
"Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you were 
journeying together, far away - as she was at home, in the old house from 
which you fled together - as she was in the old cheerful time," said the 
schoolmaster.
"She was always cheerful - very cheerful," cried the old man, looking 
steadfastly at him. "There was ever something mild and quiet about her, I 
remember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature."
"We have heard you say," pursued the schoolmaster, "that in this, and in 
all goodness, she was like her mother. You can think of, and remember her?"
He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.
"Or even one before her," said the bachelor. "It is many years ago, and 
affliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her whose 
death contributed to make this child so dear to you, even before you knew 
her worth or could read her heart? Say, that you could carry back your 
thoughts to very distant days - to the time of your early life - when, 
unlike this fair flower, you did not pass your youth alone. Say, that you 
could remember, long ago, another child who loved you dearly, you being but 
a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother, long forgotten, long unseen, 
long separated from you, who now, at last, in your utmost need came back to 
comfort and console you" -
"To be to you what you were once to him," cried the younger, falling on his 
knee before him; "to repay your old affection, brother dear, by constant 
care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he never ceased 
to be when oceans rolled between us; to call to witness his unchanging 
truth and mindfulness of bygone days, whole years of desolation. Give me 
but one word of recognition, brother - and never - no never, in the 
brightest moment of our youngest days, when, poor silly boys, we thought to 
pass our lives together - have we been half as dear and precious to each 
other as we shall be from this time hence!"
The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound came 
from them in reply.
"If we were knit together then," pursued the younger brother, "what will be 
the bond between us now! Our love and fellowship began in childhood, when 
life was all before us, and will be resumed when we have proved it, and are 
but children at the last. As many restless spirits, who have hunted 
fortune, fame, or pleasure through the world, retire in their decline to 
where they first drew breath, vainly seeking to be children once again 
before they die, so we, less fortunate than they in early life, but happier 
in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again among our boyish haunts; 
and going home with no hope realised, that had its growth in manhood - 
carrying back nothing that we brought away, but our old yearnings to each 
other - saving no fragment from the wreck of life, but that which first 
endeared it - may be indeed but children as at first. And even," he added 
in an altered voice, "even if what I dread to name has come to pass - even 
if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and spare us!) - still, 
dear brother, we are not apart, and have that comfort in our great 
affliction."
By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner chamber, 
while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with 
trembling lips,
"You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You never will do that - 
never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her - I never had 
- I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us 
now."
Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he 
stole into the room. They who were left behind, drew close together, and 
after a few whispered words - not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered - 
followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made no noise; but 
there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.
For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn 
stillness was no marvel now.
She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, 
so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and 
waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.
Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green 
leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. "When I die, put 
near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it 
always." Those were her words.
She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird - 
a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed - was 
stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was 
mute and motionless for ever.
Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues All 
gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were 
born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.
And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old 
fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream 
through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on 
the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the 
still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely look. 
So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death.
The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight 
folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to 
him with her last smile - the hand that had led him on their all their 
wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his 
breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it he 
looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help 
her.
She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had 
seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast - the garden 
she had tended - the eyes she had gladdened - the noiseless haunts of many 
a thoughtful hour - the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday - 
could know her no more.
"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the 
cheek, and gave his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that Heaven's 
justice ends. Think what it is, compared with the World to which her young 
spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish 
expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which 
of us would utter it!"


Chapter 72

When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their 
grief, they heard how her life had closed.
She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing 
that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read 
and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night, but as the hours 
crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered 
in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they 
were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped and used them 
kindly, for she often said "God bless you!" with great fervour. Waking, she 
never wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music which 
she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been.
Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they 
would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a 
lovely smile upon her face - such, they said, as they had never seen, and 
never could forget - and clung with both her arms about his neck. They did 
not know that she was dead, at first.
She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like dear 
friends to her. She wished they could be told how much she thought about 
them, and how she had watched them as they walked together, by the river 
side at night. She would like to see poor Kit, she had often said of late. 
She wished there was somebody to take her love to Kit. And even then, she 
never thought or spoke about him, but with something of her old, clear, 
merry laugh.
For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mind, 
and manner quite unaltered - save that she every day became more earnest 
and more grateful to them - faded like the light upon a summer's evening.
The child who had been her little friend came there a]most as soon as it 
was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to lay upon 
her breast. It was he who had come to the window overnight and spoken to 
the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small feet, where he had 
been lingering near the room in which she lay before he went to bed. He had 
a fancy, it seemed, that they had left her there alone; and could not bear 
the thought.
He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to 
them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying that he 
would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he 
had sat alone by his young brother all day long, when he was dead, and had 
felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish; and indeed he kept 
his word, and was in his childish way a lesson to them all.
Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once - except to her - or 
stirred from the bedside. But when he saw her little favourite, he was 
moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him 
come nearer. Then pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first 
time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done 
him good, left them alone together.
Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take 
some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And when the day 
came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from earthly eyes for 
ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him.
They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was Sunday - a 
bright, clear, wintry afternoon - and as they traversed the village street, 
those who were walking in their path drew back to make way for them, and 
gave them a softened greeting. Some shook the old man kindly by the hand, 
some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and many cried, "God help him!" 
as he passed along.
"Neighbour!" said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young 
guide's mother dwelt, "how is it that the folks are nearly all in black 
today? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a piece of crape on almost every 
one."
She could not tell, the woman said.
"Why, you yourself - you wear the colour too!" he cried. "Windows are 
closed that never used to be by day. What does this mean?"
Again the woman said she could not tell.
We must go back," said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what this is."
"No, no," cried the child, detaining him. "Remember what you promised. Our 
way is to the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and where you 
found us more than once making those garlands for her garden. Do not turn 
back!"
"Where is she now?" said the old man. "Tell me that."
"Do you not know?" returned the child. "Did we not leave her, but just 
now?"
"True. True. It was her we left - was it!"
He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if 
impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the sexton's 
house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the fire. Both rose 
up, on seeing who it was.
The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the action of an 
instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough.
"Do you - do you bury any one today?" he said, eagerly.
"No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?" returned the sexton.
"Ay, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed?"
"It is a holiday with us, good Sir," returned the sexton mildly. 'We have 
no work to do today."
"Why then, I'll go where you will," said the old man, turning to the child. 
"You're sure of what you tell me? You would not deceive me? I am changed 
even in the little time since you last saw me."
"Go thy ways with him, Sir," cried the sexton, "and Heaven be with ye 
both!"
"I am quite ready," said the old man, meekly. "Come, boy, come - " and so 
submitted to be led away.
And now the bell - the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and 
listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice - rang its 
remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, 
and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured forth - 
on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of 
promise, in the mere dawn of life - to gather round her tomb. Old men were 
there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing - grandmothers, who might 
have died ten years ago, and still been old - the deaf, the blind, the 
lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, to see the 
closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in, to that 
which still could crawl and creep above it!
Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen snow 
that covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch, 
where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful 
spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.
They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat 
musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on 
it through the coloured window - a window, where the boughs of trees were 
ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. 
With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, 
some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a young hand dropped in 
its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some - and they were not a 
few - knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow.
The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round 
to look into the grave before the pavement-stone should be replaced. One 
called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her 
book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon the 
sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she, 
should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone at 
night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb 
the tower stair, with no more light than that of the moon rays stealing 
through the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the 
oldest there, that she had seen and talked with angels; and when they 
called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death, some 
thought it might be so, indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, 
and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in 
whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all 
but the sexton and the mourning friends.
They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of 
evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the 
place - when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on 
pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to them) upon her quiet 
grave - in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem 
with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in 
the dust before them - then, with tranquil and submissive hearts they 
turned away, and left the child with God.
Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, but 
let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty, 
universal Truth. When Death strikes down the innocent and young, for every 
fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues 
rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless 
it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some 
good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there 
spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a 
way of light to Heaven.
It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own 
dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered drowsy by 
his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the 
fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they were careful not to rouse 
him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length awoke the moon 
was shining.
The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at the 
door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his little guide. 
He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon 
his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps towards the house.
He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding what he had left there, 
he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were assembled. 
From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her name. 
They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly searched it, brought 
him home.
With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they 
prevailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should tell him. 
Then, endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare his mind for what 
must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy lot to which 
she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. The moment it had 
passed their lips, he fell down among them like a murdered man.
For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving; but grief is strong, 
and he recovered.
If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death - the 
weary void - the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest 
minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn - the 
connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of 
recollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every room a 
grave - if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by their own 
experience, they can never faintly guess how, for many days, the old man 
pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there as seeking 
something, and had no comfort.
Whatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up in her. 
He never understood, or seemed to care to understand, about his brother. To 
every endearment and attention he continued listless. If they spoke to him 
on this, or any other theme - save one - he would hear them patiently for 
awhile, then turn away, and go on seeking as before.
On that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was impossible 
to touch. Dead! He could not hear or bear the word. The slightest hint of 
it would throw him into a paroxysm, like that he had had when it was first 
spoken. In what hope he lived, no man could tell; but that he had some hope 
of finding her again - some faint and shadowy hope, deferred from day to 
day, and making him from day to day more sick and sore at heart - was plain 
to all.
They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow; of 
trying whether change of place would rouse or cheer him. His brother sought 
the advice of those who were accounted skilful in such matters, and they 
came and saw him. Some of the number staid upon the spot, conversed with 
him when he would converse, and watched him as he wandered up and down, 
alone and silent. Move him where they might, they said, he would ever seek 
to get back there. His mind would run upon that spot. If they confined him 
closely, and kept a strict guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner, 
but if he could by any means escape, he would surely wander back to that 
place, or die upon the road.
The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence 
with him. At times he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or would 
even take such notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or would stop 
to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other times, he would entreat 
him - not unkindly - to be gone, and would not brook him near. But whether 
alone; or with this pliant friend; or with those who would have given him, 
at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or some peace of mind, if 
happily the means could have been devised; he was at all times the same - 
with no love or care for anything in life - a broken-hearted man.
At length they found one day that he had risen early, and, with his 
knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little 
basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As they 
were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened schoolboy came 
who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the church -upon her 
grave, he said. They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied 
him in the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him 
then, but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he 
rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, "She will 
come tomorrow!"
Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still at 
night he laid him down to rest, and muttered, "She will come tomorrow!"
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave for 
her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of resting-
places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields - and woods, and 
paths not often trodden - how many tones of that one well remembered voice -
 how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering dress, the hair that waved 
so gaily in the wind - how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped 
was yet to be - rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church! He 
never told them what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with them 
at night, pondering with a secret satisfaction, they could see, upon the 
flight that he and she would take before night came again; and still they 
would hear him whisper in his prayers, "Oh! Let her come tomorrow!"
The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the usual 
hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the stone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in the 
church where they had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in hand, 
the child and the old man slept together.


Chapter 73

The magic reel, which, rolling on before, has led the chronicler thus far, 
now slackens in its pace, and stops. It lies before the goal; the pursuit 
is at an end.
It remains but to dismiss the leaders of the little crowd who have borne us 
company upon the road, and so to close the journey.
Foremost among them, smooth Sampson Brass and Sally, arm in arm, claim our 
polite attention.
Mr Sampson, then, being detained, as already has been shown, by the Justice 
upon whom he called, and being so strongly pressed to protract his stay 
that he could by no means refuse, remained under his protection for a 
considerable time, during which the great attention of his entertainer kept 
him so extremely close, that he was quite lost to society, and never even 
went abroad for exercise saving into a small paved yard. So well, indeed, 
was his modest and retiring temper understood by those with whom he had to 
deal, and so jealous were they of his absence, that they required a kind of 
friendly bond to be entered into by two substantial housekeepers, in the 
sum of fifteen hundred pounds apiece, before they would suffer him to quit 
their hospitable roof - doubting it appeared, that he would return, if once 
let loose, on any other terms. Mr Brass, struck with the humour of this 
jest, and carrying out its spirit to the utmost, sought from his wide 
connection a pair of friends whose joint possessions fell some halfpence 
short of fifteen pence, and proffered them as bail - for that was the merry 
word agreed upon on both sides. These gentlemen being rejected after twenty-
four hours' pleasantry, Mr Brass consented to remain, and did remain, until 
a club of choice spirits called a Grand Jury (who were in the joke) 
summoned him to a trial before twelve other wags for perjury and fraud, who 
in their turn found him guilty with a most facetious joy, - nay, the very 
populace entered into the whim, and when Mr Brass was moving in a hackney-
coach towards the building where these wags assembled, saluted him with 
rotten eggs and carcases of kittens, and feigned to wish to tear him into 
shreds, which greatly increased the comicality of the thing, and made him 
relish it the more, no doubt.
To work this sportive vein still further, Mr Brass, by his counsel, moved 
in arrest of judgment that he had been led to criminate himself, by 
assurances of safety and promises of pardon, and claimed the leniency which 
the law extends to such confiding natures as are thus deluded. After solemn 
argument, this point (with others of a technical nature, whose humorous 
extravagance it would be difficult to exaggerate) was referred to the 
judges for their decision, Sampson being meantime removed to his former 
quarters. Finally, some of the points were given in Sampson's favour, and 
some against him; and the upshot was that, instead of being desired to 
travel for a time in foreign parts, he was permitted to grace the mother 
country under certain insignificant restrictions.
These were that he should, for a term of years, reside in a spacious 
mansion where several other gentlemen were lodged and boarded at the public 
charge, who went clad in a sober uniform of grey turned up with yellow, had 
their hair cut extremely short, and chiefly lived or. gruel and light soup. 
It was also required of him that he should partake their exercise of 
constantly ascending an endless flight of stairs; and lest his legs, unused 
to such exertion, should be weakened by it, that he should wear upon one 
ankle an amulet or charm of iron. These conditions being arranged, he was 
removed one evening to his new abode, and enjoyed, in common with nine 
other gentlemen and two ladies, the privilege of being taken to his place 
of retirement in one of Royalty's own carriages.
Over and above these trifling penalties, his name was erased and blotted 
out from the roll of attorneys; which erasure has been always held in these 
latter times to be a great degradation and reproach, and to imply the 
commission of some amazing villany - as indeed would seem to be the case, 
when so many worthless names remain among its better records, unmolested.
Of Sally Brass, conflicting rumours went abroad. Some said with confidence 
that she had gone down to the docks in male attire, and had become a female 
sailor; others darkly whispered that she had enlisted as a private in the 
second regiment of Foot Guards, and had been seen in uniform and on duty, 
to wit, leaning on her musket and looking out of a sentry-box in St. 
James's Park, one evening. There were many such whispers as these in 
circulation; but the truth appears to be that, after a lapse of some five 
years (during which there is no direct evidence of her having been seen at 
all), two wretched people were more than once observed to crawl at dusk 
from the inmost recesses of St. Giles's, and to take their way along the 
streets, with shuffling steps and cowering shivering forms, looking into 
the roads and kennels as they went in search of refuse food or disregarded 
offal. These forms were never beheld but in those nights of cold and gloom, 
when the terrible spectres, who lie at all other times in the obscene 
hiding-places of London, in archways, dark vaults and cellars, venture to 
creep into the streets; the embodied spirits of Disease, and Vice, and 
Famine. It was whispered by those who should have known, that these were 
Sampson and his sister Sally; and to this day, it is said, they sometimes 
pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome guise, close at the elbow of the 
shrinking passenger.
The body of Quilp being found - though not until some days had elapsed - an 
inquest was held on it near the spot where it had been washed ashore. The 
general supposition was that he had committed suicide, and, this appearing 
to be favoured by all the circumstances of his death, the verdict was to 
that effect. He was left to be buried with a stake through his heart in the 
centre of four lonely roads.
It was rumoured afterwards that this horrible and barbarous ceremony had 
been dispensed with, and that the remains had been secretly given up to Tom 
Scott. But even here, opinion was divided; for some said Tom had dug them 
up at midnight, and carried them to a place indicated to him by the widow. 
It is probable that both these stories may have had their origin in the 
simple fact of Tom's shedding tears upon the inquest - which he certainly 
did, extraordinary as it may appear. He manifested, besides, a strong 
desire to assault the jury; and being restrained and conducted out of 
court, darkened its only window by standing on his head upon the sill, 
until he was dexterously tilted upon his feet again by a cautious beadle.
Being cast upon the world by his master's death, he determined to go 
through it upon his head and hands, and accordingly began to tumble for his 
bread. Finding, however, his English birth an insurmountable obstacle to 
his advancement in this pursuit (notwithstanding that his art was in high 
repute and favour), he assumed the name of an Italian image lad, with whom 
he had become acquainted; and afterwards tumbled with extraordinary 
success, and to overflowing audiences.
Little Mrs Quilp never quite forgave herself the one deceit that lay so 
heavy on her conscience, and never spoke or thought of it but with bitter 
tears. Her husband had no relations, and she was rich. He had made no will, 
or she would probably have been poor. Having married the first time at her 
mother's instigation, she consulted in her second choice nobody but 
herself. It fell upon a smart young fellow enough; and as he made it a 
preliminary condition that Mrs Jiniwin should be thenceforth an 
outpensioner, they lived together after marriage with no more than the 
average amount of quarrelling, and led a merry life upon the dead dwarf's 
money.
Mr and Mrs Garland, and Mr Abel, went on as usual (except that there was a 
change in their household, as will be seen presently), and in due time the 
latter went into partnership with his friend the notary, on which occasion 
there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent of dissipation. Unto this 
ball there happened to be invited the most bashful young lady that was ever 
seen, with whom Mr Abel happened to fall in love. How it happened, or how 
they found it out, or which of them first communicated the discovery to the 
other, nobody knows. But certain it is that in course of time they were 
married; and equally certain it is that they were the happiest of the 
happy; and no less certain it is that they deserved to be so. And it is 
pleasant to write down that they reared a family; because any propagation 
of goodness and benevolence is no small addition to the aristocracy of 
nature, and no small subject of rejoicing for mankind at large.
The pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to the 
last moment of his life; which was an unusually long one, and caused him to 
be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies. He often went to 
and fro with the little phaeton between Mr Garland's and his son's, and, as 
the old people and the young were frequently together, had a stable of his 
own at the new establishment, into which he would walk of himself with 
surprising dignity. He condescended to play with the children, as they grew 
old enough to cultivate his friendship, and would run up and down the 
little paddock with them like a dog; but though he relaxed so far, and 
allowed them such small freedoms as caresses, or even to look at his shoes 
or hang on by his tail, he never permitted any one among them to mount his 
back or drive him; thus showing that even their familiarity must have its 
limits, and that there were points between them far too serious for 
trifling.
He was not unsusceptible of warm attachments in his later life, for when 
the good bachelor came to live with Mr Garland upon the clergyman's 
decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and amiably submitted to 
be driven by his hands without the least resistance. He did no work for two 
or three years before he died, but lived in clover; and his last act (like 
a choleric old gentleman) was to kick his doctor.
Mr Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, and entering into 
the receipt of his annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome stock of 
clothes, and put her to school forthwith, in redemption of the vow he had 
made upon his fevered bed. After casting about for some time for a name 
which should be worthy of her, he decided in favour of Sophronia Sphynx, as 
being euphonious and genteel, and furthermore indicative of mystery. Under 
this title the Marchioness repaired, in tears, to the school of his 
selection, from which, as she soon distanced all competitors, she was 
removed before the lapse of many quarters to one of a higher grade. It is 
but bare justice to Mr Swiveller to say, that, although the expenses of her 
education kept him in straitened circumstances for half a dozen years, he 
never slackened in his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently repaid by 
the accounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement, on his 
monthly visits to the governess, who looked upon him as a literary 
gentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in 
quotation.
In a word, Mr Swiveller kept the Marchioness at this establishment until 
she was, at a moderate guess, full nineteen years of age - good-looking, 
clever, and good-humoured; when he began to consider seriously what was to 
be done next. On one of his periodical visits, while he was revolving this 
question in his mind, the Marchioness came down to him, alone, looking more 
smiling and more fresh than ever. Then it occurred to him, but not for the 
first time, that if she would marry him, how comfortable they might be! So 
Richard asked her, whatever she said, it wasn't No; and they were married 
in good earnest that day week, which gave Mr Swiveller frequent occasion to 
remark at divers subsequent periods that there had been a young lady saving 
up for him after all.
A little cottage at Hampstead being to let, which had in its garden a 
smoking-box, the envy of the civilised world, they agreed to become its 
tenants; and when the honeymoon was over, entered upon its occupation. To 
this retreat Mr Chuckster repaired regularly every Sunday to spend the day -
 usually beginning with breakfast; and here he was the great purveyor of 
general news and fashionable intelligence. For some years he continued a 
deadly foe to Kit, protesting that he had a better opinion of him when he 
was supposed to have stolen the five-pound note, than when he was shown to 
be perfectly free of the crime; inasmuch as his guilt would have had in it 
something daring and bold, whereas his innocence was but another proof of a 
sneaking and crafty disposition. By slow degrees, however, he was 
reconciled to him in the end; and even went so far as to honour him with 
his patronage, as one who had in some measure reformed, and was therefore 
to be forgiven. But he never forgot or pardoned that circumstance of the 
shilling; holding that if he had come back to get another he would have 
done well enough, but that his returning to work out the former gift was a 
stain upon his moral character which no penitence or contrition could ever 
wash away.
Mr Swiveller, having always been in some measure of a philosophic and 
reflective turn, grew immensely contemplative, at times, in the smoking-
box, and was accustomed at such periods to debate in his own mind the 
mysterious question of Sophronia's parentage. Sophronia herself supposed 
she was an orphan; but Mr Swiveller, putting various slight circumstances 
together, often thought Miss Brass must know better than that; and, having 
heard from his wife of her strange interview with Quilp, entertained sundry 
misgivings whether that person, in his lifetime, might not also have been 
able to solve the riddle, had he chosen. These speculations, however, gave 
him no uneasiness; for Sophronia was ever a most cheerful, affectionate, 
and provident wife to him; and Dick (excepting for an occasional outbreak 
with Mr Chuckster, which she had the good sense rather to encourage than 
oppose) was to her an attached and domesticated husband. And they played 
many hundred thousand games of cribbage together. And let it be added, to 
Dick's honour, that, though we have called her Sophronia, he called her the 
Marchioness from first to last; and that upon every anniversary of the day 
on which he found her in his sick room Mr Chuckster came to dinner, and 
there was great glorification.
The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their trusty confederate Mr James 
Groves of unimpeachable memory, pursued their course with varying success, 
until the failure of a spirited enterprise in the way of their profession, 
dispersed them in various directions, and caused their career to receive a 
sudden check from the long and strong arm of the law. This defeat had its 
origin in the untoward detection of a new associate - young Frederick Trent 
- who thus became the unconscious instrument of their punishment and his 
own.
For the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by his 
wits - which means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily employed 
raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far below them. It 
was not long before his body was recognised by a stranger, who chanced to 
visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned are laid out to be owned; 
despite the bruises and disfigurements which were said to have been 
occasioned by some previous scuffle. But the stranger kept his own counsel 
until he returned home, and it was never claimed or cared for.
The younger brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is more 
familiar, would have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone retreat, and 
made him his companion and friend. But the humble village teacher was timid 
of venturing into the noisy world, and had become fond of his dwelling in 
the old churchyard. Calmly happy in his school, and in the spot, and in the 
attachment of Her little mourner, he pursued his quiet course in peace; and 
was, through the righteous gratitude of his friend - let this brief mention 
suffice for that - a poor schoolmaster no more.
That friend - single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will - had at 
his heart a heavy sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or monastic 
gloom. He went forth into the world, a lover of his kind. For a long, long 
time, it was his chief delight to travel in the steps of the old man and 
the child (so far as he could trace them from her last narrative), to halt 
where they had halted, sympathise where they had suffered, and rejoice 
where they had been made glad. Those who had been kind to them, did not 
escape his search. The sisters at the school - they who were her friends, 
because themselves so friendless - Mrs Jarley of the waxwork, Codlin, Short 
- he found them all; and trust me, that the man who fed the furnace fire 
was not forgotten.
Kit's story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and many 
offers of provision for his future life. He had no idea at first of ever 
quitting Mr Garland's service; but, after serious remonstrance and advice 
from that gentleman, began to contemplate the possibility of such a change 
being brought about in time. A good post was procured for him, with a 
rapidity which took away his breath, by some of the gentlemen who had 
believed him guilty of the offence laid to his charge, and who had acted 
upon that belief. Through the same kind agency, his mother was secured from 
want, and made quite happy. Thus, as Kit often said, his great misfortune 
turned out to be the source of all his subsequent prosperity.
Did Kit live a single man all his days, or did he marry? Of course he 
married, and who should be his wife but Barbara? And the best of it was, he 
married so soon that little Jacob was an uncle, before the calves of his 
legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been encased in 
broadcloth pantaloons, - though that was not quite the best either, for of 
necessity the baby was an uncle too. The delight of Kit's mother and of 
Barbara's mother upon the great occasion is past all telling; finding they 
agreed so well on that, and on all other subjects, they took up their abode 
together, and were a most harmonious pair of friends from that time forth. 
And hadn't Astley's cause to bless itself for their all going together once 
a quarter - to the pit - and didn't Kit's mother always say, when they 
painted the outside, that Kit's last treat had helped to that, and wonder 
what the manager would feel if he but knew it as they passed his house!
When Kit had children six and seven years old, there was a Barbara among 
them, and a pretty Barbara she was. Nor was there wanting an exact 
facsimile and copy of little Jacob as he appeared in those remote times 
when they taught him what oysters meant. Of course there was an Abel, own 
godson to the Mr Garland of that name; and there was a Dick, whom Mr 
Swiveller did especially favour. The little group would often gather round 
him of a night and beg him to tell again that story of good Miss Nell who 
died. This Kit would do; and when they cried to hear it, wishing it longer 
too, he would teach them how she had gone to Heaven, as all good people 
did; and how, if they were good like her, they might hope to be there too 
one day, and to see and know her as he had done when he was quite a boy. 
Then he would relate to them how needy he used to be, and how she had 
taught him what he was otherwise too poor to learn, and how the old man had 
been used to say "she always laughs at Kit;" at which they would brush away 
their tears, and laugh themselves to think that she had done so, and be 
again quite merry.
He sometimes took them to the street where she had lived; but new 
improvements had altered it so much, it was not like the same. The old 
house had been long ago pulled down, and a fine broad road was in its 
place. At first he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground to 
show them where it used to stand. But he soon became uncertain of the spot, 
and could only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and that these 
alterations were confusing.
Such are the changes which a few years bring about, and so do things pass 
away, like a tale that is told!